Page 25 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"That's incredibly kind of you," I managed.
"It's nothing. We have plenty of food. Plus, I figured you could use some friendly faces while you're dealing with all this father business."
Tears pricked unexpectedly at my eyes. "I'd love to come. Thank you."
"Perfect. I'll text you the address and time. Plan on around three o'clock?"
"Three o'clock. I'll be there."
We said our goodbyes just as Jett pulled the bus into the first distillery parking lot. I tucked my phone away, feeling lighter than I had in days. Thanksgiving dinner with people who actually wanted me there. A real family gathering, even if they weren't my family.
The day passed in its familiar rhythm—tours and tastings, bourbon facts and historical anecdotes. By the time Jett dropped me at the campground that evening, the sun had already set, the November darkness settling early.
"Got plans for Thanksgiving?" Jett asked as I gathered my things.
I turned back, surprised by the question. "Actually, yes. Keith Banyon invited me to dinner with his family."
"Keith Banyon?" Jett's eyebrows rose. "Your mom's friend?"
"Yeah. He called this morning." I smiled. "It was really sweet of him."
"That's great." Jett nodded, then seemed to hesitate. "I was going to invite you to have dinner with my family if you didn't have plans. My grandmother always makes way too much food, and she loves meeting new people."
Something warm bloomed in my chest at the invitation. "That's so thoughtful of you."
"No problem." He shrugged, casual but his eyes held something deeper. "I just didn't want you to be alone for the holiday. Glad you've got somewhere to go."
"Thank you for thinking of me."
"Always do," he said quietly, then seemed to catch himself. "I mean, you know. As friends. Coworkers."
"Right. Friends. Have a good night, Jett."
"You too."
I descended the bus steps and watched as he drove away, the taillights disappearing down the campground road. Standingin the November darkness, I felt an unexpected pang of regret. Meeting Jett's family, sitting at his grandmother's table, seeing him in that context—part of me wanted that experience.
But why? I'd be leaving in a few weeks. Arizona waited with its promise of college classes and a fresh start. Whatever connections I'd built here were temporary by design. Getting more entangled in Jett's life, meeting his family, creating more ties—that would only make leaving harder.
November 24, Monday
bottled-in-bondbourbon aged at least four years and bottled at 100 proof under federal guidelines
THE CRAMPShad started around noon, that familiar aching throb that signaled my monthly visitor was arriving. By the time I dragged myself to the campground bathhouse that evening, I felt wrung out—bent over, bloated, vaguely nauseous, the whole miserable package.
I splashed cold water on my face at the sink, trying to find some relief. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh white. I looked as terrible as I felt.
The door creaked open behind me. Through the mirror, I watched Marilyn enter, her usual hostile expression softening when she saw my obvious distress.
"You look awful," she said, but without her typical venom.
"Thanks. I feel worse."
She moved closer, studying me with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Bad cramps?"
I nodded, pressing a hand against my lower abdomen. "Just PMS stuff. I'll survive."
"I have something that might help." Marilyn's offer surprised me. "Wait here."
