Page 9

We go back to the bar. Hank has set out a bowl of peanuts that Dolly keeps refilling every time he takes a handful. The Friday night performer is doing a sound check in the corner. Somebody's arguing about football at a booth near the window.

Kennedy sits on a stool. I sit next to her. She tells me about the festival while I drink my whiskey and try to ignore that her knee keeps brushing mine every time she shifts on the stool.

"Factory of Screams is a disaster this year." She shakes her head. "Reviews are all over the place. They play the music so loud you can't hear yourself scream, and they hired a guy to jump out at people in the corn hallway but he keeps missing his cue and scaring the other actors instead."

"Sounds like quality entertainment."

"It's an experience." Her eyes sparkle. "You should come."

"You want me to go to a haunted house."

"You'd be excellent in a haunted house. You already scare everyone."

My laugh surprises both of us. Full, actual laughter from somewhere deep in my chest. The sound fills Hank's bar and Kennedy's whole body turns toward me, eyes wide, smile growing.

"Did you just laugh?"

"No."

"You absolutely laughed. Hank. Hank, did you hear that?"

"Heard it." Hank polishes a glass without looking up. "Sounded rusty."

"Three years of silence will do that." I take another sip. "Your knee's touching mine."

She goes still. Then moves her knee away. Then, slowly, deliberately, puts it back.

"I know," she says. Quiet. Looking at me with those brown eyes over the rim of her glass.

Hank clears his throat from behind the bar. "Dolly, I think these two need the booth in the corner."

"We don't need the booth," I say.

"Honey, you need the booth." Dolly slides two fresh whiskeys toward us. "On the house. Go sit somewhere Hank and I can't hear you being adorable, it's ruining our reputation."

We take the booth. Dark vinyl, cracked in the corner, a candle in a red glass holder casting warm shadows across the table. Kennedy slides in on one side. I take the other.

"Tell me something about you that has nothing to do with furniture," she says.

"I read. A lot."

"I know. Ms. Shelly tells me everything. What else?"

"I hate mornings but I'm up by five anyway. My brother used to call me a 'functional vampire.' I take my coffee too strong because my mom used to make it that way and the taste reminds me of her kitchen."

Her face softens. "Where's your mom?"

"Phoenix. Moved there after Liam died. Couldn't do Chicago winters anymore."

"You talk to her?"

"Every Sunday." A beat. "She'd like you."

Kennedy sets her glass down. Her fingers find mine on the table. Light. Warm. My pulse kicks.

"My dad left when I was seven," she says. Just like that. No preamble. "Drove away on a Tuesday and my Auntie called two weeks later saying he was in Arizona. I became the kid who held everything together so my mama didn't have to."

"You're still that kid."