Chapter 4 #2
“Yeah,” Boone raises his hand. “Which two people actually get tied together? There’s four of us.”
“Ah, good point. The official race will be Miss Thompson and one McCoy brother. You’ll need to decide among yourselves.”
All eyes turn to me, and I shrug. “I volunteer.”
“Of course you do,” Wyatt says.
Callie kneels down next to my right leg to tie the fabric strip. She’s focused on the knot, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, when I shift my weight and accidentally knee her in the shoulder.
“Ow! Hold still!”
“Sorry, I—”
She yanks the fabric tight in retaliation, hard enough that I lose my balance and have to grab her shoulder to stay upright. This puts us in an awkward position where I’m basically bent over her, my hand on her shoulder, her face dangerously close to areas that are responding to her proximity.
“This is already a mess,” she mutters.
“Want me to stand on one leg?” I offer, trying to be helpful.
“That seems safe,” Wyatt comments dryly.
I lift my free leg, balancing like a flamingo. It works for exactly three seconds before I start tilting backward. Callie, still trying to tie the knot, gets pulled with me. We go down in a heap, her on top of me, the fabric strip somehow wrapped around both our legs AND my arm.
“How did you even—” she starts, trying to untangle us.
“Natural talent,” I wheeze, because she’s got her elbow in my stomach.
After a solid minute of undignified writhing, we finally get properly tied together and stand up. Callie’s hair is messed up, there’s grass on my back, and we haven’t even started yet.
“Inside foot first,” she instructs.
We step. Our inside feet go forward perfectly. Our outside feet, however, have different ideas. Mine goes back for some reason, hers goes sideways, and we do this weird twisted hop that ends with us facing different directions while still tied together.
“Other way!” she yells.
“Which way is other?”
“The way that doesn’t break my ankle!”
We spin, trying to get facing the same direction, but the fabric twists more. Now we’re back-to-back, tied at the ankle, hopping in a circle like some demented folk dance.
“Stop spinning!” Callie gasps.
“You’re the one spinning!”
“We’re both—”
THUD.
We’re down again. This time I’m face-first in the grass, and Callie’s somehow ended up perpendicular to me, her leg twisted at an angle that can’t be comfortable.
“Maybe,” Boone suggests helpfully, “you should try crawling? Like, work your way up to walking?”
“Shut up, Boone,” we say in unison.
Wyatt sighs the sigh of a man surrounded by idiots. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He and Boone tie themselves together with military efficiency. They stand, perfectly synchronized, and take a step.
It’s beautiful.
It’s graceful.
It lasts four steps.
On step five, Boone spots something that later he’ll claim was a butterfly, and turns his head sharply. This throws off their rhythm. Wyatt tries to compensate but fails. Boone tries to catch him but pulls the wrong way.
They go down like dominoes.
But they don’t just fall. Oh no. Wyatt grabs for the table to steady himself.
It tilts, launching fabric strips into the air like confetti.
Boone tries to get away from the falling table but rolls the wrong direction, taking Wyatt with him.
They barrel-roll straight into the mayor, who’s been taking notes.
The mayor goes down with a squawk that doesn’t sound human. His notebook goes flying. His coffee flies in an arc before landing on Wyatt’s head.
“I think,” the mayor says from underneath Boone, “we need to work on the basics.”
Callie’s laughing so hard, she’s crying. I’m trying not to laugh but failing. Even Wyatt cracks a smile as he wipes coffee from his hair.
We try again. And again. And again.
Each attempt is worse than the last.
Callie and I manage three successful steps before I sneeze mid-stride and face-plant.
Wyatt and Boone nearly make it across the field before discovering they’ve been dragging the table, which got caught in their fabric.
Callie tries to race with Boone. They get competitive, start running, and tangle in the volleyball net someone left up.
I attempt to race with Wyatt. We maintain perfect form for ten steps, then step in the same cow patty and go down cursing.
By the end, we’re covered in grass, mud, coffee, and other indignities, and we haven’t successfully completed a single full race.
“Same time tomorrow?” Mayor Davidson asks hopefully.
“We’ll be here,” I confirm, because I’m an optimist or an idiot. Possibly both.
As we’re leaving, Callie turns to me. “Next time, I’m bringing kneepads.”
“And a helmet,” Boone adds.
“And a medical team,” Wyatt finishes.
But we’re all grinning, because sometimes failing spectacularly together is better than succeeding alone.
Two days later, we meet at the community center kitchen to practice for the chili cook-off portion of the fundraiser. The kitchen’s bigger than most home setups, with industrial-grade appliances that could power a small restaurant.
Callie’s already there when we arrive, standing in front of a table loaded with ingredients and looking like she’s planning a military operation.
“Ground beef, beans, tomatoes, onions, peppers,” she’s muttering, making notes on a piece of paper. “Chili powder, cumin, paprika...”
“Beans?” Wyatt interrupts, making the word sound like a curse.
Callie looks up from her list. “Yes, beans. Chili has beans.”
“Real chili doesn’t have beans.”
“Real chili absolutely has beans.”
“Says who?”
“Says anyone with functioning taste buds.”
And just like that, we’re in the middle of our first official team argument.
“Texas chili doesn’t have beans,” Wyatt says firmly.
“We’re not in Texas,” Callie points out.
“The principle stands.”
“The principle is stupid.”
“Your face is stupid.”
“Did you just ‘your face’ me? What are we, twelve?”
I step between them before things escalate into actual violence. “How about we compromise?”
“There’s no compromise in chili,” Wyatt says.
“There’s no compromise in your attitude,” Callie shoots back.
“Actually,” Boone pipes up, “we could make two batches. One with beans, one without.”
“That’s cheating,” Callie says.
“That’s smart,” I correct. “We hedge our bets, appeal to both crowds.”
“The judges will hate it,” Wyatt says.
“The judges will love having options,” I counter.
Callie considers this for a moment, then nods. “Fine. Two batches. But I’m in charge of the one with beans.”
“And I’m in charge of the one without,” Wyatt says.
“What about us?” Boone asks, gesturing between himself and me.
“You’re in charge of not burning anything down,” Callie says.
“That’s a lot of responsibility,” I tell her.
“Think you can handle it?”
“Pretty girl, I can handle anything you throw at me.”
The nickname slips out before I can stop it, and an adorable pink tinge washes over Callie’s face.
“Don’t call me that,” she says, but there’s no heat behind it.
“What should I call you, then?”
“My name.”
“Callie’s too formal. We’re teammates now.”
“We’re temporary teammates.”
“Still teammates.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue further, which I’m taking as progress.
We spend the next twenty minutes dividing ingredients and claiming workspace. Callie sets up at the far end of the kitchen, muttering about “bean deniers” and “culinary purists.” Wyatt takes the opposite end, grumbling about “Yankee chili” and “vegetarian nonsense.”
Boone and I end up in the middle, trying to stay out of the crossfire.
“This is going well,” Boone observes, watching Wyatt aggressively chop onions.
“Define ‘well,’” I reply.
“Nobody’s bleeding yet.”
“Give it time.”
I walk over to where Callie’s browning ground beef, the smell filling the kitchen with something that smells damn good.
“Need any help?” I ask.
“I’ve got it,” she says, not looking up from the pan.
“I could chop vegetables.”
“I’ve already chopped them.”
“I could... stir things?”
“Jesse.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m being helpful.”
“You’re being distracting.”
I lean against the counter next to her station. “Distracting how?”
“Just... distracting.”
She’s focused on the beef, but I catch her glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Tell you what,” I say, “how about I stay right here and provide moral support?”
“How about you go help your brothers?”
“They don’t need help. Wyatt’s got his system, and Boone’s...” I look over to where Boone’s trying to open a can of tomatoes with what appears to be a butter knife. “Actually, Boone might need help.”
“Then go help him.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re more interesting than my brothers.”
“I’m just making chili.”
“You’re making chili with passion. There’s a difference.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment, we just stand there watching each other.
Then Boone shouts from across the kitchen, “Jesse! How do you open these damn cans?”
“With a can opener,” I call back without taking my eyes off Callie.
“What’s a can opener?”
I sigh and push away from the counter. “Duty calls.”
“Jesse,” Callie says as I start to walk away.
“Yeah?”
“Try not to let him hurt himself.”
“No promises.”
By the time I get Boone sorted out with proper kitchen tools, both chili pots are simmering and the kitchen smells like heaven. Callie’s added her beans and is seasoning with the confidence of someone who knows what she’s doing.
Wyatt’s being more methodical, tasting and adjusting with scientific precision.
“How’s it going?” I ask, walking between their stations.
“Perfect,” they both say simultaneously, then glare at each other.
“Can’t both be perfect,” Wyatt points out.
“Mine can,” Callie says.
“We’ll see about that.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re all gathered around the tasting table with plastic spoons and high expectations.
Callie ladles out samples of her bean-filled creation, which, I have to admit, smells incredible.
“The Princess of Beans,” I announce, giving her a mock bow, “presents her royal creation.”