Willa
If Brooks Calder thinks he can stroll into Orchard Falls and out-identify me on apples blindfolded, he’s out of his mind.
The kitchen table at the house looks like a produce aisle exploded.
I tie a dish towel around my eyes.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve got this.”
The overhead light hums faintly. The fridge kicks on. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbles past on the road, and the scent of crushed apples from the day’s pressing lingers in the air.
This is familiar territory.
This is mine.
I reach forward, fingertips brushing ceramic until I find the first slice. The flesh is cool and slightly tacky against my skin. I bring it to my mouth and take a bite, focusing on texture first.
Crisp snap. High sugar. Bright acidity that lingers just a beat too long.
“Fuji,” I say confidently, pulling the towel off and checking the sticky note.
Fuji, indeed. I exhale sharply.
“Are you fighting with fruit?” Patty’s voice floats in from the doorway.
I don’t look up. “I’m studying.”
She steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter with an amused smile. “You’re blindfolded.”
“Yes.”
“For the apple thing?”
“Yes.”
She crosses her arms. “You know this is supposed to be fun, right?”
“It stopped being fun when half the town started placing bets,” I say, reaching for another slice. “And when Brooks Calder decided to turn it into a performance.”
Patty hums thoughtfully. “Or when you did.”
I pause, apple halfway to my mouth. “Maybe it was a mutual escalation,” I argue.
“Mmm.” She pushes off the counter and wanders closer, surveying the battlefield of fruit. “This looks less like escalation and more like preparation for war.”
“It is war.”
“You’re blindfolded in your own kitchen whispering varietals like incantations.”
I tie the dishtowel back around my eyes and bite into the next slice, concentrating. Softer flesh. Slight mealiness. Tart but not sharp.
“McIntosh,” I say.
I lift the blindfold again. Correct. A flicker of satisfaction curls low in my stomach.
“See?” I say. “War-ready.”
Patty studies me for a long moment, her expression softening just a fraction. “You don’t have to prove anything to him, or the town, you know?”
“It’s not about him.” Thankfully, she doesn’t call me out on the lie.
Instead, she reaches for a slice and takes a bite herself, thoughtful. “It’s about you.”
I hesitate. Because the truth is… it is.
I set the blindfold back in place. Next slice. Slightly grainy texture. Milder sweetness. Earthier finish. I chew slowly, letting the flavors settle.
This is my town.
My orchard.
My season.
And if I’m going to stand blindfolded in front of Orchard Falls with Brooks Calder breathing the same air, I refuse to do it unprepared.
“Braeburn,” I say.
I pull the towel off and smile.
Correct again.
Patty smiles faintly. “You’re going to be fine.”
I hope she’s right. Because losing in private is one thing.
Losing in front of Brooks Calder—and the entire town that’s already chosen sides—is something else entirely.
The back door creaks open. Boots thud against the mudroom floor, followed by the familiar scrape of someone knocking dirt off soles that absolutely do not need knocking. “Smells like ambition in here,” my dad calls out.
“And apples,” Grandpa adds.
I laugh. “It always smells like apples in here.”
I don’t take the blindfold off this time. I just stay there, towel tied tight, holding a slice of something that smells faintly floral and sharply sweet.
“I’m studying,” I announce, because that should explain everything.
“We gathered,” Dad says dryly.
Chairs scrape as they pull up to the table. I can feel them there even without seeing them—Dad’s restless energy, Grandpa’s steady calm. Patty moves slightly to make space, her presence like a bridge between all of us.
“Blindfolded?” Dad asks.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Grandpa says immediately. “That’s how you learn.”
Dad exhales through his nose. “Or how you overdo it.”
I lower the apple slice. “I’m not overdoing it.”
“You’ve labeled the plates,” Dad says. “You’re timing yourself.”
“It’s called preparation.”
“It’s called spiraling,” he replies gently.
I pull the blindfold down to my neck and look at him. He’s leaning against the counter now, beer in hand, but his eyes aren’t amused. They’re worried. “You don’t have to win this thing to prove anything,” he says.
“It’s not about proving,” I argue.
Grandpa clears his throat softly. “Winning matters.”
Dad turns toward him. “It does. But not like this.”
“Like what?” I demand.
“Like it’s life or death,” Dad says. “Like if you lose, the orchard collapses and your name goes up in smoke.”
“That’s not what I think.”
“It’s what you’re acting like.”
Silence settles over the table, thicker than the scent of apples.
Grandpa leans forward, resting his forearms on the wood. “When I took over working here after I got married, I worked every day. Sunup to sundown. Your grandmother used to joke that she had to make an appointment to see me.”
Dad huffs softly. “You say that like it’s charming.”
“It was,” Grandpa replies. “Because she was there with me. Because we built this life together.”
Dad’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing more.
Grandpa studies him. “You think I regret it?”
“I think you were lucky,” Dad says. “Lucky that she loved it too and loved you enough to share your ambitions. Lucky that it didn’t cost you something you couldn’t get back.”
The room shifts and my stomach twists with the memory of the last time I saw my mother before she left. Left us. Left Dad. Left this town and this orchard, stating that farm life and motherhood ‘wasn’t for her.’
Patty reaches for Dad’s hand without looking at him. He squeezes it automatically. She’s been our rock. Always letting us mourn Mom when we need to and not feeling threatened by it when we do.
I look between them, something uneasy but warm stirring in my chest.
“I don’t want this to be your only story,” Dad says, turning back to me. “The orchard’s important. It’s part of you. But it’s not supposed to be all of you.”
Grandpa shakes his head slowly. “There’s nothing wrong with dedicating yourself to something worth dedicating yourself to.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting more either,” Dad counters.
I feel like I’m standing between two different versions of my future.
One where I pour everything into this place until it becomes my whole world.
One where I… don’t.
“Maybe I want it to be my whole world,” I say quietly.
Grandpa nods once, satisfied.
Dad’s expression softens. “Maybe you only think you do because it’s all you’ve known. All you’ve seen.”
That stings more than I expect.
Patty steps in, gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to care this much,” she tells me. “You’re allowed to want to win. But you’re also allowed to want something outside of it someday. Those things don’t cancel each other out.”
I look down at the apple slices, at the little sticky notes in my handwriting. “I just don’t want to lose,” I admit.
“To him?” Dad asks.
“To anyone,” I say quickly. But especially him.
Grandpa chuckles softly. “Losing’s part of it, WillaBug. I’ve lost plenty. Crops. Contracts. Seasons.”
“But you always bounced back,” I say.
He smiles at that. “Because I had people worth bouncing back for.”
The weight in my chest shifts.
Dad pushes off the counter and comes around the table, nudging a plate toward me. “All right,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Blindfold back on.”
I blink. “You’re going to test me?”
“Of course we are,” Patty says brightly. “Family league.”
Grandpa grins. “If you can handle us, you can handle Calder.”
I hesitate—then pull the towel back over my eyes. “Okay,” I say.
A slice is placed in my hand.
I take a breath. Bite.
Firm. Balanced. Clean sweetness. Slight snap.
I think of the orchard rows. Of the trees I grew up climbing. Of Grandpa’s steady hands. Of Dad teaching me how to drive the tractor and then telling me I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to.
Of Patty, always watching, always steady.
I chew slowly.
“Honeycrisp,” I say.
There’s a pause.
Then Grandpa laughs.
“She’s right.”
Dad’s hand squeezes my shoulder. Patty kisses my temple.
And for a moment, the bet and the bowling alley and Brooks Calder and the entire town fade into the background.
This isn’t just about winning.
It’s about belonging.
Still—as I pull the blindfold down and look at the familiar faces around me, one thought pushes stubbornly to the front of my mind.
On Saturday, I won’t just be blindfolded in front of my family.
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.