comes from the other side of the door. They’re fighting.
“No. Absolutely not,” Mal rumbles. “I’ve got this under control. Just go.”
Sometimes Mal disappears. When he does, I spend my time arguing with Ryner on the phone instead of facing the Summer and Mom music.
“Just send me the goddamn material. I’m throwing a special tribute for him, okay? Oh, and in case it escaped you, you work for me!” he screamed at me one day shortly after he was discharged from the hospital.
“He hasn’t even been put to rest,” I noted. “Which begs the question—is it a tribute to the late Ashton Richards you’re working on, or a tribute to your pocket and record label? Seems to me, you’re milking the best out of this horrific situation.”
“I just had a heart attack.” He sulked. As if this, in itself, was a reason to grant all his wishes.
“True, and I don’t want you to have a second one, which is why I’m asking you to let it go. Don’t pay me for the project. Let Ashton rest in peace.”
I’m not going to let Ryner capitalize on his death. All he cares about is selling a few posters and releasing half-finished songs to earn a few bucks.
“Welcome to unemployment, sweetheart. You’ve really done it this time,” Ryner then shouted into my ear.
“Thanks for the warm greeting. I’ll be sure to make the most of it.” I hung up.
I caught Ashton Richards in private moments, while he was suffering from a horrific addiction that led to his death. I don’t see why anyone should witness it. He was obviously desperately chasing happiness, but never quite reaching it.
Mal doesn’t say Ashton’s death wrecked him, but then he doesn’t talk about it much—just listens to me when I do—and he is adamant about not going to the funeral in the States.
Though that could also be because he has a secret lover/family/life here that he keeps disappearing off to. I say this completely lightheartedly, but of course, there’s a void in my stomach that opens an inch every time I wake up and his side of the bed is cold.
Every day I think to myself, This will be the day he opens up to me about the situation.
Every day I am wrong.
Then, a week after we’re back in Ireland, Mal announces he’s ready to go busking again. He needs to unclutter his mind, he says.
“You can tag along. Take pictures of Dublin.”
“I think I’m good.” I give him the thumbs-up.
I finally have a plan. I managed to track down Father Doherty’s new address in an old-school phone book—the kind of fat, yellow thing grandparents usually use to stop doors or as a makeshift coaster. Father Doherty lives bang in the middle of the village, and it’s time to pay him a visit, have him shed some light on my situation.
Mal, of course, can see through me. We haven’t spent an entire month together the whole time we’ve known each other, yet he can somehow read me better than anyone else.
“You sure?” He furrows his brows.
I nod. “Positive.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing has been positive about you these last days, so I find your choice of words somewhat alarming.”
“It’s been a rough week.” I saunter over to him, linking my arms around his shoulders. “One wedding and an upcoming funeral. I just want some me-time. Maybe I’ll finally call my mother back and catch up with her.”
Mal’s face twists at the mention of my mother, but he nods and kisses my forehead. I don’t know why he acts like he has an open beef with Debbie Jenkins, but if he’s flinching every time I mention her out of solidarity, he’s doing a fine job being empathetic.
“Want to talk tonight?” He skims his lips along my temple.
“About what?” My heart speeds up with hope.
“About everything.”
“Will you finally tell me what’s going on?”
He bends his head down, closing his eyes. “Yes,” he croaks. “God, I don’t want to, but yes.”
I walk Mal to the door, kiss him goodbye again, and wave him off, the Stepford wife that I am not. As soon as I see his car racing down the graveled path, I slip into my Toms, grab my army jacket, and run down to the village on foot.
The weather is crisp and chilly, but no longer freezing, and I’m high on adrenaline from knowing how close I am to the truth. I can feel it at my fingertips, tingling, waiting for me to grab it.
This time, I’m going to corner Father Doherty until