Willa
The cider barn has always been my favorite room on the property.
Not because it's the prettiest. That honor belongs to the orchard itself on an autumn afternoon when the trees glow like someone lit every leaf from within. And not because it's the busiest. During harvest, the press house wins that contest every time.
No.
I love this room because it's where patience turns into instinct.
The barrels line the walls in neat rows, each one holding months of work beneath its oak staves. The air is cool and damp, rich with the scent of apples, yeast, toasted wood, and the faint sweetness of fermentation. It smells like autumn decided to settle down and make a home.
Tonight, every workbench is crowded with tasting glasses.
Legal pads.
Pencils.
Pipettes.
Three finished ciders wait in stainless steel pitchers beside me, each one pulled from a different barrel I'd marked weeks ago as competition-worthy. On their own, they're all good.
Together… Hopefully, they'll become exceptional.
I pour sixty milliliters from the first pitcher into a glass, then thirty from the second, ten from the third.
Swirl.
Taste.
Pause.
Write.
Too tannic on the finish.
I dump the sample into the spit bucket before reaching for three clean glasses and starting over.
Again.
And again.
By the time June and Lena wander into the cider barn carrying two steaming pizza boxes and a paper bag dotted with grease from Dotty's Bakery, I've already filled two notebook pages with ratios.
The heavy wooden door groans on its hinges before banging softly against the wall behind them, letting in a gust of cool air that chases through the room, carrying the scent of leaves and distant woodsmoke.
June stops short the second she takes in the workbench.
Glasses are everywhere.
Tiny tasting pours in neat rows. Half-filled notebooks. Pencils scattered between pipettes. Sticky notes clinging to the edge of barrels. It looks less like a cider barn and more like a chemistry lab run by someone who hasn't slept in weeks.
June slowly sets the pizza boxes on the workbench and slips one hand onto her hip. "Okay..." she says carefully. "Who died? Because the only explanation for drinking this much is the death of a loved one."
I don't even bother looking up as I scribble another note beside Blend Thirty-Eight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Lena walks farther into the room, weaving between barrels until she reaches the table. She leans over, studying the dizzying lineup of tasting glasses before quietly counting under her breath.
"...Thirty-six... thirty-seven..." Her eyes widen. "There are thirty-eight glasses here."
"Mm-hmm."
I finally glance up, lifting one shoulder in a shrug before reaching for another pipette. "I poured them."
“Well…” June exchanges a concerned look with Lena. “How about a pizza break?”
I shake my head. “There’s no time. I need to get these bottled for the competition tomorrow and have enough inventory ready to sell at the table if we win.”
Lena’s hand falls softly onto mine. “When you win.”
I shake my head because for the first time in my life here at Hartley, I don’t feel confident. “If,” I say quietly.
There’s a few seconds of silence before Lena clears her throat. "So you've, uh, been here awhile, then?”
"I got distracted."
"Willa." June folds her arms, completely unconvinced. "This isn't distracted." She gestures broadly at the battlefield of cider samples. "This is the kind of thing detectives find in documentaries after the suspect hasn't slept for three days."
A reluctant laugh threatens the corner of my mouth, but I swallow it down as I swirl another sample in its glass. "I'm fine."
Lena reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a warm pumpkin spice donut, tearing it cleanly in half before offering me one piece.
"You've rejected pizza," she says, watching me carefully. "And now you're ignoring donuts. This is serious.”
June gasps theatrically. "She is dying."
I finally take the donut from Lena with an exaggerated sigh and stuff a piece in my mouth. "There, happy?” I ask while chewing.
June points triumphantly at me. "Well, it’s progress. The patient is responding to baked goods."
I pop another piece of the donut in my mouth and my stomach growls in approval. Hm. Maybe I am hungrier than I realize. I reach for the tasting glass again. "Last blend," I murmur more to myself than to anyone else.
I swirl the amber liquid beneath my nose before taking another careful sip.
Bright up front. Honeyed through the middle. Still just a touch too tannic on the finish.
I scribble another note, then shake my head and cross the entire thing out. "Nope,” I mutter. “Not good enough to win.”
June watches me for another beat before sliding onto the stool across from me. The old wood creaks beneath her weight as she reaches over and quietly steals my pencil.
“Hey!”
She twirls the pencil between her fingers. "You've rewritten that same note four times."
"I have not."
"Willa." She flips the notebook around.
Every previous sentence is scratched out beneath the fresh one.
I sigh. "...Okay, maybe my notes are similar. But they’re not the same.”
Lena sets another empty tasting glass beside me before brushing flour from her hands onto her jeans. "You don't usually second-guess yourself this much."
"I don't usually have this much riding on one competition."
June snorts. "Oh please." She grabs a slice of pizza from the box. "You've had this much riding on every competition since you were eighteen."
"I don’t think this is about cider," Lena says softly. The words drift through the room as gently as the smell of apples hanging in the cool air.
Outside, a breeze rattles the leaves against the open window, carrying with it the sweet smell of apples waiting to be picked.
Finally, June sets the pizza crust she'd been absentmindedly chewing back into the box. "Alright." She folds her arms. “That’s it. What’s going on?”
Neither of them says another word.
They just...
Wait.
It's somehow worse.
I stare into the amber liquid swirling in my glass. "Brooks and I kissed.” I pause for a moment. “And… more.”
More silence.
June blinks.
Lena's eyebrows shoot halfway to her hairline.
Then—
"You what?" they say in perfect unison.
I let out a nervous laugh.
June slowly sets the donut back into the paper bag like she's handling evidence. "Back up."
Lena is already grinning. "You and Brooks Calder?"
I nod.
"The Brooks Calder?" June asks.
"There's only one."
"The Brooks Calder you've spent the last month calling arrogant?" June continues the interrogation.
"I've also called him handsome,” I respond.
"You absolutely have not,” Lena says.
"Well… I thought it."
"That doesn't count!” June shouts, taking a big bite from her slice.
"It does in my head."
Lena's eyes go wide before a grin slowly spreads across her face. "I knew it."
June immediately points the crust of her pizza at her like she's presenting evidence to a jury. "You did not."
"I absolutely did," Lena insists, grabbing her own slice.
"You suspected."
"I suspected very confidently,” Lena says, tearing a paper towel from the roll.
"What do you mean you suspected?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at both of them. “You literally just acted like I told you the secrets of the Vatican just now.”
“Yeah because we’re surprised you acted on it.” Lena dabs the grease from her slice with the innocence of someone who has absolutely been caught.
June shrugs unapologetically. "There may have been a few discussions."
I set my tasting glass down with a little more force than necessary. "I hate you both."
"That's fair," June says around a bite of pizza. "Honestly, I'd probably hate us too. Nobody likes someone who’s always right.” She winks at Lena.
Lena nudges the pizza box in my direction again and this time I give in and tear a slice of pepperoni from the pie.
"Forget about us for a moment." Her smile softens. "How was it?"
Heat blooms across my cheeks so fast it feels like someone cracked open the cider press and let all the warmth of autumn spill straight into my face. I duck my head, pretending to study the notes in front of me. "...Really good."
Lena claps both hands together once, the sound echoing lightly off the barrel-lined walls. "I knew it!"
June tips her head back dramatically. "Of course it was good." She lets out a theatrical sigh before taking another bite of pizza. "That man looks like he was carved by someone with entirely too much free time."
Despite everything, I laugh. "You two are unbelievable."
"We’re observant."
"No," Lena says with a grin. "I’m observant. You’re bullish."
The laughter lingers for another heartbeat before June's expression shifts. She brushes a few crumbs from the front of her flannel and studies me more carefully.
"But..." she says, drawing the word out. "If it was really good, why do you look like someone stole your favorite sweater?"
The smile slips from my face as easily as sunlight disappearing behind a cloud.
I reach for the nearest tasting glass, swirling the cider more out of habit than intention. The amber liquid catches the warm glow from the hanging lanterns, throwing ribbons of gold across the workbench.
"Afterward..." I begin quietly, "I went to the cabin to grab a notebook."
Lena nods. "Okay..."
"I found a scrapbook with pictures of Brooks as a kid here at Hartley & Sons…" The room stills right as I add, “with me in the pictures with him.”
Even June stops reaching for another slice of pizza.
"Our families met one fall when his parents vacationed here. We spent days running around the orchards together." A sad little laugh escapes me. "And apparently I broke his nose with an apple."
Lena's hand flies to her mouth. "You what?"
"It was an accident."
"God, I should hope so," June says, blinking.
I shake my head, staring somewhere beyond the rows of barrels. "I'd forgotten all about it."
"But Brooks hadn't," Lena says quietly.
June leans back against the workbench, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "And he never said anything?"
I shake my head. "He said he kept waiting for the right moment."