Willa
I have never regretted opening my mouth faster than I do at this moment. Why the hell did I agree to this?
The crowd shifts like they’ve been waiting for this showdown all afternoon. Wasn’t this supposed to be friendly? A little light competition between cider houses. Now it feels like a duel.
I smooth my hands down the front of my sweater and glance at the second table Marcy must have set up while we were pie tasting. I walk toward the center of the room, hyperaware of every step. Brooks falls into stride beside me, unhurried and comfortable.
Of course he’s comfortable. That man never not looks comfortable and it’s grating as hell.
The folding table waits like an altar. Two chairs, side by side. Blindfolds sit on the tabletop, covered with a crisp white cloth. Harmless looking. Beside them, cloth napkins and for reasons I can’t explain, wooden clothespins in a small wicker basket.
The crowd presses in closer, a semicircle forming around the table. Someone is already holding up their phone. A few teenagers whisper and giggle like this is better than cable. Marcy stands at the front, vibrating with authority, clipboard hugged to her chest.
“All right, Orchard Falls!” she calls, her voice bouncing off the rafters. “Our judges have finished the pie contest, so we are moving on to the blind taste test!”
I glance toward my family automatically.
Grandpa stands tall, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, chin lifted like he’s watching a championship game.
There’s pride there in his eyes. Dad is beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight.
He tries to smile when I catch his eye, but I know him.
He’s worried. Patty doesn’t look at the covered plates of apples, she looks at me.
Not checking if I’m capable; checking if I’m okay.
I straighten my shoulders and force a smile in her direction.
Beside me, Brooks steps into place without hesitation.
He doesn’t roll his neck. Doesn’t shake out his hands. Doesn’t glance at the crowd. He pulls out his chair and sits like he’s about to review quarterly reports instead of gamble his dignity in front of half the town.
He’s way too calm.
I take my seat beside him, studying his profile. We’re close enough that our elbows nearly touch. Close enough that I can hear his breathing over the noise.
Marcy beams down at us. “Blindfolds on, please!”
The cloth is placed in my hands. For one irrational second, I consider laughing. Then I tie it behind my head.
Darkness falls, but the crowd noise around me sharpens.
Marcy’s voice cuts through like she’s announcing a championship round. “First slice!”
Something cool and smooth brushes against my fingertips.
For a split second I just hold it there in my palm, grounding myself in its weight, dragging my fingers across the damp flesh of the apple slice and waxy skin.
I don’t know what kind of data I could pull from this, exactly, but it grounds me into the moment.
The room is loud. Chairs scrape the wooden floors, people whisper, someone in the back of the room laughs way too hard. But beneath the blindfold, the world narrows to this one small crescent of fruit and the pulsing thrum of my heart as I try to pretend this is all so very normal.
This is fine. This is most definitely not the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever agreed to in public.
I bring the slice to my mouth.
The skin gives with a delicate snap, the flesh crisp and almost glassy between my teeth. Juice bursts forward, clean, bright, and balanced. Sweet without being syrupy. A familiar hum of acidity that lifts instead of lingers.
Relief slides through me.
Honeycrisp.
Not just sweet… structured sweet. Confident sweet.
I don’t hesitate as I reach out to feel around for the small whiteboard and dry erase marker that was beside me. I scribble my answer down, the marker squeaking in the quiet cocoon of darkness.
“Okay, blindfolds off and reveal!” Marcy calls.
I push the cloth up onto my forehead from my eyes and the room rushes back in all at once: colors, faces, raised phones, the entire town leaning forward like we’re about to announce election results.
I blink against the sudden brightness.
Beside me, Brooks pulls his blindfold down slowly, no hurry, like he’s savoring the reveal. His hair is slightly rumpled from the blindfold, and for one absurd second I notice the faint crease the fabric left across his cheekbone.
Focus Willa.
He gives me a little smirk. “Reveal on the count of three?” he asks.
I nod and don’t wait for him to start counting. “One…”
“Two…” he joins in.
“Three!”
We both flip our whiteboards at the same time.
Honeycrisp.
Of course it’s Honeycrisp.
The crowd all starts clapping.
Grandpa pumps a fist. Someone whistles. Marcy beams like we’ve just performed a magic trick instead of identifying an apple most third graders could name.
I lower my board, pulse steady but humming.
Beside me, Brooks shifts in his chair, the faint whisper of denim against metal, then glances sideways at me—not triumphant. Not smug. Just assessing. As if he’s cataloging more than my answer.
“Starting off safe,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that it brushes my ear more than it reaches the crowd.
“Or starting off obvious,” I reply, refusing to let him have that edge.
He lets out a quiet huff of amusement and just as he opens his mouth to say something else, Marcy waves her arms dramatically. “Blindfolds back on! Round two!”
I tug my cloth into place again, plunging the world back into darkness. “Hands out!” Marcy says and I oblige, placing my hand out, palm up.
The next slice lands in my hand, cooler than the first. It feels more firm than the first apple and as I bite down, I immediately feel the sharper resistance. The acidity punches forward before the sweetness can catch up. It makes the corners of my jaw tighten, the nerves below my ears tingle.
Bright. Tart, but dancing on the line of almost sour. A nearly impatient flavor. The sharpness dances along the sides of my tongue, unmistakable. I grab the whiteboard and write it without flourish.
Granny Smith.
“Blindfolds up!” Marcy says.
This time, there’s less fanfare. Less adjusting as Brooks and I tug our blindfolds off. With a single nod at me, we both turn our whiteboards around.
“Granny Smith is correct!” Marcy cries out.
The cheers are louder now—less polite, more invested. I can feel the crowd leaning in. What started as a novelty is turning into something competitive and even suspenseful as we slide into round three.
The third slice yields more easily. The flesh is softer, slightly grainier, the sweetness gentler—almost nostalgic, bordering on mealy.
One more day and the apple would have turned.
It reminds me of brown paper bags in elementary school lunches.
Of cider simmering in the kitchen in October. Of familiarity.
McIntosh, I believe.
I pause, giving it an extra breath, just to be certain. Let it sit on my tongue. Let the aftertaste bloom.
Yes. Without a doubt…
McIntosh.
Just like before, we reveal and we’re both correct.
The room roars again.
Brooks’ smile widens and he tips an invisible hat to me in such a charming way that I nearly smile back at him. We are perfectly matched.
I can feel it now—not just the energy in the room, but him. Brooks sits steady beside me, not crowding, not performing, just existing in this contained little pocket of darkness with me.
Our knees brush under the table. It’s barely a touch… but it feels like a spark.
“Still tied,” he says quietly.
“You’re surprised?” I ask.
“Not in the least.” He shifts slightly, and I swear I can feel the heat of his arm through the air between us. “But I was hoping you’d make it interesting.”
A slow smile curves across my mouth. “You wound me, Brooks Calder.”
“I didn’t think such a thing was possible,” he replies. The confidence in that answer lands somewhere low in my stomach. “So… what do we do if it remains a tie? Do we split our time working at each other’s orchard?”
I snort. “A tie isn’t an option. We keep going until one of us loses.”
When I’m not met with an immediate answer, I dare to take another glance at him next to me.
He’s leaning even closer into me. Lifting his hand, he tugs at the end of a fallen strand of hair hanging at my jaw and smiles.
“Something tells me there’s not enough apples in all of New England for that, Willa. ”
My breath freezes in my lungs, sputtering like an engine trying to warm up in the depths of a blizzard as his eyes hold mine.
“Round four!” Marcy calls out from somewhere in front of me.
Still smiling, Brooks lowers his blindfold yet again.
“Round four, Willa,” Marcy scolds me.
I clear my throat and tug my blindfold back into place.
The next slice is smooth and sweet, the acidity lower, the texture dense without being heavy. Floral notes bloom softly—subtle but distinct.
Fuji.
I write it down with steady hands.
“Reveal!”
We both do so silently this time, surprising no one that we both have the same correct answer.
Mrs. Bouchard’s teenage son cups his hands around his mouth and yells out, “This is going to take forever!!” She smacks her son upside the head—not hard, but enough that the people around them snicker.
I lower my board slowly, pulse humming because he’s not wrong. Four for four.
Dead even.
The air between Brooks and me feels tighter now. Not hostile exactly. But also not friendly.
Focused.
“You nervous yet?” Brooks asks softly.
The question slides between us like a knife cutting through a freshly baked apple pie.
I tilt my head slightly toward him. “Are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away and the silence stretches between us for so long, I begin to wonder if he isn’t going to answer at all. Then, quietly, “No.” Too calm. Too certain. Too… arrogant. “Not about the apple tasting at least.”
He gives me a wink just as Marcy calls out again. “Round five!” Her voice is bright with the kind of delight only chaos can bring.
The blindfold settles back into place, and the world softens again into sound and scent and breath. I flex my fingers once in my lap before holding my hand out, ready as the next slice is placed into my palm.
It feels heavier somehow. Denser. The skin slightly thicker beneath my thumb. I bring it to my mouth and bite down carefully.
The texture is firm, but not glassy like Honeycrisp. The sweetness blooms slowly instead of bursting forward. There’s depth there; something caramelized at the edges of the flavor. But the acidity is quieter. More reserved.
I chew again. Something about it resists categorization, like my brain can’t quite file it away.
It’s not sharp enough to be Granny Smith. Not floral enough to be Fuji. Not nostalgic-soft like McIntosh.
Sweeter than Braeburn.
But not as sharp as Honeycrisp.
My mind begins to move through the orchard rows like I’m walking them in October. Braeburn trees line the west fence. Their fruit is firm, balanced, slightly spiced if you know how to listen for it.
This feels… close. But also not quite right. There's something… rounder about it.
The crowd noise fades beneath the drumbeat and rush of blood in my ears. Beside me, Brooks shifts slightly. I can hear the faint scrape of his chair as he leans forward.
He’s thinking too.
The pressure tightens around my ribs. If I hesitate too long, it looks like doubt. If I rush, it looks careless.
I swallow.
Braeburn. Why can’t I think of any other contenders outside of Braeburn?
“Twenty more seconds until we need your answers,” Marcy says, her voice more intense than I’ve heard it.
I write it down, the marker squeaking louder than it should.
“Reveal!” Marcy sings.
We both rip our blindfolds off and I can see the moment of uncertainty in his eyes too as we both turn our whiteboards around.
Braeburn is written on both of our boards. Only after our eyes meet do his drop to the half eaten apple slice and I see his confidence falter. I look down at mine… no.
That’s not a braeburn. That’s…
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marcy hisses an apology. “But that was the rare Lady Alice apple! The good news is, you’re still tied.”
There’s a beat of silence before laughter ripples through the crowd, good-natured, and relieved. The sound of a collective exhale.
Even experts miss, I could hear my dad saying.
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks anyway.
I don’t miss. Losing is not in my vocabulary.
Lady Alice… of course. We can’t grow them well around here in New England.
They’re a west coast apple, primarily found in Washington state.
But even so… I should have known. The sweetness had been more rounded.
Less structured. I knew it. I knew braeburn was wrong and still chose that as my answer.
Beside me, Brooks lowers his board slowly.
He doesn’t curse. Doesn’t roll his eyes. He just nods once, almost imperceptibly and takes another bite of the Lady Alice apple, like he’s filing it away.
Then, looking at me, he smiles again. “What a great learning opportunity.”
I. Want. To. Smack. Him.
Learning was for undergrad. Today is for winning.
The scoreboard behind Marcy updates. We’re still tied of course, but something has shifted. The invincibility is gone.
This is no longer about flawless execution. It’s about who cracks first.
I lower my board, pulse quickening as he says, “At least we’re still tied.”
I lift my chin slightly. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” His mouth curves—barely. And for the first time since the competition started, I meet his smile with a teasing one of my own.
I don’t like losing, but even I can admit, it is fun to have a formidable opponent.
Marcy claps her hands together, positively glowing. “All right! Still tied! Let’s keep going!”
The blindfold drops back into place. Darkness returns. And this time, it feels heavier.
Because now I know what it feels like to be almost right.
And almost is never good enough.