Page 28 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
Okay, thefrontof my mind.
"Is Naomi coming back soon?"
"Not soon enough," he said easily.
Okay, then. When the campground entrance came into view, I gathered my notes and water bottle. When the door opened, I practically jumped out. "See ya!"
"Have a good night," Jett called.
When I reached my campsite, I spotted the large boxes that had been stacked at the rear of my van. I frowned because they didn't look big enough to hold the cabinets I'd ordered. WhenI tore open one of the boxes, I realized with dismay that they would need to be assembled.
And there were many, many,manypieces.
The instructions, printed in six languages with tiny diagrams that looked like hieroglyphics, were tucked into a plastic sleeve on the side. I pulled them out and unfolded an accordion of paper covered in numbered steps and incomprehensible sketches of screws, dowels, and cam locks.
"Tools required," I read aloud to myself, my voice flat with disappointment. "Phillips head screwdriver, hex key set, drill with wood bits..." The list went on and on.
I sank onto the picnic bench, surrounded by my unopened boxes, feeling defeated.
My grand plans for van life suddenly seemed incredibly naive. I'd imagined myself as some kind of capable nomad, but here I sat, stumped by the most basic requirement of furniture assembly. I didn't even own a screwdriver, let alone a hex hammer or whatever.
It felt like a reminder from the universe of how much I still had to learn about taking care of myself.
July 27, Sunday
brixa scale measuring sugar content in a liquid
THE SUNDAYtour had been smaller than usual—just six people, a quiet group from Tennessee who asked thoughtful questions and took careful notes. As we pulled back into the lot, the late afternoon shadows stretched long across the pavement, and I could hear the distant sound of church bells chiming the hour from somewhere in town.
My passengers filed off with their usual thank-yous and promises to recommend the tour to friends, leaving me alone with Jett in the sudden quiet of the empty bus. He was going through his end-of-day routine, checking gauges and making notes on his clipboard, the mechanical sounds of his work filling the space between us.
I lingered in my seat, my bag clutched in my lap, working up the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at me since yesterday. The cardboard boxes were still sitting unopened on my picnic table, taunting me with their promises of organized storage and the reality of my complete lack of tools or expertise. The Oneys had offered up their tool bag, but it was only a few screwdrivers and a saw.
"Jett?" My voice sounded smaller than I intended in the confined space of the bus.
He looked up from his clipboard, his expression open and patient. "Yeah?"
I fidgeted with the strap of my bag, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I was wondering... do you happen to have any tools I could borrow? Just for a day or two?"
His eyebrows rose slightly with interest. "What are you working on?"
"I ordered cabinets for my van, but they need to be assembled, and I don't have..." I gestured vaguely, embarrassed by my own lack of preparation. "Anything, really. Screwdrivers, drill, whatever hex keys are."
A slow smile spread across his face, and I caught a glimpse of something that looked almost like relief in his expression. "You're converting your van? That's ambitious."
"Trying to," I admitted. "Though right now it feels more like wishful thinking."
He was quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "Tell you what," he said finally, "why don't you come by my place tomorrow? I've got a full workshop, and I can help you put them together. Cabinet assembly isn't too complicated once you know what you're doing."
The offer hung in the air between us, and I felt my pulse quicken. The practical part of me knew it was exactly what I needed—help from someone who actually knew what he was doing. But the invitation felt like more than just neighborly assistance, and that made me nervous in ways I wasn't ready to examine.
"I don't want to impose," I said, my voice catching slightly.
"It's not an imposition," he said simply. "I like working with my hands, and it's been a while since I've had a good project. Besides," he added with a grin, "I'd like to see what you're planning."
I sat there for a long moment, weighing the offer against my instinct to handle things on my own. "Okay," I said, surprised by my own decision. "That would be... really helpful. Thank you."
"Great." He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and tore a corner off one of his forms. "Here's my address. Come by around ten tomorrow morning? We should be able to get it done in a few hours."
