November 21, Friday
aging time the number of years bourbon is aged in the barrel
THE TOUR day had stretched endlessly, each hour dragging like molasses as I went through the motions of explaining bourbon production while my mind obsessed over Boyd's casual dismissal.
I truly don't remember your mother. The words played on repeat, undermining every certainty I'd built over the past weeks.
I trudged across the campground parking lot toward my van, still wearing the ridiculous barmaid costume that suddenly felt more humiliating than charming.
The ruffled apron, the low-cut bodice, the whole performative outfit designed to extract better tips from tipsy tourists—what was I doing with my life?
"Nice outfit."
I turned to find Marilyn leaning against a picnic table, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her smirk carried the same contempt I'd grown accustomed to from our previous encounters.
"It's my uniform," I said flatly, too tired for whatever game she wanted to play.
"Uniform." She laughed, smoke curling from her nostrils. "That's one word for it. Costume might be more accurate. Or maybe 'degrading getup.'"
Something inside me snapped. The accumulated stress of the past weeks, Boyd's rejection, Dylan's devastated expression, the gnawing uncertainty about everything—it all crystallized into anger directed at this petty, bitter woman.
"I do what I have to in order to make ends meet," I said sharply. "Do you have a job, Marilyn? Or do you just spend your days judging people who actually work?"
Her expression hardened. "I do what I have to in order to make ends meet."
"Does that include stealing?" The accusation burst out before I could stop it. "Because I hope you got good money for the things you took from my van. Those items meant a lot to me."
Marilyn's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You shouldn't be so careless with your things. Leaving your van unlocked in a campground full of strangers? That's just asking for trouble."
So she was admitting it. The confirmation somehow made it worse—knowing for certain that she'd violated my space, rifled through my belongings, taken things that mattered simply because she could.
"You had no right—"
"Hey there, ladies." Teddy's voice cut through our confrontation. He shambled toward us from the direction of his tent.
Marilyn's entire demeanor shifted. The haughty confidence evaporated, replaced by something that looked almost like fear. She straightened, her body language suddenly defensive.
"You should tell him to leave you alone," I said quietly, watching the tension radiate from her.
Marilyn's laugh was harsh and brittle. "Teddy takes care of me."
"Takes care of you?" I stared at her. "You told me you could take care of yourself. Remember? That whole speech about not needing anyone?"
Something flashed in Marilyn's eyes—shame, maybe, or anger at being called out on her contradiction. Teddy reached us, immediately sliding an arm around Marilyn's waist with possessive familiarity. She didn't lean into him, but she didn't pull away either.
"Everything alright here?" Teddy asked, his tone falsely jovial. His eyes moved between us, assessing.
"Everything's fine," Marilyn said quickly. Then, as if to prove a point, she turned and gave Teddy a big kiss—deliberate, theatrical, designed to make a statement. When she pulled back, she grabbed his hand and started leading him away from me.
She threw me a defiant look over her shoulder, her middle finger raised in unmistakable dismissal. The gesture was juvenile and petty, but it accomplished its goal—establishing that she'd chosen whatever toxic arrangement they had over any potential alliance with me.
I watched them walk toward Teddy's tent, Marilyn's forced laughter carrying across the parking lot. She was performing for me, trying to prove she had power, had choices, had control. But everything about her body language screamed the opposite.
Standing there in my stupid barmaid costume, I felt an unexpected pang of pity for Marilyn.
We were both doing what we had to do to survive, both making compromises that probably looked pathetic from the outside.
The difference was that I recognized my situation for what it was—temporary, transitional, a means to an end.
Marilyn seemed trapped in hers, unable or unwilling to see a way out.