Brooks
There are exactly one hundred and seventeen things I could be doing right now.
I know because I've mentally listed them all… twice.
The banners along Main Street still need straightening after last night's wind.
Jace somehow misplaced an entire case of tasting glasses.
Evan texted me twenty minutes ago that one of the refrigeration units is making "a concerning noise," which, translated from Evan, means it's probably fine but he'd like me to look anyway.
Instead...
I'm standing beneath the white festival tent pretending to organize bottles that have already been arranged alphabetically, by vintage, and by color.
Twice.
The town square hums around me with the comfortable chaos that only Orchard Falls can produce.
Bluegrass drifts from the gazebo, weaving between children's laughter and the squeal of wagon wheels over brick.
Across from me, Patty is frying the signature Hartley & Sons apple cider donuts, the scent of cinnamon and warm sugar floating across the square every time the breeze changes direction.
Tourists wander between booths clutching steaming cups of coffee and bags of kettle corn while locals stop every ten feet because everyone in Orchard Falls knows everyone else.
"Brooks!" Marcy barrels toward me, clipboard clutched against her chest like she's protecting classified government documents.
"Morning, Marcy.”
"You're missing a pumpkin."
I blink. "...What?"
"The decorative pumpkin beside your tasting table. You’re missing one!”
I look down. Sure enough, there's an empty spot beside the cider display. "I had a pumpkin here just a few minutes ago, I swear.”
"Well… You no longer have a pumpkin,” she reiterates.
"...Did someone steal my pumpkin?"
She gives me a look. "Brooks."
I sigh, then shout out loud across the street where Jace is walking away from me. "Jace! Where’s the damn pumpkin?”
She disappears before he can respond, already calling someone else's name across the square.
A familiar laugh answers from somewhere behind the hay maze. "I just borrowed it,” Jace calls back.
"You cannot borrow produce from our festival display!"
"I can if I bring it back!"
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "You said that about the goat last year!"
"And I brought it back!"
"Three days later!" I close my eyes. “Sometimes I wonder what life would've been like if Mom and Dad had given me sisters,” I mutter to myself.
Jace takes off running, fully ignoring me as he heads to the other side of the town square.
"They'd probably be worse," Evan says, appearing beside me. He picks up a bottle, inspecting the label before setting it back exactly where it'd been. "You know you make that face every time Jace does something stupid."
A cheer erupts from the far side of the square.
The annual pie-eating contest is about to begin.
I spot Jace climbing onto the stage, holding our display pumpkin overhead like it’s already a trophy. He’s always had total confidence and absolutely no strategy. He's wearing one of our Calder Cider aprons tied around his waist like a championship belt.
"Oh no,” I groan.
"What?"
I point to the stage and Evan sighs. "...He's going to regret this pie eating contest."
"He never regrets anything,” Evan says.
"Good point."
The whistle blows. Eight contestants immediately start eating their pies. Jace looks around for approximately three seconds before slamming his face in the center of the pie like a cartoon and going to town.
The crowd roars.
Marcy physically facepalms.
"Can we pretend we don’t know him?” I mutter.
Evan chuckles and the sound is swallowed by another burst of applause from the pie-eating contest and the steady hum of festival chatter drifting through the square.
My gaze drops to the lineup of cider bottles in front of me, but I don't really see them. Every label is perfectly straight. Every tasting card exactly where it should be. I've checked them so many times this morning I could probably recite the alcohol percentage of every bottle from memory.
Anything to keep from checking my phone again.
Not that there's anything to see.
No text.
No missed call.
No sarcastic comment about how Jace probably got disqualified from the pie-eating contest before he even swallowed his first bite.
Nothing.
We spent nearly every day together this week. Somehow that had become my new normal. I'd catch myself reaching for a second coffee mug in the morning before remembering Willa wasn't coming over until eight. I'd hear someone laugh in the tasting room and automatically assume it was her.
Now...
The silence she left behind feels louder than the festival itself.
Almost against my own better judgment, my eyes begin searching the crowd.
They find her immediately.
As though they already knew exactly where to look.
Willa crosses the street toward the Hartley booth, settling in beside Patty, arranging fresh cider donuts beneath glass cake domes while tourists drift past in search of breakfast. The morning sun catches the copper hidden in her dark hair, turning loose strands into ribbons of fire.
Her sleeves are rolled to her elbows, and she's dusted flour across the front of her jeans without realizing it.
She laughs at something Patty says.
God. It’s only been a day and I already miss that sound.
As if she feels me watching, she glances up, our eyes meeting across the street.
For one impossible heartbeat, the noise of the festival falls away and she gives me a small smile. Then as quickly as it happened, she turns to greet a customer before I can manage so much as a wave in return.
The knot that's lived somewhere beneath my ribs since yesterday tightens another turn. She's polite. Professional.
But the silence she's left behind feels louder than the festival.
"I don't think she's forgiven you yet." Evan's voice is quiet beside me.
I snort. “You think?”
He reaches for one of the tasting glasses on the table, polishing away a fingerprint that only he would have noticed. "Are you going to do something about it?"
Across the square, Willa kneels beside a little boy who can't be more than five.
He points enthusiastically at the donut display while trying to balance a cup of hot pressed cider in his other hand.
She smiles, says something I can't hear, then wraps a donut in some wax paper so his little hands can actually hold it without getting sticky.
The kid beams. His mother laughs. Willa smiles with them.
She has this way of making people feel like they'd been expected all along. Like she'd saved them a seat.
Only a few days ago, I'd been one of those people.
Now I wasn't so sure.
"I already did,” I say to Evan. “I told her everything."
"And?"
A dry laugh slips out before I can stop it.
I rub the back of my neck, watching Willa tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as another customer steps up to the booth.
"And sometimes the truth fixes things. But sometimes...
" I trail off as Willa glances toward our booth.
For one ridiculous second, hope flares. She blinks and gives me a shy, small smile.
Then just as quickly, the smile drops and she turns back to the next customer.
"...sometimes it just gives someone a reason to walk away. "
Evan is quiet for a long moment. Long enough that I wonder if he's going to let it go. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest. "You think that's what she's doing?"
"I think she's trying not to get hurt."
"And you know that how?"
I smile without any real humor. "Because it's exactly what I'd do."
Evan studies me for another beat before shaking his head. "You know what your problem is?"
I let out a humorless huff. "You're going to have to be more specific. I have roughly three hundred and twelve of them."
"You keep deciding what other people are feeling before they get the chance to tell you."
I wince before I can stop myself, the sentence catching like a burr in my skin.
Because that's exactly what Willa accused me of upstairs in my cabin. Deciding for her.
I look back toward the Hartley booth.
She's helping an older couple choose between two bottles now, talking with her hands, completely absorbed in the conversation.
I wonder if she'll ever look at me like that again.
Evan bends down, pulling a manila folder from his bag. He sets it on the tasting table between us, weighing it down with one of the unopened cider bottles before the breeze can snatch it away.
"Speaking of… I looked over those plans," he says.
I glance down at the folder, then back at him. "And?"
He shrugs one shoulder, casual as ever. "I like them."
I look down at the plans again, my shoulders settling for the first time all morning. "Yeah?"
"I think it'll be good for the town." He pauses, watching a family wander toward the hayride. "More places for people to gather. More reasons to stay after they visit the orchards."
I nod slowly, my thumb tracing the edge of the folder.
"And Jace?" I ask.
Evan's mouth twitches. "He drew a breakfast burrito in the corner of your site plan."
I can't help laughing. "So... that's his official approval?"
"He said—and I'm quoting here—'As long as there's good coffee and Wi-Fi, I support the vision.'"
I shake my head. "Profound."
"He’s endlessly complex." Evan bumps my shoulder lightly with his own before his expression turns more serious. "For what it's worth..." He nods toward the folder. "I think Mom would've loved it.”
My gaze drops to the paperwork again. "Yeah," I say quietly. "I think she would've too."
“And Dad would have approved of the projections. Even the lawyers think it’s a good compromise.” Evan lets the silence sit for a beat before adding, "Now all you've got left to do..."
He glances across the street toward the Hartley booth where Willa is helping a little girl choose between apple cider donuts dusted with cinnamon sugar and the maple glazed ones.
"...is convince her.”
I huff out a laugh. "I don't think blueprints are going to help me there."
"No," Evan says with a knowing smile. "Probably not." He claps a hand against my shoulder. "But go get her anyway."
A bell rings through the square. Marcy's voice rises above the crowd. "Attention, everyone! Cider judging begins in fifteen minutes!"
The conversations around us shift instantly. Competitors straighten. Volunteers begin collecting bottles. Judges gather beneath the pavilion.
The festival somehow grows quieter despite the crowd. I reach for our competition bottle. Across the street, Willa does the same.
I used to think the hardest part of today would be waiting to hear whether our cider was good enough. Now I know better.
Because for the first time since opening Calder Cider...
I’m not afraid of losing the competition.
I’m afraid of losing the woman I want to celebrate with.