Willa
Ten more rounds pass and we’re still tied, with the only miss being the Lady Alice apple.
“Final round!” Marcy announces, like she’s about to unveil fireworks.
I slide my blindfold down again, sealing the world into velvet-dark uncertainty as I exhale slowly through my nose, grounding myself. One more before whatever madness comes next.
The slice is placed in my hand.
It’s firm. Dense. The skin is slightly thicker than Honeycrisp. I press my thumb gently into the flesh before lifting it to my mouth. The bite is sharp at first—clean acidity—but then the sweetness follows quickly behind it, honeyed and warm. Not floral. Not grassy. Not nostalgic-soft.
Layered.
Structured.
Balanced in a way that feels almost architectural.
My brain flips through varietals instinctively. It’s not Fuji. Not Gala… Too complex for that. It’s certainly not a honeybee. JonaGold?
I take another bite. The sweetness is richer. The acidity rounded, not piercing. A late-season apple that’s confident. Self-contained.
I close my eyes beneath the blindfold as if that somehow deepens the darkness.
Yes. JonaGold.
I write it down, my pulse steady but humming beneath my skin. Beside me, I hear Brooks’ marker move across his board without hesitation.
“Reveal!” Marcy calls.
Our blindfolds come off in one smooth motion and the room rushes back in—faces, lights, anticipation thick enough to taste.
We lift our boards up, now mostly revealing them only to each other, not the room. His mouth twitches into a wider smile, almost like he was hoping I’d get it right, too. If I’m being honest, I might be coming around to the idea of a tie. I feel my cheeks heat as he winks at me.
JonaGold, written in his blocky print and my flowery cursive.
The community hall detonates. Cheers bounce off the rafters. Someone actually jumps. A man near the back shouts, “This is better than football!”
Marcy presses her hands to her cheeks in theatrical delight. “Ladies and gentlemen— we have a tie!”
The word hangs in the air, sparkling. It’s a tie.
Relief floods through me first—warm and sudden.
I didn’t crack. I didn’t falter. I didn’t get edged out by some subtle note I should’ve caught.
Then pride follows close behind it. We are evenly matched.
Swallowing, I can’t help but wonder if that’s in more ways than one.
And underneath that, there’s also a thrill. A sharp, almost reckless high of competition when it meets its equal.
Brooks lowers his board slowly and meets my gaze. There’s something in his expression that mirrors the way my blood feels right now.
Alive.
I shrug and hold out my hand to shake Brooks’. “Maybe a tie isn’t so bad,” I whisper.
“Oh, really?” His palm slides into mine, not shaking. Simply holding. Causing a zip of warmth and electricity to glide up my forearm where we’ve connected skin to skin. “Someone’s whistling a different tune, huh?”
“I might be a little impressed,” I say with a playful roll of my eyes.
At that, he gives my hand a little tug and it pulls my chair in even closer to proximity to him. His breath is warm against my cheek as he whispers, “Be honest, how much did it pain you to admit that?”
There’s a rippling shimmer beneath my breastbone as we hold eye contact for a long beat. “More than you’ll ever know,” I tease him back.
Marcy raises one hand dramatically, silencing the crowd with the authority of a woman who lives for moments like this. “Fortunately, we planned for a tie,” she says, practically vibrating, “Because I knew that a tie would not be good enough for our own Willa Hartley!”
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound spilling out of me half-disbelieving. “I am actually fine with a tie, Marcy—”
I don’t even get the sentence out before Marcy is grinning like a cat who’s just cornered a mouse and cutting me off with a firm, “Nope!” She reaches into the wicker basket and lifts the clothespins high like trophies. “For the tie-breaker round, you’ll be plugging your noses!”
My jaw drops.
I studied. And practiced. And tasted dozens and dozens of apples for the last week. But never once had I practiced without my sense of smell. “But… eighty percent of what we perceive as taste is actually just smell!”
Marcy’s grin widens. “That’s exactly right. We have to do something to make the tie breaker harder!”
The chant starts almost immediately as Marcy hands us each a clothespin. “Plug! Your! Noses! Plug! Your! Noses!”
This is absurd. This is humiliating. This is—
Beside me, Brooks doesn’t argue. He doesn’t protest or smirk. Or give her any sass. He simply extends his hand and takes one of the clothespins, turning it thoughtfully between his fingers like he’s evaluating its craftsmanship.
That unsettles me more than the chanting.
“You’re very calm,” I murmur.
He glances sideways at me. “You’re very loud.”
“I am not loud.”
“You just laughed at the committee chair.”
“Because this is insane.”
He shrugs slightly. “Then let’s make it quick.” That’s it. No hesitation. No frustration. No visible nerves. Just quiet readiness.
The crowd quiets slowly as Marcy smiles at us both. “Blindfolds on and noses plugged.”
The clothespin rests cool and small in my palm. I look at Brooks once more before sliding my blindfold back down. He’s already got his back around his eyes. Too calm, as always.
My blindfold slips back into place, and this time the darkness feels heavier. More deliberate. Like it knows something I don’t.
I lift the clothespin and hesitate. It’s ridiculous how small it is. A scrap of wood and metal hinge. Harmless. Except it isn’t.
Because scent is everything. Aroma is memory.
It’s warning. It’s nuance. It’s the whisper before the bite even lands.
I clip it onto my nose. The pressure is immediate—awkward and tight, cutting off the gentle inhale I didn’t realize I was taking.
My own breathing becomes mechanical, forced through my mouth.
The air tastes thinner somehow. Less layered.
I swallow.
Without smell, flavor flattens. Everything I’ve trained myself to notice—the faint floral bloom, the grassy undercurrent, the honeyed lift on the finish—will be muted.
“Final slice,” Marcy announces, her voice distant and echoing in the cocoon of cloth and wood and breath.
The apple slice presses into my palm. Cool and heavier than the others. I close my fingers around it, feeling the curve of the skin. Slightly thicker. Slightly more resistant.
Don’t rush, Willa. I bring it to my mouth and bite. The snap is familiar. Crisp. Clean. The flesh breaks sharply against my teeth, juice spilling forward in a bright rush.
Honeycrisp. Again?
But—
No. I chew slowly, forcing myself not to decide too fast. The sweetness lingers differently. Not as linear. It blooms warmer toward the back of my tongue. Less icy brightness. More depth. The acidity doesn’t spike the way Honeycrisp usually does.
It’s softened.
Rounded.
My mind scrambles through orchard rows.
It’s got to be a hybrid. The texture screams Honeycrisp—firm, structured, that satisfying shatter when you bite down. But the sweetness leans richer. Almost floral, but not quite Fuji’s airy perfume. Fuller than Gala. More dimensional.
I take another bite, smaller this time, focusing on the chew. The way it dissolves. The sugar is confident but not aggressive. The acidity present but restrained.Honeycrisp cross. With—
Fuji. It has to be Fuji.
My pulse pounds in my ears but beside me, Brooks is silent.
I hate that I can’t read him right now. I hate that the darkness hides his face.
I write carefully on my board, making sure my hand doesn’t shake.
Honeycrisp cross with Fuji.
For a split second, doubt tries to creep in. What if it’s Gala? What if the acidity I’m reading as Fuji’s restraint is something else entirely?
My marker hovers over the board. My gut says Fuji.
My training says Fuji. But I was wrong before with Lady Alice.
And being wrong right now is the only moment that matters.
Doubt is louder than instinct when you’re sitting in front of half your town with a clothespin crushing your nose and your rival breathing calmly beside you.
I take another bite. Gala sweetness is quieter than fuji. More uniform. Less layered. Could that warmth I’m reading as Fuji be Gala’s simplicity instead? It’s nearly impossible to tell with my damn nose plugged. The clothespin tightens as I inhale through my mouth, useless and dry.
I swallow as my pulse hammers. Confidence isn’t about being right. It’s about trusting yourself. And right now—I don’t.
The doubt tips me.
I grip the whiteboard harder and erase what I had written down with the fleshy bottom of my palm. Then quickly scribble: Honeycrisp cross with Gala.
My hand trembles just slightly as I set the board down and Marcy yells, “Blindfolds off!”
The world floods back in—faces, phones, anticipation crackling in the air.
Brooks lifts his board first.
I look before I can stop myself.
Honeycrisp–Fuji hybrid.
The air leaves my lungs.
I lift mine.
Honeycrisp–Gala.
Marcy checks the card.
The pause is microscopic.
But I feel it like a crack in the earth.
“And the correct answer is…” she beams, drawing it out for maximum effect, “Honeycrisp–Fuji!”
The room gasps and is silent for a breath before it erupts in applause.
My ears ring.
Not because I didn’t know.
But because I did.
My eyes flick back to Brooks’ board.
Fuji. It was my first instinct.
My pulse pounds against the inside of my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. I wasn’t outmatched. I flinched. It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
Beside me, Brooks lowers his board slowly, his eyes sliding over mine. There’s no triumph in his expression. No smugness. Just something steady. Something almost… searching.
His eyes drop to my discarded white board. The messy erasure is still visible and it’s obvious he can see that I had written Fuji first in my haste to try to erase it blindfolded. Somehow, that might be worse than losing.
Marcy claps her hands together and runs over to Brooks, grabbing his arm and holding it up into the air in triumph, like a boxer who just won the heavyweight championship. “Which means Brooks Calder wins the blind taste challenge!”
I force my shoulders back and my chin up, trying to tip my mouth into a small smile.
But inside, the only thing louder than the applause is the echo of my own erased handwriting.