Page 14 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
She gave me a pointed look, then flounced off the bus.
I couldn't even make eye contact with Jett.
On the ride back to the campground, he tried to lighten the mood.
"Don't let the wicked witch get to you," he said. "You know she's just threatened by your charm and natural beauty."
"Right," I said dryly.
I felt the weight of judgment pushing me down—Dylan's sophisticated sister finding me lacking, Keith Banyon's beautiful life that I might disrupt, my homeless existence that apparently showed on my face like a scarlet letter.
The tears came suddenly, hot and unstoppable, streaming down my cheeks despite my efforts to hold them back. Months of grief, uncertainty, and mounting pressure finally found their release in ugly, choking sobs. I was mortified.
"Hey," Jett said softly, reaching back to touch my shoulder. "Bernadette—"
"Don't." I slapped away his hand with more force than necessary. "Just don't."
The bus had barely stopped at the campground entrance before I was on my feet. I leapt through the open door and fled toward the relative safety of my van.
August 16, Saturday
overpitchingadding too much yeast, which can result in off-flavors
WHEN THEbus rolled to a stop outside the campground entrance, I straightened and performed a mental assessment of my appearance. I'd dragged myself from bed at dawn to claim the shower house before Mrs. Garcia could monopolize the hot water, standing under the steaming spray until my skin turned pink and the campground's questionable water pressure had washed yesterday's humiliation from my hair.
The blow-drying session had been an exercise in patience and determination. Armed with a round brush I'd borrowed from Poppy and a travel-sized bottle of volumizing mousse, I'd coaxed my fine hair into something resembling styled waves. The unfamiliar weight of mascara made my eyelashes feel heavy, and the berry-tinted lip gloss caught the morning light when I pressed my lips together.
My reflection in the wavy mirror in the shower room showed someone who looked more put-together than usual, though I couldn't shake the feeling that I was wearing a costume that didn't quite fit. The oversized company polo still hung loose on my frame—Teresa's criticism about my appearance hadn't magically conjured better-fitting clothes—but at least I looked clean and intentional rather than haphazardly assembled.
Not that she'd see it—thankfully, she wasn't joining the tour today.
When Jett opened the door and I climbed aboard, he gave me his usual greeting. If he noticed the difference in my appearance, he gave no indication.
No comment about my efforts, no acknowledgment of the extra hour I'd spent in front of the shower house mirror. I told myself I hadn't primped for his benefit anyway, that this was about professional standards and personal dignity, but the lack of reaction still stung. I settled into a seat near the back and tried to act unbothered.
My relief at Teresa's absence was short-lived. As we pulled into the office parking lot, I spotted Naomi Sook queuing up for the tour, looking like she'd stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.
Great. Just… flipping…great.
"There's my favorite driver," Naomi called out musically as she climbed aboard.
She moved to her usual seat behind Jett, but not before placing her hand on his forearm in an intimate gesture. I watched his shoulders relax under her touch.
"Miss me?" she asked with a smile that suggested she already knew the answer.
"Always," Jett replied, his voice taking on a warmth I rarely heard directed at anyone else.
I sank lower in my seat. My carefully applied mascara felt clumpy and amateurish compared to her flawless eye makeup. The lip gloss that had seemed so sophisticated in the shower house mirror now felt sticky and obvious. Even my laboriously styled hair seemed to wilt under the weight of comparison.
The bus began to fill with our typical type of Saturday customers. I hurriedly wiped off the lip gloss with the hem of my shirt, used a rubber band to skim my hair back into a messy ponytail, then greeted each customer in turn with enthusiasm.
Lesson learned. I couldn’t pretend to be something I wasn't.
August 17, Sunday
underpitchingadding too little yeast, leading to incomplete fermentation
THE MORNINGair carried the promise of another sweltering day as I climbed aboard the tour bus, taking in the scene that had become painfully rote. Naomi sat behind Jett, but today there was an unmistakable intimacy in their positioning—her body angled toward him, one arm draped casually across the back of his seat, the kind of comfortable closeness that spoke of shared pillows and morning coffee.
