"Six months went by quickly." I kept my voice light, casual, even though my chest felt tight. After today, I'd probably never see Jett again. No more early morning pickups, no more shared jokes on the road, no more of his quiet presence making hard days bearable.
But dwelling on that wouldn't help either of us.
"Too quickly," he said quietly.
We drove in comfortable silence. I soaked up the countryside rolling past—fields and farms and distilleries I'd come to know by heart. When we turned into the tour office parking lot, we both gaped.
Jett lunged forward in his seat. "What the—?"
Cars filled every available space, with more vehicles lining the road outside. People milled around the entrance, clutching newspapers and checking their phones.
Marv stood out front, directing traffic. When he spotted the bus, his face lit up and he jogged over. Jett opened the door.
"You're not going to believe this," Marv said, slightly breathless. "That newspaper article—Naomi's piece aboutBernadette—it's brought in dozens of bookings! We're completely full today and booked solid for the next three weeks!"
I stared at him, shocked. "Because of the article?"
"Everyone wants to meet the Bourbon Girl!" Marv grinned. "This is incredible. Best publicity we've ever had."
As if on cue, people began boarding the bus, their faces eager and excited. They crowded around my seat, introducing themselves, asking about my search, expressing sympathy about my father.
"Can I get a picture with you?" a woman asked.
"Me too!" someone else chimed in.
Suddenly I was standing for selfies, signing newspapers, answering questions about my mother and James Biggs and the car in the river. The attention felt surreal—uncomfortable and flattering simultaneously.
Jett watched from the driver's seat, an unreadable expression on his face.
The tour itself was unlike any I'd given before. People hung on every word, asked thoughtful questions, tipped generously at each stop. They wanted to know which distilleries I'd visited in my search, which people had helped me, how it felt to finally have answers.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted but energized. Whatever Naomi had intended with that "needy" comment, the article had made people care about my story.
When we returned to the tour office and the last passengers filed off, Jett counted out the tip money—easily twice what we usually made.
"I want you to have all of it," he said, holding out the cash.
I looked at the bills in his hand, thinking about what Naomi had written. "Because you feel sorry for me?"
"What? No." He seemed genuinely confused.
"Because I'm needy and desperate?"
"I'm giving you money because I want to be fair. These people came because of you, Bernadette. The tips are yours."
I wanted to believe him. The depiction of me from yesterday's article still stung, but I couldn't afford pride when I had a two-thousand-mile drive ahead of me and an uncertain future waiting in Arizona.
"Thank you," I said, taking the money. "The extra cash will be helpful for the drive back."
"When are you leaving?"
"New Year's Day."
Jett nodded slowly, his jaw tight. We stood in awkward silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us.
"Guess I'd better get you to the campground," he said, then reclaimed the driver's seat.
"Yes," I murmured, settling into a seat that afforded me some emotional distance. I longed for our teasing banter of mere days ago, but it seemed to have vanished. By the time Jet had pulled up to the campground, my chest was aching.
