Page 24 of Fall is Brewing

I’ll be blindfolded in front of Brooks.

And I can’t decide what makes my heart race more—the fear of losing.

Or the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I might want something that isn’t just the orchard.

CHAPTER 6

Brooks

I get to the community hall on Saturday twenty minutes early for the pie judging competition.

I say it keeps me prepared. Evan says it makes me predictable. And Jace says it makes me ‘emotionally constipated,’ which feels unnecessary but on-brand.

Evan plans for outcomes.

Jace plans for chaos.

I plan so we don’t drown again.

The parking lot is only half full, a few familiar trucks scattered between minivans and a Subaru with a “Pumpkin Spice Is a Personality” bumper sticker that feels a bit aggressive before ten a.m. I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, watching the building like it might reveal its secrets if I stare long enough.

This isn’t about pie.

It’s about perception.

I step out into crisp morning air and head inside, boots echoing faintly against the scuffed wooden floor of the hall. The place already smells like cinnamon and sugar, warm and sweet enough to make you forget this is technically a competition and not a church bake sale.

Folding tables line the center of the room, each one covered in paper plates and carefully labeled pies. Name cards. Numbers. A coffee station in the corner.

All around me, the room bustles with people. Local cafes and bakeries. Some mothers and grandmothers shooting their shot, teenagers looking to earn a lil extra credit in their home economics class. Marcy stands near the front like a general surveying a battlefield, clipboard clutched to her chest, Orchard Falls jacket unzipped and nearly hanging off one shoulder.

She spots me immediately. “Oh good, you’re early,” she says, as if punctuality is a moral virtue. “We love punctuality.”

“I’ve been told,” I reply evenly.

Her eyes flick over my shoulder, checking who else has arrived, already calculating turnout. Optics matter to her. They matter to the town.

I get it because they matter to me, too.

I take a slow walk past the tables, hands in my pockets, scanning the setup. Twelve pies. Maybe thirteen. A mix of local bakeries, home entries, probably one wild-card from someone who thinks bourbon fixes everything.

This is quite theatrical which doesn’t surprise me. Orchard Falls doesn’t do quiet competitions. It does spectacle wrapped in civility.

And today, Calder Cider isn’t just judging a pie competition. We’re being watched, too. Scrutinized just like these pies on display.

Every nod. Every comment. Every expression.

If I praise a pie too easily, I look unserious.

If I criticize too sharply, I look arrogant.

If I disagree with Willa publicly, I look combative.

And if we look too comfortable together?

Well… that might be even worse.

The doors behind me swing open as more townspeople filter in, chatter rising like a low tide. I keep my posture relaxed, shoulders loose, face neutral.