Whatever Happened to Kelly Kilcher?

“She was from Vermont, right?” I ask Daphne, my oldest friend. We’re hanging out at our favorite coffee shop, Espress Yo’Self. My jacket’s gonna smell like roasted Sumatra beans for the next two days.

“I think it was upstate New York.”

“Are you sure?”

I don’t know why, but this girl we used to work with at Chi-Chi’s has been on my mind lately. Kelly Kilcher. She had dyed red hair, walked like a supermodel, and drove a rusty ‘82 Nissan Sentra. And she loved Def Leppard—long after they peaked. She’d drive into work blasting “Pour Some Sugar on Me” from her tinny car speakers. Everyone teased her about it, but she didn’t care.

“I wonder if she ever made it in Hollywood,” I say.

“I heard she got married and divorced.”

“Are you sure? I think she got divorced before she moved up to Hartley.”

Hartley is the town where Daphne and I went to college. We met working at Chi-Chi’s—I was a cook and she was a waitress. A few summers later we both worked at the Sterling Hotel. Kelly bartended at Chi-Chi’s and then worked at the Sterling for a few months in the summer of ‘94. She and her boyfriend Todd were planning to move to California so she could go to Cosmetology school and learn how to be a makeup artist for the stars.

“I’m not sure,” Daphne admits. “I honestly couldn’t stand her.”

“I tried looking her up on Facebook and Instagram, but I couldn’t find any trace of her.”

Daphne takes a sip of coffee but doesn’t respond.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“Facebook? You know I don’t mess with that shit either.”

“Yeah, but at least you have an account. She doesn’t even have that. No TikTok either. Don’t you think she—of all people—would be all over social media? She craved attention.” Kelly always looked immaculate. Full hair and makeup no matter what she was doing. Constantly talking about what she did and where she was going even though nobody cared.

“People change.”

As we talk, a blender begins pulverizing chunks of ice. The sound is deafening. “These assholes and their frappés.” I shake my head. “They might as well be at fucking Dairy Queen.”

Daphne smiles.

“It’s weird, though,” I continue. “I found Todd right away. He still lives up in Hartley.”

“He’s a tattooed loser.”

“He’s a microbiologist.”

I don’t tell Daphne that I sent him a message asking about Kelly. She’d want to know why, and I don’t that I can fully explain it. I always admired Kelly. She had dreams and she followed them. She moved through the world to the beat of her own drum, something I’ve never been able to do. I had dreams too—but instead of following them, I did the sensible thing. I went to college, got a degree, and went to work. I want to know that Kelly made it, that she’s doing what she said she was gonna do.

“I’ll ask Arman next time I see him,” Daphne says. “But you should probably just let it go. Rabbit holes are slippery slopes… and a total waste of time.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I don’t tell her that I’ve already gotten sucked into online court record searches, Spokeo, and PeopleFinder. But I’m done with it now. I am. I have a fantastic life. And adult responsibilities. There’s no point in pursuing this any further. I barely knew Kelly.

After we finish our coffee, I head home. Talking about it with Daphne was the release I needed. It was thirty years ago. I’ll probably never find out where Kelly Kilcher ended up—and that’s alright. Soon my mind will find something else to obsess over.

But the following day, Todd responds to my message.

He wants to meet in person.  

© Scott Thomas Henry, 2025. All rights reserved.