“Not bad?” Callie repeats. “This is fantastic chili.”
“It’s decent chili with beans,” Wyatt corrects.
“Try yours,” she challenges.
We move to Wyatt’s pot, and I have to admit, his chili smells pretty damn good too. Different from Callie’s, but definitely appealing.
One taste confirms it. Wyatt knows what he’s doing.
“Okay,” I say, “this is actually really good too.”
“Of course it is,” Wyatt says. “I don’t make bad chili.”
“Neither do I,” Callie adds.
“So we have two excellent chilis,” Boone observes. “Problem solved.”
“There’s no problem to solve,” Callie says.
“Then why are you glaring at Wyatt’s pot like it personally offended you?”
“I’m not glaring.”
“You’re definitely glaring.”
“I’m... evaluating.”
That’s when I get an idea. A probably bad idea, but an idea nonetheless.
“You know what this needs?” I say, dipping my spoon back into Callie’s chili.
“What?” she asks.
Instead of answering, I flick a spoonful of chili at her shirt.
The red sauce hits her with a splat that echoes through the kitchen.
“Hey, asshole!” she shrieks, looking down at the stain on her shit.
“Oops,” I say, not looking sorry at all.
“Oops? OOPS?”
She grabs her own spoon and retaliates, catching me across the chest with a generous helping of bean-filled chili.
“Now we’re even,” she says with satisfaction.
I look down at my shirt, then back at her. “We’re definitely not even.”
Before she can react, I’ve scooped up another spoonful and caught her on the shoulder.
“Food fight!” Boone yells gleefully, grabbing his own spoon.
“Don’t you dare,” Wyatt warns, but he’s too late.
Boone catches him with a shot to the arm, and suddenly we’re all armed and dangerous.
What follows is probably the most ridiculous three minutes of my adult life. Chili flies through the air. Someone slips on a splatter and goes down. Boone gets chili in his hair.
