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Ava should’ve realized that, despite Puck’s promise to seek help, it wouldn’t be as easy as she’d anticipated. Weeks passed without him contacting someone on the list of therapists she’d texted him after the incident at the clubhouse party. Each time she brought it up, he blew her off with an excuse that he was too busy with the bar or hadn’t had time to call. Blah, blah, blah.
Sunday morning rolled around, and they were lounging in bed, eating waffles she’d made with an old cast-iron waffle maker she’d picked up at a yard sale. Puck insisted on feeding her himself. She was l*****g maple syrup off his forefinger while trying to think of a way to broach the subject one last time, when her eyes fell on the front page of the Poughkeepsie Journal that Puck had picked up from her front sto
