Before I could talk myself out of it, I tapped the button and typed a quick message:Anna! It's Bernadette Waters from chemistry class. Just wanted to say hi and congratulate you on all your success. Hope you're doing well.
Generic. Safe. Unlikely to get a response, but at least I'd tried.
Next I switched to Instagram and searched for Lenore Martinez. My fingers felt clumsy as I typed, anxiety building with each letter. Lenore was a military brat, so she'd understood what it was like to move constantly, to never quite belong anywhere.
Her profile popped up immediately: @LenoremediaAZ, with a verified checkmark and over fifteen thousand followers. The profile picture showed Lenore in front of a modern office building, arms crossed, looking confident and polished. Her bio read:Founder & CEO, Martinez Media Solutions. Phoenix-based digital marketing. Featured inForbes30 Under 30.
Forbes.Thirty under thirty.
I scrolled through her feed—professional photoshoots, speaking engagements, team-building events with her staff, sleek office spaces with exposed brick and motivational posters. Every post was curated, filtered, perfect. The kind of life that required not just stability but ambition and connections and all the things I'd never managed to accumulate.
The inadequacy hit me like a wave. What was I doing reaching out to these successful women with their real careers and their LinkedIn profiles and theirForbesfeatures? My own social media presence was practically nonexistent—a Facebook account I hadn't updated in two years, an Instagram with maybe a dozen photos, no LinkedIn at all because what would I even put there?Skills: Can identify bourbon mash bills, proficient at sleeping in vehicles, experienced at dead-end searches?
But Poppy's words echoed in my mind:I'm glad you're okay.
And Jett's:Family are the people who show up.
Maybe friendship worked the same way. Maybe showing up—even after years of absence, even from a position of professional inadequacy—mattered more than having an impressive title or a verified checkmark.
I tapped the "Follow" button on Lenore's account, then sent her a direct message:Lenore, it's Bernadette from high school. I know it's been forever, but I saw your company and wanted to say I'm so proud of you. You're doing amazing things. Hope life is treating you well.
I hit send before I could overthink it.
Two messages, sent into the void. Two people from my past who probably didn't think about me at all anymore, who'd moved on and built impressive lives while I'd been drifting.
I stared at my phone, watching the screen for any indication that the messages had been read. Nothing. Of course nothing. These were busy, successful people with full lives and professional networks. Why would they respond to a ghost from high school who'd never bothered to stay in touch?
I locked my phone and shoved it into my pocket just as the first retirees began trickling back to the bus, clutching snacks.
Jett climbed aboard, coffee in hand, and caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "You okay back there?"
"Yeah," I said. "Just... reaching out to old friends. Probably pointless, but I figured I'd try."
"That's never pointless." His voice carried quiet conviction.
I wanted to believe him. As the bus pulled back onto the highway and the frigid Kentucky landscape rolled past my window, I tried not to check my phone every thirty seconds.
They probably wouldn't respond. And that was okay. At least I'd tried.
At least I'd shown up.
December 13, Saturday
small batchbourbon bottled from a relatively small number of selected barrels
THE LEXINGTONCommunity Theater buzzed with holiday cheer, strings of twinkling lights draped across exposed beams and fake snow scattered artfully on windowsills. Our table sat near the stage, close enough to catch every exaggerated gesture and theatrical aside from the actors who wove between tables, dropping clues and red herrings with equal enthusiasm.
"I think the butler did it," Poppy whispered loudly, clutching her sparkling cider. She wore a red velvet dress for the occasion, her curls tamed into submission with a matching headband. "He's too nice. That makes him suspicious."
"Or maybe the chef," Tracy countered, adjusting her festive sweater featuring a sequined reindeer. "She keeps mentioning poison. That's basically a confession."
Lou chuckled, one arm draped casually over his wife's chair. "You two are terrible detectives. It's obviously the maid. She has motive and opportunity."
Clinton sat at the head of our table, looking pleased with himself for orchestrating this evening. The murder mystery dinner had been his Christmas gift to Lou's family, and they'd graciously extended the invitation to include me. I'd almost declined—feeling like an intruder on their family tradition—but Tracy had insisted with such warmth that refusing would've been more awkward than accepting.
A server arrived with our entrees, setting down plates of chicken cordon bleu that made my mouth water. When I cut into the golden breading, ham and melted cheese oozed out. I took a bite and had to suppress a moan. The chicken was tenderand perfectly seasoned, the cheese sharp and creamy, the sauce rich with wine and herbs. Real food, prepared by professionals, served on actual plates.
When had I last eaten a proper meal? I'd been subsisting on peanut butter sandwiches, soup, and whatever samples I could scavenge during tours.
