Page 19 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
Boyd Biggs was my father.
Which meant Dylan was my half-brother.
Which meant every feeling I'd developed for him had been catastrophically wrong.
"Is this—" I had to stop, clear my throat, try again. "Is this definitive?"
"The probability is high enough that I'd recommend pursuing direct DNA testing for absolute confirmation," Miranda said carefully. "But at 78.6%, the likelihood of error is relatively small. Most cases with this percentage are confirmed by subsequent testing."
I stared at the report, at the graphs showing facial landmark comparisons, at the technical breakdown of genetic markers we apparently shared. The shape of our eyes. The structure of our cheekbones. The angle of our jaws.
My face was his face, filtered through my mother's genetics.
"What do I do now?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
Miranda's expression softened with sympathy. "That's entirely up to you. You could approach him for direct DNA testing. You could consult with a lawyer about your options. Or you could simply sit with this information for a while."
Sit with it. As if I could do anything else. As if this information wasn't now permanently etched into my consciousness, reshaping every aspect of my existence.
I stood on shaky legs, clutching the report. "Thank you."
"Bernadette?" Miranda stood too. "Whatever you decide to do next—be kind to yourself. This is a lot to process."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and somehow found my way back through the hallway, through the waiting room, out to the parking lot where my van sat waiting.
Inside the vehicle, I finally let myself feel the full weight of it. Joy and horror, vindication and despair, triumph and tragedy—all tangled together into something too complex to name.
I'd found my father.
And lost everything else in the process.
Now what?
November 19, Wednesday
high floor agingaging barrels on upper levels where it’s hotter, often speeding maturation
THE HEAVYwooden doors of Goldenrod Distillery felt impossibly massive as I pulled them open. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat, my temples, my fingertips. I'd rehearsed this moment a dozen times during the sleepless night, but now that I stood in the tasting room, every practiced word evaporated.
Dylan was behind the bar, polishing glasses with methodical precision. When he looked up and saw me, his entire body went rigid. The polishing cloth stilled in his hands.
For a moment we just stared at each other across the expanse of reclaimed wood and bourbon bottles. His expression cycled through emotions too quickly to track—surprise, hurt, anger, confusion. He set down the glass with careful control, as if it might shatter if he gripped it too tightly.
"Bernadette." My name came out flat, devoid of the warmth I'd grown accustomed to. "This is unexpected."
I walked toward the bar, each step requiring conscious effort. A couple browsing the retail section glanced up at my entrance, then returned to examining bottles. Otherwise, the tasting room was quiet, the afternoon lull before evening visitors arrived.
"Hello." My voice sounded strange to my own ears. "Can we talk?"
Dylan's jaw tightened. "I thought you made it pretty clear you didn't want to talk to me. Two weeks of silence sends a message."
"I know. And you're right." I stopped at the bar, gripping the edge for support. "You do deserve an explanation."
His dark eyes—Boyd's eyes, I realized with a jolt—searched my face. "So explain."
"Not here. Not now." I glanced at the browsing couple, then back to him. "I need to speak with you and your family. Together."
Confusion replaced the anger in his expression. "My family? Why would you need to talk to my family?"
