Page 82 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“What?” Alistair asks, semi-shouting again. Another piece of chalk flies toward us, and he dodges it. “Dude, if hisbackis to me, I can’t read his lips. Are westarting?”
I tap the recipe card. I can’t convey “aloud” with my eyes, so I make a thrusting gesture with my left hand, projecting it away from my face. He frowns. I point past him to Ian, then cover my eyes with one hand to indicate his handicap, and tug on an ear with the other.
“Oh!” Alistair points to his headphones. “It’sThe Death of Ivan Illych. Do you know it?”
I’m going to lose my mind.
Diego shakes his head, addressing the camera. “Friends, we may be in for some trouble.”
For the next few minutes, I’m inclined to agree, but onceAlistair catches on, things start to progress. He takes on sauce duty, mixing and intermittently grumbling something about a “bourgeois Russian cog”—Mr. Illych, I presume. I intercede when necessary, mostly acting as eyes for to Ian, who is tasked with patting the chicken dry, and guide his hand to make sure the ranch seasoning he sprinkles over the chicken gets distributed evenly. We risk letting him try chopping some breast meat after its initial round in the air fryer, but after I make one too many high-pitched warning sounds, he suggests that Alistair take over.
“How’s this look?” Ian asks, indicating the chalupa he’s assembled. It’s a little messy, but most of the filling has made it into the Built Box proprietary blend grain-free tortilla.
I pat his arm approvingly, and while I’m in the neighborhood, discreetly press my knee against his below the prep table. We haven’t talked about how public we’re going to be about this, and while I suspect that the guys would just roll with it, certain gym members are already more invested in the prospect of us getting cozy than is healthy. I’d rather not have to deal with their expectations while I’m still trying to understand my own.
Ian makes a low rumbling sound—oh, myfavorite—and I—
Alistair is watching us. So is Diego. A cursory peek into the living room reveals Grant peering around his laptop screen. All three wear matching looks of confusion.
Until Alistair doesn’t. “Oh, no shit!” he bursts, and Grant shoves his headphones off with both hands with a “Goddammit, dude!”
Using the business end of his knife, Alistair points back and forth between Ian and me. “You two aredoing it!”
I freeze, Ian going still against me.
“We are not… doing it.” Ian says, with an angle of uncertainty that makes the technically accurate denial more scandalous than the accusation.
Alistair laughs. “Whatever. You’re definitely doing something.”
“What are you— Oh!” Diego interrupts his question to read off the screen. “It’s from BarbaraSells4U. I bet that’s Babs! The coffee group was going to do a watch party at Tom’s.”
What!?I scramble forward to read the screen. Alistair’s theory has inspired a number of strangers to comment, but I focus on specific names.
BarbaraSells4U: I KNEW IT!
HelenNOTofTroy: When did this happen?
BarbaraSells4U: YOU WERE SO OBVIOUS SATURDAY! HOW DID I NOT PIECE IT TOGETHER?
TOMMYnumber$: I knew
HelenNOTofTroy: Why are you typing? We’re in the same room.
TOMMYnumber$: HAHAHAHAA
HelenNOTofTroy: Why am I still typing?
TOMMYnumber$: Ellie’s going to have to be more discreet when she slips out the back stairs at Firehouse.
The back— My shoulders drop. Thursday, after nap time. Ian had walked me out via the back door, so we wouldn’t be seen by anyone coming in for the one thirty class. We’d lingered in the doorway for a minute… or more. I just needed another feel of his pecs.
I shuffle back to my spot beside Alistair, and Diego places a hand on my shoulder. “Ellie, if you need privacy, let me know. I can wear my headphones. Forvolume. If that’s something…” His cheeks flare scarlet. “That you do?”
I fold my arms on the table and bury my face in them.Christ.
“Could we please change the subject?” Grant asks. “You’re making thisweird.”
“This is getting a lot of engagement,” Diego observes. “Ellie, do you think that this is useful to Built Box?”
