Brooks
I get to the community hall on Saturday twenty minutes early for the pie judging competition.
I say it keeps me prepared. Evan says it makes me predictable. And Jace says it makes me ‘emotionally constipated,’ which feels unnecessary but on-brand.
Evan plans for outcomes.
Jace plans for chaos.
I plan so we don’t drown again.
The parking lot is only half full, a few familiar trucks scattered between minivans and a Subaru with a “Pumpkin Spice Is a Personality” bumper sticker that feels a bit aggressive before ten a.m. I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, watching the building like it might reveal its secrets if I stare long enough.
This isn’t about pie.
It’s about perception.
I step out into crisp morning air and head inside, boots echoing faintly against the scuffed wooden floor of the hall. The place already smells like cinnamon and sugar, warm and sweet enough to make you forget this is technically a competition and not a church bake sale.
Folding tables line the center of the room, each one covered in paper plates and carefully labeled pies. Name cards. Numbers. A coffee station in the corner.
All around me, the room bustles with people.
Local cafes and bakeries. Some mothers and grandmothers shooting their shot, teenagers looking to earn a lil extra credit in their home economics class.
Marcy stands near the front like a general surveying a battlefield, clipboard clutched to her chest, Orchard Falls jacket unzipped and nearly hanging off one shoulder.
She spots me immediately. “Oh good, you’re early,” she says, as if punctuality is a moral virtue. “We love punctuality.”
“I’ve been told,” I reply evenly.
Her eyes flick over my shoulder, checking who else has arrived, already calculating turnout. Optics matter to her. They matter to the town.
I get it because they matter to me, too.
I take a slow walk past the tables, hands in my pockets, scanning the setup. Twelve pies. Maybe thirteen. A mix of local bakeries, home entries, probably one wild-card from someone who thinks bourbon fixes everything.
This is quite theatrical which doesn’t surprise me. Orchard Falls doesn’t do quiet competitions. It does spectacle wrapped in civility.
And today, Calder Cider isn’t just judging a pie competition. We’re being watched, too. Scrutinized just like these pies on display.
Every nod. Every comment. Every expression.
If I praise a pie too easily, I look unserious.
If I criticize too sharply, I look arrogant.
If I disagree with Willa publicly, I look combative.
And if we look too comfortable together?
Well… that might be even worse.
The doors behind me swing open as more townspeople filter in, chatter rising like a low tide. I keep my posture relaxed, shoulders loose, face neutral.
Calder Cider is still the new name in town. Hartley & Sons is the legacy. Today isn’t about beating her.
It’s about proving I belong in the room, beside her. Part of the town, part of the team. It’s about proving we can exist alongside each other and that there’s room here for competing cider orchards.
When I hear the door open behind me, I don’t need to look to know it’s her entering. The entire room shifts with her energy. Conversation dips a notch—not silent, just aware. A subtle tightening like everyone remembers there are sides.
I glance over my shoulder just in time to catch Willa Hartley stepping inside with a clipboard already tucked under her arm, pen clipped neatly at the top.
She’s dressed for business—dark jeans, boots that have seen actual dirt, a sweater in that deep orchard green that makes her look less like a festival mascot and more like someone who belongs to the land.
She doesn’t scan the room for me and she definitely doesn’t hesitate. She walks straight to the front table and immediately begins reviewing the lineup like this is a board meeting instead of a pie tasting.
Composed, not territorial. Focused, not dramatic.
Marcy scurries over to her, already talking. Willa nods once, makes a small correction to the placement of two pies—numbers slightly out of order—and smooths a wrinkled label flat with the edge of her hand.
Detail-oriented.
I watch the way she leans down to read an ingredient list, lips moving slightly as she does the math in her head—moisture content, sugar balance, spice ratios. She’s not here for optics. She’s here to do it right.
Something in my chest shifts, small but undeniable.
I expected defensiveness.
I expected pride.
I didn’t expect precision.
She finally looks up—and this time, she does see me. There’s no exaggerated reaction, no flinching. Just a measured, professional glance that lands and holds.
If anyone else were watching, they’d see two judges acknowledging each other from across the room.
They wouldn’t see the current running under it. Hell, maybe that current is one-sided.
I step forward and cross the room to where she stands in front of the first pie.
“Morning,” I say evenly.
“Morning,” she replies, just as controlled.
Her grip tightens slightly on the clipboard and I notice that Willa doesn’t just come prepared. She comes armed.
She sets her clipboard down on the judging table like she’s claiming territory, and I notice immediately—it’s thicker than Marcy’s.
Tabbed. Color-coded. There’s a packet clipped to the back, pages neatly stapled.
“What’s all this?” I ask Willa and tap my finger to her clipboard.
“Just my notes from previous years. We usually get repeat entries and I like to look back to see how they’ve grown or changed their recipes. Or note if they didn’t change anything based on our notes from last year.”
I nod. Interesting. She clearly values growth and effort… something we have in common.
Marcy appears beside us at the table, her energy dialed to eleven.
“Judges!” she announces, like we’ve just been elected to public office. “I’m so thrilled you’re here. This is going to be wonderful. We have twelve pies, two alternates, and a very enthusiastic crowd.”
“I can see that,” I say, glancing at the cluster of townspeople hovering far too close for comfort.
Marcy beams and hands us a clipboard.
One clipboard.
One sheet.
One pen clipped to the top with a piece of orange ribbon.
For the two of us.
Willa blinks at it. I watch the exact moment it registers.“We’re sharing?” she asks, tone perfectly polite and absolutely not pleased.
“Community spirit!” Marcy says brightly. “Also my printer ran out of ink.”
Willa holds her own clipboard up, showing it off with a deliberate calm. “We don’t have to share. I brought copies from last year’s sheets.” She flips it open, revealing neatly printed sheets. Structured. Weighted. Detailed.
Marcy waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’s sweet, but we simplified this year’s score sheets. So… let’s just use this one.”
Willa takes the clipboard and flips through the pages, her eyes scanning quickly. “You removed the crust weight from judging,” Willa says evenly.
“We made it more accessible,” Marcy counters. “Also, really, what does crust weight matter?”
Willa’s jaw tightens just slightly. “It matters because there’s a ratio of crust density to filling that’s important. A crust that’s too dense can ruin a pie.”
The air shifts a fraction. Not hostile. But charged.
“Well,” Marcy says tightly, “There’s really no need to complicate these things, Willa. Just write down your thoughts on which pie is best and why.” She taps the paper with her long fingernail, her voice edging with finality.
“But without the seventeen part grading system, it’s chaos! The calculations take away the human element and make it a fair judgment.”
I take Marcy’s clipboard from Willa and glance over it casually. “Looks straightforward enough,” I say. “Why don’t we write down our thoughts on crust to filling ratio in the box called Other… and we can rate it accordingly there for the scoring?”
Marcy smiles at me like I just solved a logistical crisis. “Exactly.”
Willa’s eyes cut to mine like she knows what I just did and suspects I was trying to undercut, not help. I wasn’t. I was trying to smooth out the discourse, but it’s clear from her scowl she won’t see it that way.
“I knew you’d be fine sharing, Brooks,” Marcy says.
I shrug lightly. “I’ve shared worse.”
Marcy laughs a little too loudly and claps her hands. “Wonderful! All right. First pie coming up!” She bustles away, satisfied as we both take our seats at the judging table.
Willa exhales through her nose. “You could’ve backed me up,” she mutters under her breath.
“I did,” I reply quietly. “Just not the way you wanted.”
She studies me for a beat, trying to decide whether that annoys her more or less. Marcy reappears and places the first pie down between us. The baker, a sweet looking mother, stands in front of us with what looks like her twelve year old daughter clinging to her side.
Willa reaches for the clipboard that’s still in my hands.
Our fingers brush. She stills, but doesn’t pull away until I release my hold on the papers.
She starts writing. Her handwriting is tight, decisive, controlled. Just like her. I lean in slightly to read her notes as the first slice is placed in front of us. Close enough to catch the faint scent of apples clinging to her sweater.
“You’re already scoring?” I murmur. “You haven’t even taken a bite yet.”
“The crust’s underbaked,” she whispers without looking at me. “I can tell from the color.”
I take a bite. Pause. She’s right. “Fair.”
Her pen hesitates—just for a second. Not because I challenged her. Because I didn’t.
I smile at the mom and daughter and wave them to come closer. “Hi there,” I say. “I’m Brooks Calder, it’s lovely to meet you. Do you want to tell me a little about your pie?”
Willa’s pen freezes on the page before she slowly turns her head to look at me. “What are you doing?”
I shrug casually. “I want to hear a little bit about each pie.”
“There’s no spot on the score card to factor in backstories,” she says, low and controlled.
The mom and daughter hovering near the edge of the table exchange a nervous glance.