Willa
Thursday nights belong to the Hartleys.
Not in a dramatic, “we own the town” kind of way. In a very specific, deeply unglamorous way that involves rented shoes, neon lights, and the faint, permanent smell of stale beer that no amount of lemon-scented cleaner has ever truly defeated.
Orchard Falls Lanes has been our weekly ritual for as long as I can remember. Even before I was old enough to lift a bowling ball without looking like I was trying to deadlift a small planet.
It’s tradition. It’s family. It’s the one night a week my grandfather insists has nothing to do with apples.
None of us believe him, but we let him have it.
The moment I step inside, familiar chaos wraps around me—pins clattering in the distance, league bowlers yelling encouragement that sounds suspiciously like heckling, someone’s kid high-pitched laughing near the arcade like they’ve found nirvana in a claw machine.
The floors are sticky in that way that makes each step feel like it comes with a sound effect. My sneakers tug slightly as I walk, like the place is trying to keep me here.
“Willa!” someone calls out from lane eight, and I automatically lift a hand in greeting because half this town has watched me grow up and the other half has watched me have public meltdowns over pumpkins being placed “incorrectly” outside my tasting room.
Small towns don’t give you privacy. They give you community… whether you asked for it or not.
Our lane is exactly where it always is—near the back, away from the birthday party chaos, close enough to the bar that my dad claims it’s “strategic.”
Grandpa is already there, stretching like he’s about to compete in the Olympics instead of a small-town bowling league where the grand prize is usually a gift card and bragging rights.
He wears his lucky Hartley & Sons cap—threadbare, faded, and absolutely non-negotiable—and he’s lining up his ball on the rack with the kind of focus you’d expect from a surgeon.
“Grandpa, please don’t throw your back out doing pre-bowling lunges,” I say as I approach.
Grandpa doesn’t even look up. “Discipline, WillaBug.”
Dad, on the other hand, is pacing behind him like a coach. His shoes are already on, his sleeves rolled up, and he’s holding his ball like it personally offended him last week. “I’ve been practicing,” he announces.
Patty arrives beside me with a tray of nachos like she’s bringing an offering to the gods. She’s in leggings and a cozy sweater, hair in a loose bun, and she looks like she’s here for the vibes and the vibes alone.
“Your dad practices by watching YouTube videos and telling the TV it’s wrong,” she says cheerfully. If her hands hadn’t been full with the nachos, I’m pretty sure she’d have thrown air quotes around the word practices.
Dad points at her. “I’m studying technique.”
“Sounds more like you’re studying how to become a bowling influencer,” I say.
He glares at me. “Just because you’re terrible doesn’t mean we all are.”
I sigh, because this is the part where I’m forced to acknowledge my role in the Hartley bowling legacy.
Which is that I am, unfortunately, the weak link.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
I love this night. I love being here. I love the way it makes me feel like a normal person with a normal family and not the human embodiment of orchard pressure.
But I cannot bowl. I have never been able to bowl.
It’s not a learning curve at this point, it’s a personality trait.
Last week, I somehow managed to throw a ball directly into the gutter with enough enthusiasm that it looked like I was aiming for it. The week before that, I released too early and nearly took out a Mr. Clemmen’s right foot on the adjacent lane.
I’ll never live that one down.
“Good evening, Willa,” Mr. Clemmens says, now from lane seven, lifting his beer in greeting like we’re war buddies.
I wince. “Evening, Mr. Clemmens.”
“You can call me Keith, darlin’... any woman who nearly puts me in a wheelchair should be on a first name basis, wouldn’t you say?”
Grandpa finally turns, eyes crinkling with a grin. “Quit distracting my granddaughter, Keith! We’ve got a game to win!”
I snort. We haven’t won a game, let alone a tournament since I was born.
The scoreboard lights up overhead, chirping and flashing as Grandpa taps through the settings like he’s done it a thousand times—because he has. Names populate the screen in the familiar order, and the lane beside us erupts into cheers as someone lands a strike.
My chest loosens a little, the way it always does here.
For one night a week, the orchard isn’t rushing in my bloodstream.
For one night a week, the competition countdown doesn’t exist.
For one night a week, I’m just Willa, the terrible, yet passionate bowler.
Grandpa lifts his ball, a blue and black personalized ball he’s had for years. He bowls first, as always.
He steps up to the line between lanes like the space personally owes him respect, shoulders squared, jaw set. When he releases the ball, it rolls smooth and steady, no drama, no wasted motion. The pins scatter in a clean strike, and the lane lights up like it’s applauding him.
Dad groans. Patty claps. I roll my eyes with affection.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
Grandpa grins but doesn’t gloat. He just steps back, retrieves his towel, and wipes his hands like he’s finished something important.
It’s during the lull—while the pinsetter hums and the scoreboard recalculates—that I lean closer to Grandpa. “Hey,” I say quietly. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances at me, immediately serious in the way that makes my chest tighten just a little. “Always, WillaBug.”
“Why did you drop out of judging the pie contest this year?”
His brows knit—not in surprise, but like he’s been waiting for the question. He looks back down the lane, then at the scoreboard, buying himself a second.
“Because… if you’re going to take over Hartley & Sons, then you need to do so fully. The town needs to look to you, and only you, for all things orchard related.” he says finally.
I blink. “But… you’re still a part of this town, even if I’m the one running the orchard now.”
“It’s time for me to pass the baton,” he insists gently.
“And your father doesn’t want to be in the relay.
You don’t need me standing beside you anymore.
If you win this year’s contest, I want it to be yours.
No one gets to say it was because your grandfather was behind the scenes, pulling strings and making decisions. ”
My throat tightens. “And if I lose?”
He turns to face me fully then, placing a warm, steady hand over mine. “Then you lose as yourself, too. And you learn. And you keep going. That’s how this works. You think I won every year? Hardly.”
I swallow hard, emotions pressing uncomfortably close to the surface.
He squeezes my hand once. “This is your season, Willa. I trust you. It doesn’t matter if you come in first place or fifteenth. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose the People’s Choice trophy.”
Except it does matter. It matters to the town… our orchard… and to me.
The lane buzzes again, Dad swearing as his ball hooks wrong, Patty laughing like it’s all part of the fun.
When it’s my turn to bowl, I step up to the line, ball heavy and familiar in my hands, and take a breath like maybe—just maybe—tonight will be the night I finally figure this out.
“Don’t overthink it,” Dad calls from behind me.
“That’s literally all I do,” I mutter. I line up my shot. Adjust my grip. Swing my arm back with what I hope looks like confidence and not impending humiliation.
The ball leaves my hand…
And immediately veers left.
Not a single pin goes down.
The gutter claims it without mercy.
There’s a beat of silence—then the lane beside us erupts in cheers for someone else’s strike, which feels personal.
I sigh, long and defeated, and turn back to my family. Grandpa offers a sympathetic nod. Patty pats my arm. Dad opens his mouth, then thinks better of it.
“That was… bold,” Patty says kindly.
“I’m getting drinks,” I announce. “Before the lane files a restraining order against me.”
No one argues as I make my escape toward the bar, sticky floors tugging at my shoes. The noise of the lanes fades into background comfort as I approach the counter—and then I notice the crowd.
Not a big one. Just enough people clustered around lane five to make me curious.
Someone whistles.
Pins explode in a clean, effortless strike.
Standing in the middle of the semi-circle crowd, Brooks Calder stands, posture relaxed, movements smooth and practiced like he’s done this a thousand times.
He doesn’t celebrate—just steps back, rolling his shoulders as if a strike is expected, not impressive.
“Now, if I get a strike this time, James, you need to carry our flagship cider here for at least a month. If it doesn’t sell well in that month, then you take it down… no hard feelings.”
James laughs and leans his elbows on the bar, watching eagerly as Brooks takes a breath, the ball up by his nose. Then he moves fluidly, taking fast, crisp steps to throw the ball again…
The scoreboard flashes.
STRIKE.
Of course he’s good at bowling.
Because apparently the universe has decided he should excel at everything important to me.
He turns toward the seating area, laughing at something a man beside him says—and that’s when he catches me watching.
His brow lifts slightly, amused. Then he gestures toward my lane, subtle but unmistakable. “You want a tip?”
I stiffen. “No.” The truly infuriating part? Somehow, impossibly—I kind of do.
He grins anyway. “Suit yourself.”
I turn away from lane five before I can do something reckless—like accept help from Brooks Calder—and head straight for the bar.
James looks up the second he sees me, already bracing. He’s been tending bar at Orchard Falls Lanes for fifteen years and has perfected the art of polite panic.
“Hey, Willa,” he says quickly. “I was just about to come find you.”
“I’m sure,” I reply, planting my palms on the counter. “You’re not seriously going to stock Calder Cider, are you?”