Page 106 of Fall is Brewing

"Morning, Marcy.”

"You're missing a pumpkin."

I blink. "...What?"

"The decorative pumpkin beside your tasting table. You’re missing one!”

I look down. Sure enough, there's an empty spot beside the cider display. "I had a pumpkin here just a few minutes ago, I swear.”

"Well… You no longer have a pumpkin,” she reiterates.

"...Did someone steal my pumpkin?"

She gives me a look. "Brooks."

I sigh, then shout out loud across the street where Jace is walking away from me. "Jace! Where’s the damn pumpkin?”

She disappears before he can respond, already calling someone else's name across the square.

A familiar laugh answers from somewhere behind the hay maze. "I just borrowed it,” Jace calls back.

"You cannot borrow produce from our festival display!"

"I can if I bring it back!"

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "You said that about the goat last year!"

"And I brought it back!"

"Three days later!" I close my eyes. “Sometimes I wonder what life would've been like if Mom and Dad had given me sisters,” I mutter to myself.

Jace takes off running, fully ignoring me as he heads to the other side of the town square.

"They'd probably be worse," Evan says, appearing beside me. He picks up a bottle, inspecting the label before setting it back exactly where it'd been. "You know you make that face every time Jace does something stupid."

A cheer erupts from the far side of the square.

The annual pie-eating contest is about to begin.

I spot Jace climbing onto the stage, holding our display pumpkin overhead like it’s already a trophy. He’s always had total confidence and absolutely no strategy. He's wearing one of our Calder Cider aprons tied around his waist like a championship belt.

"Oh no,” I groan.

"What?"

I point to the stage and Evan sighs. "...He's going to regret this pie eating contest."

"He never regrets anything,” Evan says.

"Good point."

The whistle blows. Eight contestants immediately start eating their pies. Jace looks around for approximately three seconds before slamming his face in the center of the pie like a cartoon and going to town.

The crowd roars.

Marcy physically facepalms.

"Can we pretend we don’t know him?” I mutter.