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My blood turned cold.Hadour split been amicable? Because I’d stayed friendly with exes in the past, and I still had their contacts even now. We still texted sometimes, or sent each other birthday wishes via social media. It took a lot for me to delete someone out of existence.
And now that I thought about it, Matteo had seemed wary when I’d walked into his office. Even his receptionist had been startled to see me, and when I’d asked to talk to him, she’d given me a look like I’d offered to clean the kennels with my tongue. Not disgusted, just absolutely baffled and wondering what I was smoking.
Shit. Maybe our breakup had been a little more complicated than “we weren’t right for each other.”
I kind of wanted to ask Matteo or go digging through social media for some clues. But I was also still struggling to comprehend that the shoe store across the street from the clinic was now a Dollar Tree, so maybe I wasn’t ready for theWhy Matteo and Owen Really Split Upstop on Memory Lane.
Or maybe I was a coward, but under the circumstances, I didn’t feel bad about that.
What I did do was scroll through social media in search of some kind of clue about how I’d wound up in this predicament. A post about a fae who’d been threatening me? An ill-advised visit to a cursed place? I mean, those things happened. One of my college professors had a friend who’d angered the fae and been cursed with bad luck for seven years, which was even worse than it sounded because the friend was a professional gambler. My brother had gone to a cursed cave on a dare when he was a teenager, and the trickster in there had left him speaking gibberish for a week before our dad had pleaded with her for mercy.
I could remember those things clear as day, but I couldn’t remember a single second of the last year of my life. Fucking hell.
Scrolling social media for clues didn’t last long. I made it back in time all of a week before I landed on some photos from what had apparently been an evening out with my friends from work.
Unforgettable Night!Marci had captioned the image.
I laughed bitterly. Unforgettable. Yeah. About that. Especially since, for the life of me, I didn’t actually know who Marci was. From context, I figured she was a coworker, but could I remember meeting her? Working with her? If she was a fun coworker or the kind who stole lunches from the breakroom fridge? Did she know all the inside jokes and gossip? No. Idea. Hell, I was a year behind on all the inside jokes and gossip myself.
Jesus fucking Christ. Fresh panic bubbled up inside me at the realization of just how much was missing from my life, and I decided social media waswaytoo much right now. I’d lost a year’s worth of context for friends’ posts and even memes and current events. Instead of filling in the gaps, it just made me more disoriented.
I’d try again later. Maybe after I’d gotten my head around a few things, assuming that was even possible.
Beyond the closed door of Matteo’s office, the clinic was suddenly alive with high-pitched angry barking. The sound echoed down the halls as, I assumed, Muffin the Hellhound announced his presence. From all the stories I’d heard about Muffin, this had to be him.
Over the barking and teeth gnashing, Matteo’s gentle voice still carried: “Well, hey, buddy. You ready to get those stitches out?”
More shrill, ear-piercing rage.
“I think that cone is more for your protection than his, Doc,” one of the techs said.
Curiosity got the best of me. I’d been hearing about Muffin for the last couple of years—the last couple I could remember, anyway—and I couldn’t resist finally getting a peek at him.
I opened the door and leaned out of the office as they walked by.
And there he was:
Cradled in the arms of an elderly woman, the tiny speckled chihuahua gnashed its teeth at everyone except its mom, though he did bonk her on the chin with his cone of shame.
“That’s enough of that,” Matteo said with a laugh. He took hold of Muffin behind the cone, prompting even louder protests. When he lifted the dog from the old woman’s arms, Muffin sounded like he was going to literally take someone’s head off.
Matteo glanced at me, and when I arched an eyebrow, he smirked and shrugged.
I rolled my eyes as I ducked back into the office.
One very loud half hour later, Muffin the Hellhound was free to go, and Matteo returned to his office.
“You know,” I said, crossing my arms as I peered up at him, “when you said he was a hellhound, I thought you meant, like, anactualhellhound.”
“He is!” Matteo flailed a hand toward the door. “You heard him!”
“Uh-huh. But he’s a chihuahua.”
“Yes. Exactly. And I still maintain that chihuahuas are a breed of toy hellhound, but no one wants to admit it because then no one will buy them.” He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Though God help me if they start breeding them with poodles. The actual helldoodles are bad enough. If someone brings in a chi-doodle, I’m retiring.”
Laughing felt really, really good right then. Not enough to make me forget everything, but enough to get me breathing and make me think there was some hope of recouping my sanity. And few things made me laugh like Matteo ranting about chihuahuas and people breeding poodles with everything that moved.
How long has it actually been since I’ve laughed at your dog breed rants?
