Page 13

backset the acidic liquid left over from a previous distillation, used in sour mashing

"Remember when Mr. Peterson caught Jake sleeping in AP Chemistry?" asked a woman named Christina.

"You mean every day?" Jake shot back, grinning. "That man's voice was like a lullaby."

Their easy camaraderie made my chest tighten with something that felt like homesickness for a place I'd never really had.

High school for me had been a blur of new schools, new faces, new attempts to fit in before my mother inevitably announced we were moving again.

Phoenix, Flagstaff, Tucson—each move meant starting over, trying to crack the code of established friend groups and social hierarchies.

I'd graduated from a school in Tempe where I'd spent exactly eighteen months.

Long enough to earn decent grades, not long enough to form lasting connections.

There had been Anna, who shared my love of mystery novels, and Lenore, whose sharp wit and purple-streaked hair made her seem fearless.

We'd eaten lunch together, studied for finals, made plans for after graduation that hadn't materialized.

At least, not for me.

When was the last time I'd even thought about them?

"Bernadette, could you take our picture by the distillery sign?" Christina called out when we stopped at Willett.

I obliged, watching through the camera screen as they arranged themselves with practiced ease—arms draped over shoulders, genuine smiles that spoke of shared history.

I nursed a pang of envy. Would my own class of 2015 have a ten-year reunion?

Would anyone even notice if I didn't show up?

The girl who'd transferred in junior year and kept to herself, whose yearbook quote was probably something forgettable about following dreams.

From the front of the bus came Naomi's distinctive laugh—musical and uninhibited.

I'd grown accustomed to her presence, like accepting a persistent headache.

Today she wore a flowing linen dress that made her look like she was gliding rather than walking.

Whatever story she was telling Jett had him smiling.

At Heaven Hill, while the reunion group toured the barrel warehouse, I found myself thinking about Dylan, the bartender from Goldenrod.

His easy smile, his genuine enthusiasm for bourbon craftsmanship.

But I reasoned he was probably like that with everyone—charming and attentive because tips depended on it.

How many women had he walked to their tour buses, suggesting they stop by again sometime?

"The rickhouse smells amazing," someone said.

"That's the char from the barrel," I explained, grateful for the distraction. "The heat draws out compounds from the wood that give bourbon its color and flavor."

As we loaded back onto the bus for the final leg, I watched the reunion group settle into their seats, still animated by shared discoveries and memories. Their connection was effortless, built on a foundation of shared experiences I'd never had.

Maybe I'd look up Anna and Lenore on social media. Maybe I'd send them messages to bridge the gap of years and silence, find out if their dreams had manifested more fully than mine.

Yes, maybe I'd do that… sometime.