November 9, Sunday
small batch bourbon blended from a limited number of select barrels
THE HEADACHE had started midway through the afternoon tour and steadily worsened until every bump in the road felt like a hammer against my skull.
Another day of smiling through the churning anxiety, another day of pretending everything was fine while my world spun out of control.
My brain wouldn't stop cycling through worst-case scenarios—Boyd confirming he was my father, Dylan's reaction, Jessica Biggs's fury, the scandal that would destroy their carefully cultivated reputation.
As the bus rolled back toward the campground, I pressed my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the throbbing. The decision had been brewing since yesterday's conversation with Jett. Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed help from someone with access I didn't have.
I stood, steadying myself against the seats as the bus swayed, and made my way toward the front. Naomi sat directly behind Jett, her fingers threading through his dark hair in a gesture so intimate it made my chest tighten with something I refused to examine.
"Naomi?" My voice came out rougher than intended. "Can I share something private with you?"
Her hand stilled. She looked up, surprise flickering across her features before concern replaced it. "Of course." She immediately shifted over, patting the seat beside her. "Sit down."
I sank onto the vinyl cushion, acutely aware of Jett's eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"What I'm about to tell you," I began, then stopped. How did you casually drop this kind of bomb? "It needs to stay completely confidential."
"I understand." Naomi's expression turned serious, her journalist instincts clearly activated. "You have my word."
I took a breath. "Boyd Biggs might be my father."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the road noise seemed to fade. Naomi's eyes widened, her mouth forming a small 'o' of shock.
"Boyd Biggs," she repeated slowly, as if testing the words. "Dylan's father."
"Yes."
She stared at me for several long seconds, processing. Then she exhaled slowly. "Well. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction, isn't it?"
The matter-of-fact way she said it somehow made it feel less catastrophic.
"Did you and Dylan ever—" She paused delicately. "I mean, were you two ever, um..."
"Absolutely not," I interrupted quickly, my cheeks burning. "Nothing happened between us. Nothing physical."
In the mirror, I saw Jett's shoulders relax slightly. The relief on his face was unmistakable.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "I'm so sorry you're dealing with this. How can I help?"
"You interviewed the Biggs family for your article," I said carefully.
"You established a relationship with them.
I was wondering if you could..." I chose my words precisely.
"If you could interview them again? Ask about Boyd's background, what he did before he married Jessica.
Make it seem like you're gathering more material for your piece. "
Naomi's eyes lit with understanding. "I can do that." Her response came without hesitation. "I'd be happy to help. The article could use more depth anyway, and they were very open with me before."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you. Seriously, thank you."
"Of course." Naomi squeezed my hand again. "You poor thing."
My chest tightened over her obvious pity. Despite Naomi's offer of help, I felt uneasy.
Had I made the right choice?