And through it all, Callie’s laughing. Really laughing, the kind of laugh that comes from the belly and makes her whole face light up.
When we finally call a ceasefire, we’re all covered in various shades of red sauce and breathing hard.
“That,” I announce, “was the best chili tasting ever.”
“We wasted half our practice batch,” Wyatt points out.
“Worth it,” Callie says, wiping chili off her cheek with the back of her hand.
I reach over and catch a spot she missed with my finger and because I’m incapable of making smart decisions around this woman, I lick the chili off my finger.
“Definitely worth it,” I agree, maintaining eye contact with her the entire time.
Her cheeks flush pink, and she suddenly finds the floor very interesting.
“We should probably clean up,” she says quietly.
“Probably,” I agree.
Neither of us moves.
Cleaningup after a four-person chili fight turns out to be more work than you’d think. The kitchen looks like acrime scene, if crimes were committed with beans and tomato sauce.
“This is going to take forever,” Callie says, surveying the damage.
“Many hands make light work,” I tell her, grabbing a roll of paper towels.
“Many hands made this mess in the first place.”
“Details.”
We split up to tackle different areas of the kitchen. Wyatt takes the far counter, Boone handles the floor near his station, and I start working on the splatter patterns around the tasting table.
Callie’s cleaning the area around her station, humming something under her breath while she works. She’s changed out of her chili-stained shirt and borrowed one of the community center’s volunteer shirts, which is about two sizes too big and keeps sliding off her shoulder.
I’m trying very hard not to notice how the shirt makes her look smaller, or how she keeps pushing her hair back, or how she’s got this little crease of concentration between her eyebrows.
“Jesse,” Wyatt calls from across the kitchen, “you missed a spot.”
I look down at the counter I’m supposed to be cleaning and realize I’ve been standing here with a paper towel in my hand for the past five minutes, accomplishing nothing.
“Right,” I say, starting to clean. “Got it.”
“You’re distracted,” Boone observes, appearing at my elbow with a mop.
“I’m focused.”
“On what?”
“Stuff.”
“You haven’t moved in five minutes.”
“I was planning my approach.”
“Your approach to wiping a counter?”
“It’s a very dirty counter.”
