Page 30 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
Later. I'd tell him later. Let today be good. Let one day be simple and easy without the weight of goodbyes hanging over it.
"Your grandmother makes excellent pie," I said instead.
"She does." He smiled. "I'll tell her you said so."
We finished our dessert as full darkness fell, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
November 28, Friday
lignina wood component that breaks down during toasting/charring, releasing flavor molecules
THE MALLthrummed with humanity—shoppers jostling for deals, children shrieking with excitement, holiday music blaring from every storefront. I'd never understood Black Friday's appeal until Tracy and Poppy invited me to join them, with Clinton reluctantly tagging along as their designated bag carrier.
"This is madness," Clinton muttered as we navigated around a cluster of people examining discounted electronics.
"It's tradition!" Poppy linked her arm through mine, practically bouncing. "I know I'm much too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I keep up the pretense for my parents. Makes them happy."
I smiled at her enthusiasm. Nothing seemed to dampen her spirits.
We window-shopped through stores I could barely afford to breathe in. Designer clothes, expensive jewelry, home décor that cost more than a month's rent. I pressed my face against display windows like a kid at a candy store, admiring things that existed in a world far removed from my van-life reality.
"That would look great on you," Tracy said, pointing to an emerald green dress in a boutique window.
It was pretty. But the price tag visible on the mannequin's hip—$289—made my stomach clench. That was nearly two weeks of tour guide earnings.
"Maybe someday," I said, moving along. "When I'm making real money."
"After you get your degree," Tracy agreed. "When do classes start?"
"First week of January."
The reminder both excited and terrified me. Six weeks to wrap up Kentucky and return to Arizona. Six weeks to transform from tour guide to college student. I'd be starting fresh—again—but this time with purpose and direction.
I thought about Anna and Lenore, the closest thing I'd had to friends in high school. They were probably well into their careers by now, living in apartments with real furniture, making responsible adult choices. Meanwhile, I was twenty-seven and just getting back to finishing my undergraduate degree, years behind where I should be.
The comparison stung, but I pushed it aside. Better late than never, right?
"What about Jett?" Poppy asked suddenly, examining a display of scented candles. "You two seem close."
Heat crept up my neck. "We're just friends."
"Mm-hmm." Poppy's knowing look suggested she didn't believe me. "And what happened with Dylan?" She wagged her eyebrows.
"That didn't end well." Massive understatement. "But maybe we'll have a different type of relationship one day."
"Or maybe," Poppy said, setting down a pine-scented candle, "you should give Jett a second look. I like him. And the way he looks at you—"
"Poppy," I interrupted gently. "He has a girlfriend."
I pretended interest in a display of decorative throw pillows. The conversation was veering into territory I'd been carefully avoiding—my growing feelings for Jett, the moments between us that felt charged, the way my pulse quickened when he smiled at me.
We spent another hour browsing, Tracy scoring deals on holiday decorations while Clinton's arms grew increasingly burdened with shopping bags. I bought nothing—windowshopping was free, at least—but I enjoyed the normalcy of it all. Just shopping together, talking about life.
By the time we returned to the campground, dusk had settled and my feet ached from walking. I said goodbye to the Oneys and headed across the gravel lot toward my van, already mentally planning a simple dinner of leftovers.
Then I saw them.
All four tires—completely slashed. Deep gashes in the rubber, deflated and ruined. My van sat listing to one side, disabled and violated.
