Page 22 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
I nodded, unable to form words.
Portia crossed her arms, looking disgusted. Dylan still hadn't moved from his position against the wall, his face ashen.
"I think we're done here," Boyd said pleasantly, as if we'd just concluded a business meeting. "Dylan, show Ms. Waters out."
Dylan moved mechanically, opening the conference room door. I walked past him into the hallway, my legs somehow still functioning despite the chaos in my mind. As we crossed the tasting room toward the exit, I glanced back.
Dylan stood in the doorway, watching me leave. The look he gave me was pure devastation mixed with something darker—betrayal, anger, disgust. He must hate me for this.
My heart twisted painfully, but I kept walking. I felt numb as I drove to the lab.
The clinic sat in a nondescript office park, deliberately unremarkable. I arrived fifteen minutes early and waited in my van until I saw Boyd's Mercedes pull into the parking lot.
Inside, he handled everything—speaking quietly with the receptionist, signing paperwork, guiding me to a private room where a technician waited with cheek swab kits.
"This won't take long," the technician said brightly, snapping on gloves.
Boyd went first, opening his mouth obediently as she swabbed the inside of his cheek. Then it was my turn, the cotton swab scraping against my flesh, collecting cells.
"With the holidays coming up, you should have results in about ten days," the technician said, sealing the samples. "We'll call both of you."
In the waiting area, Boyd signed more papers while I stood awkwardly nearby. He seemed completely at ease, chatting with the receptionist about holiday plans.
Finally, we stood in the parking lot, the November wind cutting through my inadequate blazer.
"I hope this gives you closure," Boyd said, his tone kind but distant. "I truly don't remember your mother, Bernadette."
The words were delivered gently, but they still felt like hammer blows. I'd been so certain. The facial recognition, the timeline, Suzy's memory, Keith's confirmation. How could I have been so wrong?
"Thank you for doing this," I managed. "For agreeing to the test."
"Of course." He smiled, that charming bourbon-executive smile.
He walked to his Mercedes, climbed in, and drove away without a backward glance.
I sat in my van for a long time, staring at nothing. The man must not be my father. Why else would he volunteer so readily for testing? Why would he seem so amused, so unconcerned?
I felt like the world's biggest fool.
November 21, Friday
aging timethe number of years bourbon is aged in the barrel
THE TOURday 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?"
