I pulled out a bundle of warm clothes and held them to my chest. Octavia was probably right—I didn't have much to lose.
On the other hand, giving up might actually be the smartest thing I could do.
December 5, Friday
proofingdiluting barrel-strength bourbon with water to achieve the desired bottling proof
THE BUSheater rattled as Jett pulled into the campground entrance, the December wind battering the sides of the vehicle with enough force to make it sway slightly. Through the windshield, I could see bare trees bending under the gusts, their branches scraping against a slate-gray sky that promised snow.
"Home sweet home," I murmured, gathering my bag from the seat beside me.
Jett shifted into park but didn't open the door. He turned in his seat to face me, one arm draped over the steering wheel. "How are you holding up? With everything?"
"You mean the attack, the DNA results, or the general disaster that's been my life since July?" My attempt at humor sounded a little hollow.
"All of it, I guess." His dark eyes held concern without pity, which I appreciated. "That's a lot to process in a short time."
I leaned back against the vinyl seat, watching the wind whip through the empty campground. Most of the seasonal spots sat vacant now, just concrete pads and picnic tables waiting for warmer weather.
"My whole life, I've wondered what it would be like to have a father," I said quietly. "When I was little, I used to imagine him showing up one day. He'd have some explanation for why he'd been gone, and then everything would be better. We'd be a family."
Jett listened without interrupting, his expression attentive.
"As I got older, the fantasy changed. I stopped imagining he'd come find me. Started thinking maybe I'd track him downinstead. That if I could just figure out who he was, I'd finally understand who I was. Like he held the missing piece of some puzzle."
"And now?"
"Now I wonder if having a father would've actually made things better at all." I traced a scratch on the armrest with my fingertip. "Maybe it would've been worse. Maybe he would've been cruel or neglectful or just... absent in a different way. At least not knowing him meant I could imagine he might've been decent."
The bus engine idled, a low rumble beneath our conversation.
"What about your dad?" I asked, shifting the focus away from my own mess. "You've mentioned him a few times. What's he like?"
A smile softened Jett's features. "Pop? He's a good guy. Works construction and farms, has for thirty years. Drinks too much beer on Sundays watching football, tells the same terrible jokes every holiday. Nothing remarkable, really."
"Sounds nice."
"Yeah." Jett's smile turned a bit sheepish. "I've probably taken him for granted over the years. You know how it is when something's always been there—you forget other people don't have it."
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.
"Can I ask you something?" I said. "Hypothetically."
"Sure."
"How would you feel if you found out tomorrow that your dad wasn't your biological father?"
Jett was quiet for a long moment, considering the question seriously. "Honestly?" he said finally, "it wouldn't matter. Pop is my pop. He's the one who taught me to ride a bike, who sat through every terrible school play, who helped me when Iwanted to start the bee farm." Jett's voice carried conviction. "Biology doesn't define family. Family are the people who show up. The ones who are there when things get hard."
Something in his words struck a chord deep in my chest. I thought about Jett changing my slashed tires, about Marv standing up for me, about Lou standing guard over Teddy with a tire iron. About all the people who'd shown up for me despite having no obligation to do so.
"That's a good way to look at it," I said softly.
The wind gusted again, and I could see my van rocking slightly on its chassis in the distance.
"I should go," I said, pushing to my feet. "Thanks for the perspective."
"Anytime." Jett's expression turned serious again. "And Bernadette? You're not alone in this, okay? Whatever you decide to do next."
