“Messy Hour. Where we make a mess on purpose.” She’s smiling. Not mocking. Just bright. “Didn’t you have Messy Hour when you were a kid?”
“Uh, no,” I reply.
“It comes before the actual cooking,” she explains. “So Ben knows that it’s okay to make a mess. Then we clean up and do it right. So no meltdowns if we get it wrong, because she already knows it’s easy to clean.”
Every instinct I have rejects this.
Mess equals loss of control. Mess equals variables I can’t predict. Mess equals the exact opposite of everything that keeps Ben’s world stable.
Also, I run restaurants. Professional kitchens where chaos has to be contained or people get hurt.
Or fired.
But Ben is looking at me with those huge eyes. Hopeful. And Jess is watching with something that looks like a challenge mixed with understanding.
She knows I want to say no. She’s giving me space to choose.
Fuck it.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “But we’re keeping the good dough separate.”
Jess’s smile could power the city. “Deal.”
She pulls out a separate bowl. Dumpsin flour without measuring. Hands Ben the bag. “Go ahead, sweetie. Pour some in.”
Ben pours. Too much. Way too much. A cloud rises and she gasps.
I’m about to intervene when Jess does the hand squeeze. “One, two, three. Now breathe. Smell the flour. What does it smell like?”
“Like...” Ben thinks. “Like bread that isn’t cooked yet.”
“Exactly. Now blow on it. Gentle.”
Ben blows. Flour puffs into the air. She giggles.
That sound.Christ.
When did she stop giggling?
“See?” Jess says. “Mess can be fun. Frederick thinks so too.”
The plush snail is propped against the mixing bowl. Observing.
I’m standing here with my arms crossed trying to figure out how Jess turned my structured pizza night into anxiety management therapy.
She’s brilliant. Annoying. And I want to bend her over this counter and make her forget every rule we signed.
Instead I grab the yeast. “Let’s proof this. Ben, you want to see the bubbles?”
“Yes!”
I add warm water to a small bowl. Sprinkle in yeast and sugar. We wait. Ben is practically vibrating again.
“Count the bubbles,” I tell her. “How many can you find?”
“One, two, three...” She’s leaning so close her nose almost touches the bowl. “Four, five, six, seven...”
Jess moves beside me. Close enough that hershoulder brushes my arm. She smells like lavender. The scent invokes a memory that hits hard.
