Page 42 of Fall is Brewing

“You had it right,” I repeat, quieter now. “The first answer.”

Something flashes across her face. Fast. Barely there. Recognition. Then denial slams over it. “What? No, I didn’t.”

“You did. You wrote down Fuji, then changed it… erased it.”

She goes truly still at this. Not performative stillness. Not public composure. The kind that feels like a body bracing around something tender.

She looks away first, but only for a second, her gaze dropping to the floor between us before dragging back up to mine. There’s a flush rising in her cheeks now, not from embarrassment exactly. Something closer to anger at herself. And because I know what that feels like, it twists low in my chest.

“I changed my mind,” she says.

“You second-guessed yourself.”

Her jaw tightens. “Does that make you feel better?” The words come sharper this time, honed to a point. Like she’s daring me to take something from her.

“No.” My answer comes easy and I don’t look away. “Just means I know what I saw.”

The silence stretches between us, thicker than anything that came before it. I’m not telling her who she is. I’m not telling her what it means. I’m just refusing to pretend it didn’t happen.

Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to find the flaw in that. The ego. The smugness. The win.

But there’s nothing for her to grab onto.

And somehow, that seems to unsettle her more.

Her shoulders shift, just slightly, like she’s adjusting to a weight she didn’t expect to carry into this conversation.

The noise from the main room drifts back in—a burst of laughter, the clink of glasses, someone calling her name.

Reality, knocking.

She glances toward it, then back at me. And for a second—just a second—the edge between us softens.

Less like we’re standing on opposite sides of something. More like we’re both standing in the middle of it.

She inhales slowly, then lifts her chin, composure sliding back into place like armor she knows how to wear too well. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.

She steps past me then, close enough that her sleeve brushes my hand, the warmth of it lingering just long enough to be distracting.

I don’t turn right away.

I give myself one second.

Two.

Then I look back toward the main room.

Her father’s watching me like I just declared war.

Patty’s watching Willa.

Her grandfather is—God help me—smiling.

Across the bar, Jace is grinning like he’s witnessing the best entertainment of his life, and Evan’s expression has gone sharp, calculating, already five steps ahead of whatever this turns into.

I ignore all of them.

Because my focus is still on her.