Page 26 of Fall is Brewing

One sheet.

One pen clipped to the top with a piece of orange ribbon.

For the two of us.

Willa blinks at it. I watch the exact moment it registers.“We’re sharing?” she asks, tone perfectly polite and absolutely not pleased.

“Community spirit!” Marcy says brightly. “Also my printer ran out of ink.”

Willa holds her own clipboard up, showing it off with a deliberate calm. “We don’t have to share. I brought copies from last year’s sheets.” She flips it open, revealing neatly printed sheets. Structured. Weighted. Detailed.

Marcy waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’s sweet, but we simplified this year’s score sheets. So… let’s just use this one.”

Willa takes the clipboard and flips through the pages, her eyes scanning quickly. “You removed the crust weight from judging,” Willa says evenly.

“We made it more accessible,” Marcy counters. “Also, really, what does crust weight matter?”

Willa’s jaw tightens just slightly. “It matters because there’s a ratio of crust density to filling that’s important. A crust that’s too dense can ruin a pie.”

The air shifts a fraction. Not hostile. But charged.

“Well,” Marcy says tightly, “There’s really no need to complicate these things, Willa. Just write down your thoughts on which pie is best and why.” She taps the paper with her long fingernail, her voice edging with finality.

“But without the seventeen part grading system, it’s chaos! The calculations take away the human element and make it a fair judgment.”

I take Marcy’s clipboard from Willa and glance over it casually. “Looks straightforward enough,” I say. “Why don’t we write down our thoughts on crust to filling ratio in the box called Other… and we can rate it accordingly there for the scoring?”

Marcy smiles at me like I just solved a logistical crisis. “Exactly.”

Willa’s eyes cut to mine like she knows what I just did and suspects I was trying to undercut, not help. I wasn’t. I was trying to smooth out the discourse, but it’s clear from her scowl she won’t see it that way.

“I knew you’d be fine sharing, Brooks,” Marcy says.

I shrug lightly. “I’ve shared worse.”

Marcy laughs a little too loudly and claps her hands. “Wonderful! All right. First pie coming up!” She bustles away, satisfied as we both take our seats at the judging table.

Willa exhales through her nose. “You could’ve backed me up,” she mutters under her breath.

“I did,” I reply quietly. “Just not the way you wanted.”

She studies me for a beat, trying to decide whether that annoys her more or less. Marcy reappears and places the first pie down between us. The baker, a sweet looking mother, stands in front of us with what looks like her twelve year old daughter clinging to her side.

Willa reaches for the clipboard that’s still in my hands.

Our fingers brush. She stills, but doesn’t pull away until I release my hold on the papers.

She starts writing. Her handwriting is tight, decisive, controlled. Just like her. I lean in slightly to read her notes as the first slice is placed in front of us. Close enough to catch the faint scent of apples clinging to her sweater.

“You’re already scoring?” I murmur. “You haven’t even taken a bite yet.”

“The crust’s underbaked,” she whispers without looking at me. “I can tell from the color.”

I take a bite. Pause. She’s right. “Fair.”

Her pen hesitates—just for a second. Not because I challenged her. Because I didn’t.

I smile at the mom and daughter and wave them to come closer. “Hi there,” I say. “I’m Brooks Calder, it’s lovely to meet you. Do you want to tell me a little about your pie?”