Bourbon Girl, part 4 of 6
October 1, Wednesday
barreling the process of filling a barrel with new distillate (white dog) for aging
THE MORNING air carried the scent of campfire smoke and bacon as I approached the tour bus, my sneakers crunching against the gravel path.
Through the open door, I could see Jett behind the wheel, his dark hair catching the early sunlight.
The sound of the engine's rumble had become as routine as my bad morning coffee.
"Morning," I said as I climbed aboard, settling into my usual seat behind him.
"How'd you sleep?" Jett asked, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. He was referring to my reaction to yesterday's chance conversation with the bourbon industry's Agriculture Liaison Tom Feldon that had shifted my world.
"Like someone who might've found her biological father," I admitted, adjusting my tour guide polo. "I kept thinking about what Tom said. 'We had us some good times back in the day.' What does that even mean?"
Jett pulled away from the campground entrance, merging onto the quiet country road. "Could mean anything, that he and your mom were friends, worked together, dated..."
"If he's my father, he obviously doesn't know it. What if after all this searching, all these dead ends, he just... appeared?"
"Have you decided how you want to approach him?"
I stared out the window at the rolling Kentucky countryside.
I now understood the premise of "Fall" because it seemed as if everything was falling—the temperature, the fire-colored leaves, and the general pace of life.
"No. After Keith Banyon and Sam Church, after getting my hopes up twice only to have them crushed.
.." I shook my head. "I want to think about it.
Not just rush in and risk another disappointment. "
The phone in my lap buzzed insistently. Dylan's name appeared on the screen, and my stomach clenched with a mixture of longing and shame. I let it go to voicemail.
"Dylan again?" Jett asked, noticing my expression in the mirror.
"He's been calling all week." The phone buzzed again—a text this time. I glanced at it reluctantly.
Please call me back. I don't care what Portia said. It doesn't matter.
My cheeks burned. I could still see his sister's smirk as she delivered her intel on me: She came to Kentucky to hunt for her biological father. Isn't that sweet? Oh, and the best part—she's homeless. Living in a van at a campground like a drifter.
"Is that Dylan?" Jett asked. "You have to talk to him sometime."
"I can't," I said quietly, shoving the phone back into my pocket. "The way he looked at me when Portia told him everything... it was pure pity."
"Maybe it was concern."
But I remembered how Dylan's expression had shifted from desire to something else entirely when he learned the truth about my circumstances. "Before I came to Kentucky, I thought finding my father would solve everything. "Now I know that might not happen, and I feel worse."
"Tom Feldon might be different," Jett said gently.
"But what if he's not? What if I approach him and he wants nothing to do with me?"
Jett nodded. "That could happen."
I sighed, leaning back in my seat. The tour bus rolled on through the Kentucky morning, carrying me toward another day of playing the part of someone who had answers, when the truth was I'd never felt more lost. Somewhere out there, Tom Feldon was going about his morning routine, unaware that he might hold the key to everything I'd been searching for.
The question was whether I was brave enough to reach out.