Page 89 of Forget About Me

I nod as he goes on about the apartment. I still can’t believe he’s gone already. Then I realize that someone else is missing. “So he too Puck with him?”

Mr. Porter gets that concerned, crinkled-brow look again. “Puck’s gone. He didn’t tell you?”

“Gone? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, I guess. His original family took him back. They saw his picture in the paper and came to claim him. It hit Ben hard to lose him.” He looks over his shoulder and sighs. “Have to admit, I miss him too.”

I take a step back and have to grab the porch railing to keep from falling down the stairs. Why didn’t Ben tell me?

Maybe because you shut him out and he listened, you idiot.

“You sure you don’t want to come in, Lucy?”

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No, thank you. I… need to get home. I’m sorry. I hope Ben’s okay.”

“I’ll tell him you stopped by,” he calls as I stumble down the path back to my car, my heart imploding. Followed by my brain.

I try to do something for myself for fucking once, and everything falls apart.

Driving to my house, the questions line up. How could Puck’s family have found him after so much time? Why would Ben let him go without a fight? Maybe the same reason he let me go without a fight? After all, he’s back in California where neither the dog nor I would fit into his fancy model lifestyle.

But I know that’s not it. That’s the Ben I conjured up when he showed up at the vet’s months ago, not the Ben I knew—know. He’s got to be hurting.

Am I so scary that he wouldn’t reach out to me, even to tell me about Puck? Or to say goodbye? Maybe he doesn’t love me the way I love him.

But I know that’s not it, either.

So what do I do now?

I’ve only just begun to put my life together, but maybe I should at least call him and tell him that I’m not still mad at him. I could page him, send him the “707” message, but then what? This isn’t the kind of message you leave with the busybodies at a service. I could ask his dad for his number, but that feels weird. Stopping at the upstairs phone nook, I sit down heavily, pick up the phone and dial 1-555-1212.

“Directory assistance, can I help you?”

“Yes, please. Los Angeles, California.”

“One moment, please.”

After a few beats, another woman answers. “Directory assistance, can I help you?”

“Hi, yes, I’m looking for a Ben Porter.”

“You’re gonna have to give me a little bit more than that, honey. I’ve got hundreds of those. Do you have an address?”

“No. Um, can you try Benedick Porter?” I spell it for her.

“Hm. We only have one of those.”

“Oh, great, thank you.”

“But it’s unlisted.”

“Oh, okay. Well, thanks anyway.” I hang up, wondering if we’ll get charged for the information if I didn’t really get any.

In a haze, I stumble down the hall to my room.

Where I still live like a teenager. Or a nun.

It’s not exactly frozen in time—I mean, I took down the life-size Sting poster a long time ago—but it’s not that of an independent woman, either. White walls, white trim, tan coverlet on the bed, a few framed bible verses… I may as well have habits hanging in my closet. Instead, my drawers are stuffed with scrubs.

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