The bar was packed when the cab arrived, a place where I’d put too many quarters in the jukebox and Jamie had made sure to call a cab each time he left, because he was too paranoid to drive 14 blocks to and from our house, a byproduct of his love for gin and tonic and cocaine. Casey, Lainey, Janella and I stumbled in with four more Smithies, arms around each other, and headed straight for the open table in the corner. I loved Doc’s because it was so not Miami, so Midwest, so taverny, a place where Jamie and I could sit and eat burgers and fries and wings and sing along to something on the jukebox and just be left alone. But not that night.

We meant to stop only to ask for a pitcher of margaritas, but soon I was greeted by all the people I didn’t get to say goodbye to: the...

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