Page 14 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"It's not VIP seats at a music festival," Jett said with gentle teasing, "but I wanted to show you some local flavor. The real Kentucky, not just the bourbon trail version."
His comment made me pause, considering the contrast between last night's sophisticated entertainment and today's authentic charm. Dylan's world sparkled with polish and privilege, but Jett's Kentucky felt different. Grounded. Real in a way that didn't require expensive tickets or family connections to access.
I glanced at his hands on the steering wheel—calloused from honest work, comfortable navigating both country roads and the complexities of building a business from scratch. Dylan's hands were smooth, accustomed to handling delicate glassware and crafted spirits.
Both men were attractive in their own ways, but the differences ran deeper. Dylan represented aspiration, the lifeI'd never had but always imagined wanting. Jett represented authenticity, a grounded existence.
When—if—I found my father, I wondered which version of Kentucky he would represent.
September 14, Sunday
cutsthe process of separating the heads, hearts, and tails during distillation
THE TOURbus felt cavernous with only three customers. A retired couple from Ohio sat together in the middle section, while a lone businessman from Chicago had claimed a window seat near the front. Their conversations barely registered above the engine's rumble, creating an awkward emptiness that made every word I spoke echo with hollow enthusiasm.
"Buffalo Trace distillery was established in 1773," I announced to my sparse audience with forced cheer. "Making it one of the oldest continuously operating distilleries in the United States."
The Ohio couple nodded politely while the businessman continued scrolling through his phone, clearly more interested in his email than bourbon heritage.
At each stop throughout the day, our tiny group looked lost among larger tour companies with full buses and animated guides. The situation was made worse by the sympathetic glances from other tour operators who seemed to be noticing Birdwhistle's decline.
When we returned to the strip mall office at day's end, the tip jar held exactly seven dollars and thirty-two cents, barely enough to split between me and Jett. The businessman had departed with a curt nod, while the Ohio couple had offered apologetic smiles and a promise to recommend us online, though we both knew that single positive review wouldn't offset the damage already done.
"Well, that was depressing," I said as Jett and I divided the pathetic collection of bills and loose change.
"Business was already slipping before Teresa came back," Jett said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd watched the company's slow deterioration. "But I think she's going to hasten its demise. I blame those recent bad reviews on her making customers uncomfortable with her nitpicking."
He leaned against the bus's exterior, his expression more serious than I'd ever seen it. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot, emphasizing the tired lines around his eyes.
"I'm going to start looking for another job," he continued quietly. "You should think about it too. This ship is sinking, and there's no point going down with it."
The words hit me like a physical blow, though I couldn't understand why. I'd come to Kentucky temporarily, hadn't I? This was supposed to be a short-term arrangement while I searched for my father—not a permanent career change. Yet the thought of losing his steady presence that had become such an integral part of my routine, felt unexpectedly devastating.
"Where would you go?" I asked, surprised by the tremor in my voice.
"Not sure yet. Maybe back to full-time farming, or find another company that needs drivers." He shrugged, but I caught the disappointment he was trying to hide. "What about you?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. My thoughts went to the college enrollment papers I'd been avoiding. The deadline was approaching, and I'd successfully pushed the decision to the back of my mind while waiting for Sam Church's test results. I preferred to make life-changing choices one at a time, but my hand might be forced.
September 15, Monday
proofa measure of alcohol strength; bourbon must be distilled to no more than 160 proof
THE WASHINGmachine's rhythmic churning provided a steady backdrop as I pressed my phone against my ear, the laundry room's humid air thick with the scent of industrial detergent and fabric softener. Outside, September rain drummed against the cinderblock walls.
"So you mailed the test?" Suzy's voice crackled through the connection, carrying the ambient noise of what sounded like an airport terminal.
"Last Thursday," I confirmed, folding a towel with unnecessary precision. "Results should come back within seven to ten business days."
"That's exciting."
"And terrifying," I admitted. The anticipation had been gnawing at me for days, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.
"Can I ask you something?" Suzy's voice took on a more thoughtful tone. "What do you want the results to be?"
The question caught me off guard, and I paused with a damp shirt halfway to my chest. "I... I'm not sure."
It was an honest answer that surprised even me. For months, I'd been consumed with finding my father, driven by an almost desperate need to fill the void in my identity. But now, faced with the possibility of an actual answer, I felt more conflicted than euphoric.
