I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady. When the door opened, I stepped down into the wind, feeling it cut straight through my jacket. The bus door hissed shut behind me, and I watched Jett drive away, leaving me standing in the near-empty campground.
But I felt warmer inside. Jett was right—family are the people who show up.
December 6, Saturday
cuttinganother term for proofing; reducing alcohol content before bottling
THE LASTtourists filed off the bus at the tour office, their voices cheerful as they dispersed toward their cars, clutching souvenir bottles and brochures. I stayed in my seat, watching them through the window, and felt an unexpected pressure building behind my eyes.
Not now. Not here.
I blinked hard, willing the tears away. This was ridiculous. I'd held it together through the attack, through the hospital, through seeing Dylan again. Why was I falling apart now, sitting on an empty tour bus on an ordinary Saturday evening?
"You okay back there?" Jett's voice drifted from the driver's seat.
"Fine," I said, but my voice cracked on the single syllable.
He turned to look at me, his expression shifting from casual concern to something more focused. "Bernadette—"
"I don't know what's wrong with me." I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. "Maybe it's a delayed reaction to everything."
"Probably." Jett stood and walked back to my row, settling into the seat across the aisle. "Adrenaline can keep you going for a while, but eventually your body catches up."
"It's stupid. I should be past this by now."
"It's been less than a week."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Jett was quiet for a moment, then: "You up for another adventure?"
Despite everything, I felt a spark of curiosity. "What kind of adventure?"
His mouth quirked into a half-smile. "The surprise kind. But you'll need to bundle up—wear your warmest clothes. I'll pick you up in an hour."
"Jett—"
"One hour. And maybe pack some extra layers. Trust me."
Before I could argue, he was heading back to the driver's seat. By the time we reached the campground, I'd forgotten about my bad mood and practically leapt off the bus to hurry and change before he came back.
Fifty-eight minutes later, I stood outside my van wearing thermal leggings under my jeans, two sweaters, my heaviest jacket, and a knit cap pulled low over my ears. When Jett's pickup truck pulled up, I climbed in grateful to see the heater blasting at full force.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Back to Carter Caves. They're running Christmas cave tours through December." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Figured you could use some underground Christmas magic."
Remembering our first trip there in the summer, a genuine smile tugged at my lips. "That's a long drive."
"Good thing I brought sandwiches," he said, pointing to a bag on the seat between us. He pulled back onto the road, and soon we were heading east out of Lexington.
Jett found a Christmas music station, and we ate our sandwiches while Bing Crosby crooned about white Christmases. The simple normalcy of it—food, music, conversation—felt like medicine.
"So what's happening with Birdwhistle Tours now that Teresa's gone?" I asked, wadding up my sandwich wrapper.
"I'm not sure," Jett said. "Marv's running things solo for now. He actually laughed on Thursday. I didn't know he could do that.But who knows if he wants to keep the business going without Teresa."
"What will you do if he closes?"
