Page 43 of Fall is Brewing

She thinks losing yesterday was the worst part.

It wasn’t.

The worst part is that tomorrow, she walks into my world. And I don’t think I’m ready for what that’s going to do to me.

CHAPTER 10

Willa

I wake up before the sun. Not because I want to, but because my brain refuses to let me stay asleep long enough to forget my loss and that today is my first day working over at the Calder brother’s orchard.

When I should be here getting things in order for our orchard.

The house is quiet in that deep, pre-dawn way where everything feels suspended. Like the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet. The floors creak softly under my feet as I make my way down the hall, pulling my sweater tighter around me, the chill of early morning slipping through the walls like it belongs here more than I do.

I halt, midstep when I see the kitchen light is already on.

Grandpa sits at the table with a mug of coffee cradled in both hands, elbows planted like he’s been there for hours. The window behind him frames the orchard in shades of blue-gray and silver, rows of trees stretching into a low fog that clings to the ground like it’s not ready to let go of the night.

He doesn’t look up when I walk in, just simply lifts the coffee pot slightly in silent offering.

With a nod, I grab a mug and sit down opposite him at the table.

For a minute, neither of us speaks. The coffee is hot and strong, bitter in a way that feels earned. I wrap my hands around the mug and stare out at the orchard, watching as the first hint of light starts to edge along the horizon, turning the mist faintly gold.

This is my favorite time of day. Usually. Today it just feels… quiet in the wrong way.

There’s so much I wish I could do here at Hartley & Sons. So many fun and exciting things we could try. And yet, there’s a thick air of tradition that sits like a weighted blanket on me. Maybe that’s why Calder Cider bothers me so much. They get to play. Experiment. They get to do things that are exciting and new while I’m stuck in a regime that, although runs like a well-oiled machine, can be creatively crushing.

Grandpa takes a sip of his coffee. “Press looked good yesterday,” he says, like we’re picking up a conversation from last week instead of standing in the aftermath of something I can’t stop replaying. “Better than the other night when we had a few apples past prime in there.”

I blink. “You noticed that?”

He snorts. “I notice everything.”

I smile because of course he does. “That batch should be ready to rack by Thursday,” I say automatically. “Sugar levels were right where we wanted them.”

“Mm.” He nods once, satisfied. “Good.”

That’s it. No mention of the competition. No mention of the loss. No soft, careful handling of my ego like I’m something fragile that might crack if he breathes too hard in my direction.

It should feel like relief. Instead, it makes the thing sitting in my chest feel heavier. Because if he’s not going to say it—that means I have to.

“I had it right.” I stare down into my black coffee as the words slip out and land between us, heavier than they should be for something so simple.

Grandpa doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t even look particularly interested, if I’m being honest. He just takes another sip of his coffee and says, “I know.”

That’s it.

No It’s okay.

No You’ll get it next time.

Just, ‘I know.’

My throat tightens. “I don’t understand why I changed it.”

He finally looks at me then, eyes sharp and clear and entirely too knowing. “Because… you got in your own way,” he says.