Page 17 of Fall is Brewing

James looks up the second he sees me, already bracing. He’s been tending bar at Orchard Falls Lanes for fifteen years and has perfected the art of polite panic.

“Hey, Willa,” he says quickly. “I was just about to come find you.”

“I’m sure,” I reply, planting my palms on the counter. “You’re not seriously going to stock Calder Cider, are you?”

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, “There’s room for more than one cider on our taps.”

Brooks steps up beside me like this is a normal place for him to stand. Like we’re old friends casually sharing bar space and not rival orchard owners circling the same ground.

“I’m meeting with James,” Brooks says evenly. “Same as I’ve been doing with half the businesses in town.”

James nods a little too eagerly. “I rotate local drinks, Willa. You know that. I have to consider everyone.”

“Everyone,” I repeat. “Including the orchard that opened a year ago and immediately decided it belonged everywhere.”

Brooks’s mouth twitches. “Funny. I thought belonging was something you earned.”

Behind us, pins crash loudly—someone lands a strike—and a few heads turn our way.

I keep my smile fixed. “You’re using this town’s nostalgia to sell your cider.”

He turns toward me fully now, eyes sharp. “And you’re using your last name like armor.”

That lands harder than I expect. “I work my ass off,” I snap.

“I didn’t say you didn’t,” he fires back. “But don’t pretend taking over for Hartley & Sons doesn’t come with already open doors for you that stay closed for the rest of us.”

A bowler on lane three misses a spare and swears loudly. The timing is impeccable.

James clears his throat. “Listen maybe we all just take a breath⁠—”

“No,” I say, not looking at him. “He wants to talk about fairness? Let’s talk about it.”

Brooks leans closer, lowering his voice—but not enough. “I’m not a stranger to this town, Willa. My family made memories here. Same as yours.”

I scoff. “Then why does this feel like a hostile takeover?”

“Because … you’ve never had to fight for space,” he shoots back. “You inherited it.”

Pins crash again. Laughter. Someone whispers my name.

I feel the heat rise in my chest, equal parts anger and something dangerously close to understanding.

Brooks exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not here to push you out, Willa.”

“Then stop acting like you’re entitled to everything my family has worked for,” I reply. It’s one thing when a neighboring town opens an orchard and hard cidery. It’s another thing to have one open a mile down the road with a shared strip of land that is a legal gray area of who owns it.

His gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching.

The words hang there—charged—while the lanes thunder behind us.

It’s like everyone in Orchard Falls is leaning in, already sensing this is about to get good.

James shifts uncomfortably. “For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “people are excited about both of your ciders. It’s good to have a little friendly competition in town.”

That stops us. The word friendly hangs there, both optimistic and doomed.

Brooks glances at me, something thoughtful sliding into his expression. “That’s not a bad idea,” he says slowly. “A competition.”