Kennedy's

I always ended up here.

  Never planned to.

But once the streetlights hit, and with a belly full of bourbon, I was dragged to it like driftwood in floodwater.

There are three dives on this side of town, but this one played 70s/80s rock and sports games on mute — so even if I was lonely as hell and wanted the company of strangers, I could sit there staring, pretending it meant something to me.

Yeah, it was dated. But the cracked leather stools and ale-sodden beer mats held a quiet charm.

And after Jenny, it became a habit. Like a pressure valve.

I hated the daytime anyway. Daytimes were for pleasantries and coffee meetups and “How you beens?” and yard sales. I couldn’t face it. The tweeness of it all.

But 3 am in Kennedy’s, trading Marlboros with the barkeep while the band cranked out Free Fallin’? That’s more like it.

The night Jenny died, I was here. Hurling back shots, nodding along while a truck driver from Kansas showed me a picture of his little girl—the only thing keeping him alive.

I’d ignored her call.

I just didn’t want to deal with it. Figured we’d talk it over tomorrow. That night, I just needed to escape the demons in my head—as I often did.

The next call came from the police.

I remember squinting at my phone’s cracked screen under a twitching overhead light. I panicked and set it face down, out of sight, like it wasn’t mine.

I never told anyone that.

Until tonight.

The bar was nearly empty. Just me and Flo, the bartender, wiping glasses and humming along to Simple Minds on the jukebox.

She asked how long it’d been. Since Jenny.

I don’t know what made me say it. Maybe the song. Probably the booze killing my self-censorship.

“I let her die,” I said. Just like that. As casual as ordering a black coffee at the drive-in.

Flo didn’t flinch. Just nodded, as if people say shit like that all the time. Maybe in Kennedy’s, they do.

She poured me another and went back to humming.