Page 23 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
spirit run the second distillation run to refine the alcohol and collect the hearts.
THE COLLEGE enrollment papers spread across my van's fold-down desk like a roadmap to a life I'd once imagined for myself.
The LED strips beneath the cabinets cast warm light across the official letterhead of Scottsdale Community College, illuminating phrases like "federal grant opportunity" and "tuition waiver" that should've filled me with excitement rather than this strange sense of reluctance.
Outside my windows, the campground settled into its evening rhythm—the distant sound of children being called in for baths, the gentle hiss of propane grills being lit for late dinners, the soft murmur of couples sharing quiet conversations on their picnic tables.
These sounds had become the soundtrack of my Kentucky life.
I picked up the enrollment form and read through it again, my fingers tracing the boxes I needed to check, the signature line that waited at the bottom like a finish line I wasn't sure I wanted to cross.
Associate's Degree in Hospitality Management.
The words that had once represented my professional aspirations now felt like artifacts from someone else's dreams.
Hadn't I always planned to return to Arizona and complete my education?
The degree would open doors to hotel management positions, restaurant operations, maybe even event planning—stable careers with predictable advancement paths and health insurance benefits.
It was the sensible choice, the responsible choice, the choice my mother would have wanted me to make.
So what was stopping me?
I set the papers down and stared out at the darkening campground, watching fireflies begin their nightly dance among the oak trees.
A family at a nearby campsite had built a small fire, and the scent of wood smoke drifted through my cracked window, mixing with the honeysuckle that climbed the fence behind my site.
The honest answer made my chest tight with vulnerability I didn't want to examine too closely.
I'd been hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that finding my father would mean being folded into the warm embrace of a found family.
That somewhere in Kentucky's gentle hills, I'd discover not just biological connections but emotional ones, people who would want to claim me as their own and give me the sense of belonging I'd never quite managed to find.
The fantasy had been intoxicating in its simplicity: a tearful reunion, explanations for past absences, invitations to family gatherings where I'd finally understand what it felt like to have roots that ran deeper than temporary addresses and short-term leases.
I'd imagined holiday dinners and inside jokes, shared memories and the comfortable shorthand that came from growing up in the same place with the same people.
But Sam Church's reluctant participation in the paternity test had shattered that particular daydream.
Even if the results proved he was my father, his obvious dread at the possibility suggested I'd be more burden than blessing, more complication than gift.
His wife hostile reaction had made it clear I would never be welcomed into their carefully constructed life.
Still, I found myself reaching for a pen, then stopping with it poised over the signature line. The deadline for enrollment was only a week away, but something held me back from committing.
The paternity test results could arrive any day now. Whatever those results revealed would fundamentally change my understanding of who I was and where I came from.
I folded the enrollment papers carefully and tucked them into the manila envelope where I'd been keeping important documents.
The college would have to wait a few more days for my decision.
I'd invested too much time and emotional energy in this search to abandon it now, especially when I was so close to learning the truth.