Page 14 of Fall is Brewing

I look toward the bend where Hartley & Sons sits, tucked into the land like it’s always belonged there.

My parents loved that place. Loved what it stood for. Simplicity. Craft. Family. They brought us here because it made them happy, because it felt like something solid in a world that rarely stayed that way.

I wonder what they’d think now.

Of me building something new on familiar ground. Of me competing with the very legacy that our family shared year after year. Of Willa Hartley—sharp and stubborn and standing exactly where my memories live.

This town taught me how cider should taste.

It also taught me what family looks like.

I’m just not sure yet which one is going to cost me more.

CHAPTER 4

Willa

Thursday nights belong to the Hartleys.

Not in a dramatic, “we own the town” kind of way. In a very specific, deeply unglamorous way that involves rented shoes, neon lights, and the faint, permanent smell of stale beer that no amount of lemon-scented cleaner has ever truly defeated.

Orchard Falls Lanes has been our weekly ritual for as long as I can remember. Even before I was old enough to lift a bowling ball without looking like I was trying to deadlift a small planet.

It’s tradition. It’s family. It’s the one night a week my grandfather insists has nothing to do with apples.

None of us believe him, but we let him have it.

The moment I step inside, familiar chaos wraps around me—pins clattering in the distance, league bowlers yelling encouragement that sounds suspiciously like heckling, someone’s kid high-pitched laughing near the arcade like they’ve found nirvana in a claw machine.

The floors are sticky in that way that makes each step feel like it comes with a sound effect. My sneakers tug slightly as I walk, like the place is trying to keep me here.

“Willa!” someone calls out from lane eight, and I automatically lift a hand in greeting because half this town has watched me grow up and the other half has watched me have public meltdowns over pumpkins being placed “incorrectly” outside my tasting room. Small towns don’t give you privacy. They give you community… whether you asked for it or not.

Our lane is exactly where it always is—near the back, away from the birthday party chaos, close enough to the bar that my dad claims it’s “strategic.”

Grandpa is already there, stretching like he’s about to compete in the Olympics instead of a small-town bowling league where the grand prize is usually a gift card and bragging rights.

He wears his lucky Hartley & Sons cap—threadbare, faded, and absolutely non-negotiable—and he’s lining up his ball on the rack with the kind of focus you’d expect from a surgeon.

“Grandpa, please don’t throw your back out doing pre-bowling lunges,” I say as I approach.

Grandpa doesn’t even look up. “Discipline, WillaBug.”

Dad, on the other hand, is pacing behind him like a coach. His shoes are already on, his sleeves rolled up, and he’s holding his ball like it personally offended him last week. “I’ve been practicing,” he announces.

Patty arrives beside me with a tray of nachos like she’s bringing an offering to the gods. She’s in leggings and a cozy sweater, hair in a loose bun, and she looks like she’s here for the vibes and the vibes alone.

“Your dad practices by watching YouTube videos and telling the TV it’s wrong,” she says cheerfully. If her hands hadn’t been full with the nachos, I’m pretty sure she’d have thrown air quotes around the word practices.

Dad points at her. “I’m studying technique.”

“Sounds more like you’re studying how to become a bowling influencer,” I say.

He glares at me. “Just because you’re terrible doesn’t mean we all are.”

I sigh, because this is the part where I’m forced to acknowledge my role in the Hartley bowling legacy.

Which is that I am, unfortunately, the weak link.