Page 86 of Fall is Brewing

We orbit each other in passing moments—half conversations, unfinished glances, hands brushing and then gone again—like the day keeps interrupting something neither of us has figured out how to hold onto.

And still, just as I cross back to Hartley’s side, a woman with a camera slung around her neck pops up in front of us like she’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. “Hold on—don’t move,” she says, already lifting the camera. “You two look perfect together. Festival feature.” Willa and I both freeze, then glance at each other, equally caught off guard.

“We’re not—” she starts, at the same time I say, “We’re just—” We stop, awkward and half-laughing, neither of us finishing the sentence.

The photographer grins like she’s just proven a point. “Exactly. Stay like that.”

Willa shifts closer without quite meaning to, her shoulder brushing mine again, and I feel her hesitate before letting it stay. I don’t move away. The camera clicks. For a second, we’re both smiling—real, unguarded, a little breathless—and then it’s over, and we step apart like we’ve just remembered we’re supposed to.

That photo seems to have sobered both of us. We each stay at our respective booths for the remaining time until the sun starts to dip below the horizon, painting the park in an ombre of orange and yellow and red.

The festival preview has Main Street packed shoulder to shoulder, music drifting from the gazebo, fairy lights glowing in shop windows, the air thick with woodsmoke and fried dough and cider. Calder’s booth is doing well. Hartley’s is doing better. I should care more about that.

Instead, I’m watching Willa battle a string of lights tangled around her arm.

She’s standing behind the Hartley booth, half-hidden by apple crates, muttering to herself in a way that should not be as charming as it is. A lock of hair falls into her face. She blows it away. It falls back. She glares at it like it has betrayed her personally.

I cross the street before I’ve made the decision to move.

“Need help?”

She looks up. “No.”

She tugs at the lights again and they tighten around her wrist. I wait until she finally exhales. “Maybe.”

I step behind the booth, close enough to take the tangled strand from her hands. Our fingers brush, and the noise of the festival seems to soften around us.

“You know,” I say, working the knot loose, “for someone so competent, you end up trapped in a lot of things.”

“Trapped in a lot of things?” she repeats, seemingly offended. If she had a free hand, I bet it would be clasped to her hip, toe tapping at the fallen leaves beneath her feet.

“Yep. Ladders. Rainstorms. My sweatshirt. Now Christmas lights.”

“Autumn lights,” she corrects.

“Of course.”

“We are seasonally accurate here in Orchard Falls.”

“My mistake.”

She’s quiet for a second while I unwind the cord from her sleeve. The lights blink against her sweater, tiny gold reflections catching in her green eyes.

“You’re doing well,” she says. “At your booth.”

“Yeah. Yours is doing better.”

She shrugs. “It was dumb of Marcy to put us right across from each other.”

“Oh, I don’t know. When your line gets too long, people come over to mine,” I add with a smile and wink.

“As long as you don’t mind my sloppy seconds.”

“I don’t mind anything of yours,” I admit softly.

Her mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I told my family you weren’t trying to replace us.”

Something in my chest tightens. “Oh? What did they say?”