Page 36 of Fall is Brewing

I close my eyes beneath the blindfold as if that somehow deepens the darkness.

Yes. JonaGold.

I write it down, my pulse steady but humming beneath my skin. Beside me, I hear Brooks’ marker move across his board without hesitation.

“Reveal!” Marcy calls.

Our blindfolds come off in one smooth motion and the room rushes back in—faces, lights, anticipation thick enough to taste.

We lift our boards up, now mostly revealing them only to each other, not the room. His mouth twitches into a wider smile, almost like he was hoping I’d get it right, too. If I’m being honest, I might be coming around to the idea of a tie. I feel my cheeks heat as he winks at me.

JonaGold, written in his blocky print and my flowery cursive.

The community hall detonates. Cheers bounce off the rafters. Someone actually jumps. A man near the back shouts, “This is better than football!”

Marcy presses her hands to her cheeks in theatrical delight. “Ladies and gentlemen— we have a tie!”

The word hangs in the air, sparkling. It’s a tie. Relief floods through me first—warm and sudden. I didn’t crack. I didn’t falter. I didn’t get edged out by some subtle note I should’ve caught. Then pride follows close behind it. We are evenly matched. Swallowing, I can’t help but wonder if that’s in more ways than one.

And underneath that, there’s also a thrill. A sharp, almost reckless high of competition when it meets its equal.

Brooks lowers his board slowly and meets my gaze. There’s something in his expression that mirrors the way my blood feels right now.

Alive.

I shrug and hold out my hand to shake Brooks’. “Maybe a tie isn’t so bad,” I whisper.

“Oh, really?” His palm slides into mine, not shaking. Simply holding. Causing a zip of warmth and electricity to glide up my forearm where we’ve connected skin to skin. “Someone’s whistling a different tune, huh?”

“I might be a little impressed,” I say with a playful roll of my eyes.

At that, he gives my hand a little tug and it pulls my chair in even closer to proximity to him. His breath is warm against my cheek as he whispers, “Be honest, how much did it pain you to admit that?”

There’s a rippling shimmer beneath my breastbone as we hold eye contact for a long beat. “More than you’ll ever know,” I tease him back.

Marcy raises one hand dramatically, silencing the crowd with the authority of a woman who lives for moments like this. “Fortunately, we planned for a tie,” she says, practically vibrating, “Because I knew that a tie would not be good enough for our own Willa Hartley!”

I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound spilling out of me half-disbelieving. “I am actually fine with a tie, Marcy⁠—”

I don’t even get the sentence out before Marcy is grinning like a cat who’s just cornered a mouse and cutting me off with a firm, “Nope!” She reaches into the wicker basket and lifts the clothespins high like trophies. “For the tie-breaker round, you’ll be plugging your noses!”

My jaw drops.

I studied. And practiced. And tasted dozens and dozens of apples for the last week. But never once had I practiced without my sense of smell. “But… eighty percent of what we perceive as taste is actually just smell!”

Marcy’s grin widens. “That’s exactly right. We have to do something to make the tie breaker harder!”

The chant starts almost immediately as Marcy hands us each a clothespin. “Plug! Your! Noses! Plug! Your! Noses!”

This is absurd. This is humiliating. This is⁠—

Beside me, Brooks doesn’t argue. He doesn’t protest or smirk. Or give her any sass. He simply extends his hand and takes one of the clothespins, turning it thoughtfully between his fingers like he’s evaluating its craftsmanship.

That unsettles me more than the chanting.

“You’re very calm,” I murmur.

He glances sideways at me. “You’re very loud.”