Page 1 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
November 1, Saturday
agingthe process of maturing bourbon in oak barrels over time to develop flavor and color
MY BODYoperated on autopilot as I guided the morning tour through Maker's Mark, my mouth forming words about mash bills and copper stills while my brain replayed last night's phone call on an endless loop.Boyd Biggs. Boyd Biggs. Boyd Biggs.The name pulsed through my skull like a migraine.
"And here we have the iconic red wax dipping station," I heard myself say to the cluster of retirees from Ohio. "Each bottle is hand-dipped, creating that distinctive seal you'll recognize anywhere."
My legs carried me forward while my mind remained trapped in that moment at Goldenrod's Halloween party. Dylan's invitation still echoed in my ears.Stay with me tonight.The brush of his lips against my skin. The warmth of his hand. How close I'd come to saying yes.
Thank God I hadn't.
"The bourbon ages in charred oak barrels for a minimum of six years," I continued, gesturing toward the rickhouse. My voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else. Someone who wasn't having an existential crisis.
Dylan's father might be my father.
The thought made my stomach churn. I'd felt the pull toward Dylan from the moment I'd met him behind Goldenrod's bar, those dark eyes and easy smile drawing me in. I'd let myself imagine possibilities.
The universe must have been laughing its ass off.
"Ma'am, are you alright?" One of the retirees peered at me with concern. "You look a little pale."
I forced a smile onto my face. "Just tired. Late night."
An understatement. After Suzy's call, I'd mumbled to Dylan that I wasn't feeling well and needed to leave. I must've looked as bad as I felt because he was immediately concerned and offered to drive me home. I'd told him I didn't want him to catch what I had and ran out of there. After driving back to the campground in a state of stupefaction, I'd lain awake in my van until dawn, staring at the ceiling and trying to calculate the odds of this horrific twist of fate. Trying to convince myself this was all some horrible coincidence.
But the pieces fit too perfectly. Mom's whispered confession about my father working in the bourbon industry. Her reluctance to name him. Suzy's sudden recollection of "Bourbon Man's" last name. The dates lined up—I'd done the math approximately a thousand times between midnight and sunrise. Boyd Biggs could absolutely be my father.
Which meant Dylan could absolutely be my half-brother.
Even now I wanted to vomit.
I swallowed hard. "Please follow me to the tasting room," I announced, sounding almost normal.
The group filed into the building, eager for their complimentary samples. I hung back, watching them settle at the bar where a tasting ambassador began pouring flights. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Dylan. He'd already called twice this morning, sent three texts. I'd ignored them all.
What was I supposed to say?Hey, loved the Halloween party, thanks for the invitation to spend the night together. By the way I think we might be related, hope that doesn't make things weird.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, the pressure doing nothing to stop the thoughts that stampeded through my mind. Every moment with Dylan replayed now with sickeningclarity. Every lingering look. Every casual touch. Every flutter of anticipation I'd felt.
The gray November sky pressed down through the windows, matching my mood perfectly. All morning Jett had shot me worried glances. He knew something had shattered last night. He'd seen my face across the party when Suzy called, watched me crumble. But when I told him I couldn't talk about it, he hadn't pressed.
After the members of the tour had sampled flights of the most popular bourbons, I shepherded them through the retail area, pointing out merchandise with the enthusiasm of a sedated sloth. T-shirts. Glassware. Recipe books.
Boyd Biggs had stood at Goldenrod just days ago, looking at my mother's photograph with those kind eyes.She looks like she was a lovely woman.He'd talked about family being the foundation of everything. Had he known? Was that why he'd been so sympathetic? Or was this genuinely news to him too?
The questions circled like vultures.
As the tour concluded and the retirees filed back onto the bus, I stood in the parking lot and let the cold air bite my cheeks.
My phone buzzed again. Dylan. I stared at his name on the screen, my thumb hovering over the decline button. Part of me wanted to answer, to hear his voice, to pretend for five more minutes that last night's revelation was just a bad dream.
But I couldn't. Not until I knew for certain. Not until I understood whether the universe was truly this cruel.
I declined the call, then textedI'm sick, can't talk.
It was too true.
November 2, Sunday
