Page 17 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"You know how Mother gets when she's kept waiting," Portia replied with false sympathy, then turned to me with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm sure Bernadette understands that business comes first."
"I should get back to my group anyway," I murmured, backing toward the exit.
As I rejoined the writers for their final tasting notes, Dylan's confused expression and Portia's satisfied smirk replayed in my mind with equal intensity. I'd successfully protected my secret, but the victory felt hollow and self-defeating.
September 18, Thursday
lyne armthe pipe that carries vapor from the still to the condenser, impacting flavor profile
THE GENERALstore's weathered wooden steps creaked beneath my feet as I waited for Marilyn to emerge from inside. Through the screen door, I could hear the distant murmur of voices and the electronic beep of the cash register processing transactions.
When Marilyn finally pushed through the screen door, a plastic bag containing what looked like instant ramen and energy drinks clutched in her thin fingers, she stopped short at the sight of me blocking her path. Her dark eyes immediately narrowed with suspicion, and her shoulders tensed like an animal preparing for confrontation.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice carrying the defensive edge I'd come to associate with her interactions.
"I want to know if you took my things," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded despite the nervous flutter in my chest. "Someone broke into my van on Tuesday and stole cash, and some personal things."
Marilyn's face flushed red with anger, the color stark against her pale complexion. "And you automatically assume it was me?"
"I'm not assuming anything. I'm asking."
"Well, the answer is no," she snapped, shifting her weight from foot to foot with agitated energy. "I'm not a thief."
I studied her face carefully, searching for tells that might indicate deception. But her anger seemed genuine, her indignation raw and unfiltered. Still, I pressed forward with the conversation that had been eating at me for days.
"Some of those things belonged to my mother," I said quietly, keeping my voice calm and non-accusatory. "She died earlier this year, and they're the only mementos I have left of her. They wouldn't be worth much to anyone else, but they mean a lot to me."
Something shifted in Marilyn's expression—not softness exactly, but a flicker of what might have been understanding before her defensive walls slammed back into place with renewed force.
"Oh, boo-hoo," she said with vicious mockery, her voice dripping with contempt. "A grown woman, crying over dead mommy's trinkets. At least your mother died… mine just up and left."
The words hit me like physical blows, each one carefully chosen to inflict maximum damage. My breath caught in my throat, and I felt tears spring to my eyes despite my efforts to maintain composure. The cruelty was breathtaking, made worse by the kernel of pain beneath her venom.
"You, stay away from me," she said pointedly. She turned and walked away with quick, angry strides.
I stood frozen on the general store steps, her words echoing in my mind.Dead mommy's trinkets.
I still didn't know if Marilyn had stolen my belongings, but her words had accomplished something theft never could—they'd stolen a piece of my peace, and laid open my grief all over again.
September 19, Friday
parrotadevice used to continuously measure alcohol proof as it leaves the still
THE RUMBLEof the bus engine brought unexpected relief as I spotted Jett behind the wheel, his presence a welcome antidote to the loneliness that had been gnawing at me since Marilyn's casually cruel words yesterday. The morning air carried the crisp promise of autumn, and for the first time in days, I felt my spirits lift as I climbed aboard.
"Good morning," I said, settling into my usual seat behind him. "How's your day looking?"
"Can't complain," he replied, but something in his tone seemed carefully neutral. When I glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, his eyes avoided mine with uncharacteristic evasiveness.
"Any fun weekend plans?" I pressed, surprised by how much I hoped he might suggest another adventure like our trip to the Bigfoot Festival. The memory of that day—his easy laughter, the authentic Kentucky charm he'd shared with me—felt like medicine for my recent disappointments.
"Nothing special," he said, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. "You know, just... things."
The vague response should have been my first clue, but I was too focused on my own need for companionship to read the warning signs properly.
The truth became clear when we pulled into the strip mall parking lot and I spotted Naomi Sook, looking like a supermodel, waving enthusiastically. The moment Jett opened the bus door, she bounded up the steps with the grace of a dancer, her face radiant.
"Surprise!" she called out, throwing her arms around Jett's neck before planting a kiss on his lips that lingered long enough to make my stomach clench with an emotion I didn't want to examine too closely.
