Page 37 of Fall is Brewing

“I am not loud.”

“You just laughed at the committee chair.”

“Because this is insane.”

He shrugs slightly. “Then let’s make it quick.” That’s it. No hesitation. No frustration. No visible nerves. Just quiet readiness.

The crowd quiets slowly as Marcy smiles at us both. “Blindfolds on and noses plugged.”

The clothespin rests cool and small in my palm. I look at Brooks once more before sliding my blindfold back down. He’s already got his back around his eyes. Too calm, as always.

My blindfold slips back into place, and this time the darkness feels heavier. More deliberate. Like it knows something I don’t.

I lift the clothespin and hesitate. It’s ridiculous how small it is. A scrap of wood and metal hinge. Harmless. Except it isn’t.

Because scent is everything. Aroma is memory. It’s warning. It’s nuance. It’s the whisper before the bite even lands. I clip it onto my nose. The pressure is immediate—awkward and tight, cutting off the gentle inhale I didn’t realize I was taking. My own breathing becomes mechanical, forced through my mouth. The air tastes thinner somehow. Less layered.

I swallow.

Without smell, flavor flattens. Everything I’ve trained myself to notice—the faint floral bloom, the grassy undercurrent, the honeyed lift on the finish—will be muted.

“Final slice,” Marcy announces, her voice distant and echoing in the cocoon of cloth and wood and breath.

The apple slice presses into my palm. Cool and heavier than the others. I close my fingers around it, feeling the curve of the skin. Slightly thicker. Slightly more resistant.

Don’t rush, Willa. I bring it to my mouth and bite. The snap is familiar. Crisp. Clean. The flesh breaks sharply against my teeth, juice spilling forward in a bright rush.

Honeycrisp. Again?

But—

No. I chew slowly, forcing myself not to decide too fast. The sweetness lingers differently. Not as linear. It blooms warmer toward the back of my tongue. Less icy brightness. More depth. The acidity doesn’t spike the way Honeycrisp usually does.

It’s softened.

Rounded.

My mind scrambles through orchard rows.

It’s got to be a hybrid. The texture screams Honeycrisp—firm, structured, that satisfying shatter when you bite down. But the sweetness leans richer. Almost floral, but not quite Fuji’s airy perfume. Fuller than Gala. More dimensional.

I take another bite, smaller this time, focusing on the chew. The way it dissolves. The sugar is confident but not aggressive. The acidity present but restrained.Honeycrisp cross. With⁠—

Fuji. It has to be Fuji.

My pulse pounds in my ears but beside me, Brooks is silent.

I hate that I can’t read him right now. I hate that the darkness hides his face.

I write carefully on my board, making sure my hand doesn’t shake.

Honeycrisp cross with Fuji.

For a split second, doubt tries to creep in. What if it’s Gala? What if the acidity I’m reading as Fuji’s restraint is something else entirely?

My marker hovers over the board. My gut says Fuji. My training says Fuji. But I was wrong before with Lady Alice. And being wrong right now is the only moment that matters. Doubt is louder than instinct when you’re sitting in front of half your town with a clothespin crushing your nose and your rival breathing calmly beside you.

I take another bite. Gala sweetness is quieter than fuji. More uniform. Less layered. Could that warmth I’m reading as Fuji be Gala’s simplicity instead? It’s nearly impossible to tell with my damn nose plugged. The clothespin tightens as I inhale through my mouth, useless and dry.