One morning, I hear whispers rising from the front door while I’m still in bed.

It’s Mal—clipped, asshole, this-is-not-the-man-I-married Mal.

“…poor timing. I’ll ring you in a bit.”

“When exactly is a bit?” asks an old woman’s voice, brittle and wary.

“Eternity and beyond, Mother.”

“That’s what it feels like, since she came along.”

A hushed, heated reply 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.