Page 10 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

attenuation the percentage of sugars converted to alcohol by the yeast

THE BUS rumbled through the countryside toward Happy Trails, its diesel engine creating a steady rhythm that should have been soothing but only emphasized the silence between Jett and me.

The day's tour had been mercifully Teresa-free, allowing me to regain some confidence with a group of bourbon enthusiasts from Chicago who'd asked thoughtful questions and actually seemed to enjoy my commentary.

Now, with the late afternoon sun lasering through the bus windows, I found myself staring down at my mother's pendant. Her young face smiled up at me from the silver oval. My thumb traced the smooth edges as I wrestled with the decision that had been eating at me for days.

I needed to confront Keith Banyon. The uncertainty was becoming unbearable—not knowing if he was my father, not understanding why my mother had left Kentucky so abruptly, not having answers to questions that had shaped my entire life.

But the thought of approaching him, of potentially shattering whatever peaceful existence he'd built with his wife in that beautiful home, made my stomach churn with anxiety.

What if he denied everything? What if he was my father but wanted nothing to do with me? What if—

"Can I ask you something?" Jett's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, gentle but serious in a way that made me look up from the pendant.

"Sure," I said, though my tone suggested otherwise.

"Your mother," he began, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the rearview mirror before focusing back on the road. "I overheard you tell Naomi that she passed away recently. How did it happen?"

My chest tightened. Most people were satisfied with vague answers, but something in Jett's expression suggested he wasn't going to settle for platitudes.

"Cancer," I said simply, my voice barely audible over the engine noise. "Lung cancer."

Jett nodded slowly. "That's rough. How long were you taking care of her?"

"Two years, officially. But really, I'd been taking care of her most of my life.

" The admission came out before I could stop it, and I immediately regretted the vulnerability it revealed.

"She had anxiety, depression. I was good at handling things—phone calls, paperwork, dealing with landlords and doctors. "

"That's a lot of responsibility for someone so young."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with his sympathy. "It was what it was."

The countryside rolled past us—rolling hills dotted with cattle, old barns weathered to silver gray, fence lines that stretched toward distant tree lines.

"What about your father?" Jett asked, his tone carefully casual. "Was he able to help when she got sick?"

My hand instinctively closed around the pendant, and I felt my shoulders tense. "He hasn't been part of my life."

"At all?"

"No."

Jett glanced at me in the mirror, and I could see the questions forming behind his eyes. "Where is he now?"

"I don't really know," I said, which was technically true.

"Have you ever tried to—"

"I don't want to talk about it," I interrupted, my voice sharper than I intended. The words came out like a door slamming shut.

Jett's mouth closed, and he nodded once, accepting the boundary I'd drawn. But I could see in his reflection that he wanted to dig under the careful walls I'd built around the subject.

The campground entrance appeared ahead of us, and I gathered my things with unnecessary urgency, eager to escape the weight of his unasked questions and my own unspoken truths.