The Convenient Wife

“Starla, you grew up in Stanton, is that right?”

“I did, yes.”

“And you went to Stanton High?”

“That’s right, graduated four years ago. I spent the first two after high school studying at—”

“Kentucky Community College, and then. . .” His voice fades out as his finger moves over the paper. “Moonshine University for the last two.”

“That’s right,” I say reluctantly, realizing he has all my information already right in front of him. I feel slightly stupid, because I should be talking about the chemical process that takes place when yeast is added to the wort, and how it turns the sugars into alcohol.

I should be spouting knowledge and showing Bolt how much I already know. Instead, I stand like a damn mute, saying absolutely nothing. I can’t think straight, I can’t connect my brain to my mouth and show this man exactly what I know.

You can do this, Starla. That’s why you’re here and not someone else.

Yale moves on, using the paper guideline in his folder to direct his questions. “No siblings?”

“Nope, only child here.” Waving my hand, I force a smile.

What kind of question is that?

Pursing his lips, he flips the page, keeping his eyes down. “So, your mother worked for years at Flynn and Flynn Grocery until it closed, am I right?”

“Yes, Sir, she started there when she was seventeen.”

“It didn’t serve her well obviously, being a dead-end job and all,” he says, not even taking the time to look up at me.

What? Who the hell does he think he is?

“She gave me what I needed, did the best she could.” I know I shouldn’t talk back to this man, not like this, not in front of Bolt Sheckler, but he has no right to judge my mother.

Why is he even bringing her up, she has nothing to do with my internship.

Looking up at me from his folder, he chews the inside of his lip. “She had no education, no skills, no way to support you after she lost her job. You got several scholarships for college because of your grades in school, without those you wouldn’t have even seen the inside of a college building. . . Must be that Stanton water.” He chuckles lightly to himself, as if he just made a joke. “Am I right?”

I don’t laugh. Balling my fists at my side, I want to go at him full force. He has no right to say shit like that to me. My mouth opens, ready to retaliate and make him feel small and insignificant. Then I remember where I am, and who is watching quietly from the shadows.

Isn’t he going to say something?

These can’t be normal internship questions.

Taking a second to look at Mr. Sheckler, I arch my brows, waiting for him to stop this dreaded line of questioning. Only he doesn’t, his smile thickens, his eyes glaze over, and I’m left to fend for myself.

With my lips curved into a faint smile, I lift my shoulders up to my ears and shrug. “So I’ve heard.” I can’t—I won’t argue. I want this too badly, and I’ve have worked too hard to throw it all away.

“What happened after your mom lost her job?”

My eyes split from his and I’m suddenly quiet. “We moved.” I’m soft when I speak, trying to figure out how any of this fits in with the internship. “A lot.”

“And now? Where are you living now?”

“With my grandparents.”

My past was a roller coaster, some of it was good, some of it was bad, but wasn’t that how it was for everyone? So why is my past so important?

It shouldn’t matter. The only thing that should matter is what I know about whiskey.

“And they live in the Crest Village area?”

“Yes, they do.”

“That’s lower than blue collar over there, am I right?” Tipping his head, he lets his gaze shift from his folder to my face.

What the fuck does that mean?

“I don’t know… I guess so,” I say with a hard tone. This internship means everything to me, and I don’t want them to replace me with someone else, but it’s getting harder and harder to keep my composure.

I can feel my blood starting to boil and my chest starting to constrict. My muscles are tingling, tightening up, causing my fingers to fist and unfist.

I won’t fuck this up.

I’ve breathed, drank, and studied whiskey for years. Shit, my love for whiskey started long before it was even legal for me to drink.

This is my dream. I’ve spent so much time wishing for the opportunity to be inside this building, to be a part of something so incredible.

Now you’re here, let yourself be happy about that.

This part won’t last forever.

“And your father,” Yale says, his voice deeper. “It looks like he and your mom have been divorced since you were three. Was it his multiple arrests for illegal drug distribution that she didn’t like?”