I finally got my name with all the letters in the right order in the search bar. The TMZ article is the first result.
NEW VIDEO SHOWS RECLUSIVE WIFE OF LATE ANDY MCKINNEY YELLING AT CONCERTGOERS
The video auto-plays grainy footage of me interrupting Mike and Gina singing karaoke, and then cuts to me yelling at thecamera in the crowd, walking fast, a tall Dean billowing behind me like a ghostly tour guide. I’m too nervous to read the whole thing so I skim the article, buzz words jumping out at me.
SEEN FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FIVE YEARS
MYSTERIOUS, NEW MAN
HYPERVENTILATING
UNWELL
UNABLE TO SPEAK
NO COMMENT UPON REQUEST
What the hell? No one ever contacted me about a comment—not that I would comment.
I scroll further down, and there’s a second article already loaded. My heart drops straight through to the floor, and my breath is frozen solid in my chest.
LOCALS ON ANDY MCKINNEY’S HYPOCHONDRIAC WIFE
It couldn’t be. Not Dean. Not after all this. Oh, fuck.
I can’t get past the big, blocky headline. My hand trembles, and my phone clatters to the floor with a loud echo. I clamp a hand over my mouth so the others can’t hear me cry. Bending down, I snatch my phone from the tile. I can’t tell if I’m upset, angry or just plain defeated. I cry, but the tears mean nothing to me.
Hypochondriac wife.
Is my mental health diagnosis all that I’m cracked up to be?
Shaking, I scroll just past the headline and the name immediately jumps out at me.
CRAIG MARTELL
I let out an intense sigh of relief— it wasn’t Dean. But Craig? That fucking piece of shit. I don’t even read the rest of the article. I don’t want to see what he said about me, knowing it can’t be any good. He always seemed like such a sellout. He was always about the money.
There’s a timid knock at the door.
“Madeline?” Dean’s voice is low and quiet, as to not raise much attention. I open the door, my eyes red and puffy, and show him my phone. He doesn’t even look at the screen and pulls me into a hug. “I’m going to kick his ass when we get back.”
“Don’t do that. You’ll just lose your job,” I whisper. “Just…how can I make this better? How can I fix this? How can I fix myself?” I ask.
“Fix this? You have nothing to fix,” Dean rubs small circles on my back. “It’s not your job to fix this.”
“The whole world probably thinks I’m fucking crazy. But they don’t even know the half of it.” Having a famous dead husband isn’t a choice anyone makes.
“You’re not fucking crazy,” Dean reassures me. “But even if you were, why the fuck should they care? You are you, and there’s nothing wrong with you. I’ll call my lawyer as soon as we get out of here.”
“Okay,” I sniffle into his chest.
“But in the meantime, I think you should go on stage tonight.” Dean says.
“Yeah?” I ask. “You really think that’s a good idea?”
“I do,” Dean says. “Do it for yourself. Not for Andy, not for Mark. Do it because you’re you. Prove to yourself that you’re more than this.”
I nod my head. “I’ll try.”I know what I need to do.
