Page 23 of Fall is Brewing

That stings more than I expect.

Patty steps in, gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to care this much,” she tells me. “You’re allowed to want to win. But you’re also allowed to want something outside of it someday. Those things don’t cancel each other out.”

I look down at the apple slices, at the little sticky notes in my handwriting. “I just don’t want to lose,” I admit.

“To him?” Dad asks.

“To anyone,” I say quickly. But especially him.

Grandpa chuckles softly. “Losing’s part of it, WillaBug. I’ve lost plenty. Crops. Contracts. Seasons.”

“But you always bounced back,” I say.

He smiles at that. “Because I had people worth bouncing back for.”

The weight in my chest shifts.

Dad pushes off the counter and comes around the table, nudging a plate toward me. “All right,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Blindfold back on.”

I blink. “You’re going to test me?”

“Of course we are,” Patty says brightly. “Family league.”

Grandpa grins. “If you can handle us, you can handle Calder.”

I hesitate—then pull the towel back over my eyes. “Okay,” I say.

A slice is placed in my hand.

I take a breath. Bite.

Firm. Balanced. Clean sweetness. Slight snap.

I think of the orchard rows. Of the trees I grew up climbing. Of Grandpa’s steady hands. Of Dad teaching me how to drive the tractor and then telling me I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to.

Of Patty, always watching, always steady.

I chew slowly.

“Honeycrisp,” I say.

There’s a pause.

Then Grandpa laughs.

“She’s right.”

Dad’s hand squeezes my shoulder. Patty kisses my temple.

And for a moment, the bet and the bowling alley and Brooks Calder and the entire town fade into the background.

This isn’t just about winning.

It’s about belonging.

Still—as I pull the blindfold down and look at the familiar faces around me, one thought pushes stubbornly to the front of my mind.

On Saturday, I won’t just be blindfolded in front of my family.