Page 34 of Fall is Brewing

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.