Page 4 of Fall is Brewing

“Oh, yes, yes” I manage, bright and polite even though I don’t recognize them at all. “It’s nice to see you again.”

She beams. “Your apple cider donuts were life-changing,” she says. “Although he preferred your apple fritters,” she adds, gesturing to her husband.

“I’m so glad! I’ll tell our baker, Eli that,” I say, and the couple squeals like I’ve given them backstage passes.

I escape toward the back, weaving between tables and tourists in flannel. The place is packed. A chalkboard near the kitchen reads:

Tonight’s Specials

Butternut squash ravioli

Maple-glazed chicken

Pumpkin Spice Martini

June would call this “aggressively on-brand.” She would say it with both affection and judgment, which is her greatest skill.

Our regular booth is tucked in the corner near the back where it’s quieter and the lighting is softer and the waitress doesn’t look at you like you’re ruining her life by asking for extra napkins.

Lena and June are already there—Lena in a sweater the color of pumpkin flesh, June with her dark hair pinned up and lipstick on like she’s going to a book launch instead of a casual dinner with the girls at the old mill.

The second I slide in beside her, June looks me up and down, picking a leaf out of my hair. “You look like you fought an apple tree and lost,”

“I fought several apple trees,” I correct, dropping my bag beside me and exhaling like a deflating balloon. “And they absolutely won.”

Lena grins. “Big harvest day?”

“The biggest.” I grab the menu even though I already know what I’m ordering. “Which means I’m not allowed to think or talk about cider or the competition for at least… thirty minutes.”

They exchange a look.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t start…”

“I didn’t say anything,” Lena protests, hands up.

June clears her throat and adds, “But since you brought it up⁠—”

“Thirty. Minutes,” I repeat.

June smiles sweetly. “Fine. We’ll talk about something else.”

“Thank you.”

“Like how every tourist in town is wearing the same scarf,” she adds.

“I swear they hand them out at the city limits,” I say, flipping the menu open. “Step one: cross into Orchard Falls. Step two: receive scarf. Step three: buy a cider donut and take a photo holding it in front of the mountains.”

“Step four,” Lena says, “ask Willa Hartley where the ‘real fall experience’ is.”

“Step five,” June adds, “use the phrase quaint like it isn’t an insult.”

I laugh, and it feels so damn good. Like my lungs finally remember what they’re meant for.

Kris, our waitress swings by with our waters and the kind of smile that says she’s already been asked fifteen times if the pumpkin cheesecake is “gluten free in a spiritually inclusive way.”

“Hi, ladies,” she says. “Willa, your usual?”

I blink. “You know my usual?”