Page 33 of Fall is Brewing

The cheers are louder now—less polite, more invested. I can feel the crowd leaning in. What started as a novelty is turning into something competitive and even suspenseful as we slide into round three.

The third slice yields more easily. The flesh is softer, slightly grainier, the sweetness gentler—almost nostalgic, bordering on mealy. One more day and the apple would have turned. It reminds me of brown paper bags in elementary school lunches. Of cider simmering in the kitchen in October. Of familiarity.

McIntosh, I believe.

I pause, giving it an extra breath, just to be certain. Let it sit on my tongue. Let the aftertaste bloom.

Yes. Without a doubt…

McIntosh.

Just like before, we reveal and we’re both correct.

The room roars again.

Brooks’ smile widens and he tips an invisible hat to me in such a charming way that I nearly smile back at him. We are perfectly matched.

I can feel it now—not just the energy in the room, but him. Brooks sits steady beside me, not crowding, not performing, just existing in this contained little pocket of darkness with me.

Our knees brush under the table. It’s barely a touch… but it feels like a spark.

“Still tied,” he says quietly.

“You’re surprised?” I ask.

“Not in the least.” He shifts slightly, and I swear I can feel the heat of his arm through the air between us. “But I was hoping you’d make it interesting.”

A slow smile curves across my mouth. “You wound me, Brooks Calder.”

“I didn’t think such a thing was possible,” he replies. The confidence in that answer lands somewhere low in my stomach. “So… what do we do if it remains a tie? Do we split our time working at each other’s orchard?”

I snort. “A tie isn’t an option. We keep going until one of us loses.”

When I’m not met with an immediate answer, I dare to take another glance at him next to me. He’s leaning even closer into me. Lifting his hand, he tugs at the end of a fallen strand of hair hanging at my jaw and smiles. “Something tells me there’s not enough apples in all of New England for that, Willa.”

My breath freezes in my lungs, sputtering like an engine trying to warm up in the depths of a blizzard as his eyes hold mine.

“Round four!” Marcy calls out from somewhere in front of me.

Still smiling, Brooks lowers his blindfold yet again.

“Round four, Willa,” Marcy scolds me.

I clear my throat and tug my blindfold back into place.

The next slice is smooth and sweet, the acidity lower, the texture dense without being heavy. Floral notes bloom softly—subtle but distinct.

Fuji.

I write it down with steady hands.

“Reveal!”

We both do so silently this time, surprising no one that we both have the same correct answer.

Mrs. Bouchard’s teenage son cups his hands around his mouth and yells out, “This is going to take forever!!” She smacks her son upside the head—not hard, but enough that the people around them snicker.

I lower my board slowly, pulse humming because he’s not wrong. Four for four.