The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  “Don’t they?” Dylan let the skepticism hang in the air before selecting another cup to toss. “People without loyalty don’t feel betrayal, Tim. They feel like they helped you build this place. And you are over here acting like you did this alone. It’s rude and self-centered.” Tim’s posture hadn’t been reading proud, but in that moment, whatever was left holding up his hoodie deflated entirely.

  “Steve also said that,” he conceded. “Do you think he did this?”

  “If he did, you earned it.” Dylan laughed at the idea of the haggard COO helping everyone exact an exceptionally petty revenge. Catching the lines deepening on Tim’s forehead, she added, “For the record, no. I don’t think Steve did this.”

  “Steve’s always been a cheerleader.” Tim moved farther into the room, allowing Dylan to tuck into a new corner of the large office. She hated to admit it, but the prank had given her a chance to have the meeting with Tim that she had hoped for when she’d started.

  “Let’s move away from the who and move to the repair,” she said. “We know people are frustrated because they feel their contributions are being diminished. The truth is, when you were a smaller company, a coffee cart was a perk, but now free pop—or honestly, moving the cart back into a central place—isn’t gonna cut it.” She stopped to take a breath and stack more gooey cups, then added, “You have to take concrete steps to improve the culture. I’ve outlined some of them in the document you have. Do you want to reread it, or shall I go over them?”

  “No. I’ll give it a critical read.”

  “That’s what I expected. Look at you, already making strides,

  Mr. Founder and CEO.”

  The joke seemed to have a positive impact on Tim. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. First, I’m going to give Deep and Brandt the okay to form the staff-appreciation group.” Tim flinched and opened his mouth, but Dylan was faster. “It won’t conflict with your plans. They’ll work on small strategic efforts, like potlucks and happy hours. You’ll still oversee big moves.”

  “Fine.” Tim’s shoulders sank again as he asked, “Next?”

  “Second, promise me you won’t go buying office beverages again.”

  “I’ll leave that to facilities from now on. Scout’s honor. What else?”

  “Third, we are going to draft a good-natured social media post about how one stupid stunt deserves another,” Dylan said, duckwalking a few inches to reach more cups. “It’ll help people’s perception of you, both inside and outside of this place.”

  “About that. There was nothing in the document about public perception. What are we doing there?”

  “Right now? Nothing. We need to clean up the house before we move to the front yard.”

  “Does that make sense?” Tim asked, and Dylan instantly regretted giving him a compliment. That ego was way too quick to rebound.

  “Please trust me.”

  “We can revisit that at our next meeting.”

  Dylan rolled her eyes so hard she was glad Tim was focused on dumping out pop. Of course he would approach this like a negotiation. “Fourth, you will ditch that repugnant hoodie. What did you do, fish it out of a lake?”

  Tim looked perplexed, as if he hadn’t really thought about what he was wearing. Sniffing the sweatshirt, he gingerly peeled it from his body and answered, “This was in the back of my car.”

  “That is worse than a lake.”

  “Is it?” Tim asked, like finding stale clothing in his fantastically tacky car might not be a bad thing.

  “It really is,” Dylan said, shaking her head hard enough that her hair wobbled. “One more thing.” Stopping to make eye contact one last time, she added, “If you insist on driving that flashy car, promise me you won’t wear anything you find in it ever again.”

  Dylan flipped her blinker on and turned into a generic apartment complex off Queen Anne, looking for an open visitor spot. Since coming back to the drizzly city, she had finally managed to get somewhere at Technocore. So when Stacy had suggested she come over for dinner at her place, it had seemed like the perfect way to cut loose and not obsessively check her email for the first time in weeks.

  Dylan put her shoulder into the turn and did her best impression of a race car driver pulling into a pit stop, then threw the car into park. Using her purse as a hair shield, she dashed to the door marked 55 and knocked with more force than she needed.

  “All right. Lordy, Dyl, I’m coming!”

  “It’s cold,” Dylan shouted at the door, smiling as the petite bleached blonde yanked it open.

  “You’re cold because what you’re wearing is ridiculous. Can you get a coat that isn’t for show?” Stacy stepped aside, allowing her friend into her home.

  “Lady, this coat is Burberry,” Dylan said, reaching in for a hug.

  “Then you paid way too much money just to be cold,” Stacy laughed.

  “I’m sorry if I’m not ready to go full Bernice to avoid freezing. Besides, it was a gift from Nicolas. He loathes synthetic fabric without a brand name,” Dylan said, playfully removing her coat. Taking note of her friend’s eye roll, she changed the subject. “Your place is darling. I love it.”

  The space was small but cozy. An oversize and overstuffed brown couch stood in the corner, covered in throw pillows. Dylan noticed one of her mom’s pieces on the wall and realized Stacy’s place felt so much like home because it looked a lot like a clean, reasonable version of her own.

  “Anything look familiar?”

  “Did my parents pawn off those end tables on you?”

  “Yes, and the rugs. Shake off the dog hair, and they are good as new.” Stacy smiled, bouncing into the galley kitchen and turning on a string of decorative lights. “Your mom pointed out that the overhead lighting is dreadful, so I use these now. More peaceful, don’t you think?”

  “Wait, my mom’s been here?” Dylan tried not to sound stunned as she removed her shoes and set them in the shoe rack. Bernice was barely capable of caring for her own home. How she’d helped Stacy set up her apartment was a pure mystery.

  For the second time in a handful of days, it occurred to Dylan that there might be more to her family than chaos. Maybe she was just too close to the source to see around it. The thought exhausted her. Dylan had enough problems at work. She didn’t need to spend her precious free time examining hard truths that had been self-evident until this trip home.

  “Both your parents, actually. When they found out I had my own place, they got super into decorating it. I guess it makes sense; Billie and Neale don’t have their own spots, and it’s not like you’re dying for help.” Stacy laughed as she opened the fridge.

  Dylan’s ego smarted. Her parents had never even offered to help. Then again, she’d probably made it clear their help wouldn’t be all that helpful to her. Nicolas loved stark lighting and sharp edges, which would have stopped her father dead in his tracks. As much as it ached to hear, she was glad her friend had let them decorate.

  “Whatever you got from them, it looks far better in your home than it ever did in ours,” Dylan said, coming to stand in the kitchen.

  “You’re sweet. Mimosa?” Stacy’s bob popped up over the fridge; she was holding a bottle of prosecco that cost about seven dollars and a big thing of Tropicana.

  “The predinner cocktail of champions?” Dylan laughed. “Sure.”

  “Good. I was dying for one on the way home, so I’d be having a mimosa with or without you. I know you drink fancy predinner drinks these days,” Stacy joked, handing her a glass that was a lot more prosecco than orange juice.

  “Laugh all you want. Once you have had a real martini, you never go back. Cheers,” Dylan said, raising her glass and following her friend back out to the giant brown couch.

  Taking a big sip of her drink so it wouldn’t spill, Stacy flopped onto the couch. “So how’s it goin’?”

  “I think I’m getting somewhere with Technocore.” Dylan paused to take another sip. “This whole pop thing was actually good.”<
br />
  “I saw he posted a joke about it on social media.”

  “I kind of thank God for the prank. It made Tim way easier to work with today.” A warm, floaty feeling started to creep over her brain, and Dylan cautioned herself to slow down on the drink. “Also, remind me to tell you about Mike and the museums after this.”

  “What?” Stacy drained her glass and eyed Dylan, waving at her to finish up.

  “He was easier to work with. It took an hour for us to clean up—”

  “Boring!” Stacy shouted, dragging the o out for longer than was decent. Dylan wanted to blame the champagne, but Stacy would have responded that way if she had been drinking water. “Screw Tim—tell me about Mike,” she said, moving her eyebrows around conspiratorially.

  “Actually, cleaning up the cups was pretty cool too.” Dylan dodged her friend.

  “Girl, don’t try it. Spill.”

  “I feel like this is going to be a lot less exciting than you think it is.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Stacy said, producing a bag of prepopped popcorn that Dylan suspected was stored near the couch for nights like this.

  Taking another swig of her mimosa, she started from the top, complete with a recap of Bioré’s lowest moment and their unexpected concert for the under-eighteen crowd. At some point Stacy topped off their glasses, noting that the visitor parking was twenty-four hours, so Dylan could always leave her car overnight.

  “So basically, you went on a sexy-time museum date,” Stacy said when Dylan stopped to catch her breath.

  “What? No. How did you get that out of this story?”

  “How could you not?” she said, giving Dylan a wink. Stacy tried to roll an r to go with her shimmy, but it sounded more like a gargle than a come-hither.

  “I don’t even know what that sound was.”

  “But you know what it meant.” Stacy devolved into giggles, taking Dylan with her. “This guy is an experienced fundraiser. He doesn’t need your advice; he wants your time.”

  “I see your point, but I also feel like”—Dylan began turning her wrists, looking for the word she wanted—“you’re wrong.” She laughed. “He knows I’m seeing someone, anyway.”

  “What? Ghost Boyfriend? Does anyone really know you’re dating him?” Stacy asked.

  “Please stop calling him that.”

  “He’s too healthy and all-American looking to be real.”

  Dylan snorted. Nicolas could look a bit buttoned up in pictures. She tucked the joke away so she could tease him about it the next time he told her she was smiling too big. Now she had proof he needed to loosen up a little. And really, who thought smiling big was weird, anyway?

  “I want to point out that I know Mike is a capable fundraiser, but I’m an excellent securer of corporate relationships.” Dylan navigated away from Nicolas and hoped that the sudden onset of champagne hiccups didn’t detract from the message.

  “I’m sure you add value. But you must admit Mike is very striking.”

  “If I admit that, can we move on?”

  “No. But I’ll give you a break and circle back to the whole good-looking thing later,” Stacy said, cramming a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

  “Fine. He is very striking,” Dylan said, taking a smug sip of her drink and enjoying the shock on Stacy’s face. “See, I’m not too uptight to admit when someone’s good looking. Spread the word. Definitely tell my mom.”

  “Whatever. You did that under extreme duress and the influence of my dear friend prosecco.”

  “Deal’s a deal, heffa. Now, tell me about your life,” Dylan cackled.

  “You are diabolical,” Stacy said, draining her glass for the second time. “I do have something for you. I printed out all the recommendation stuff for my master’s program at work, in case you didn’t see the email.”

  Dylan’s brain cringed. She had seen Stacy’s email and hadn’t gotten around to clicking on the link, let alone writing the letter. She’d make time for it as soon as Nicolas left.

  “I’m sorry. I saw the email and got so caught up with everything I didn’t have a chance to answer.”

  “No worries, you still have like three weeks, but I know you are busy. That’s why I printed it out,” Stacy said, tucking the papers into Dylan’s bag before returning with more snacks and a second bottle of prosecco. “We won’t finish this one, but I have an awful date to tell you about, and that should not be discussed with an empty glass.”

  “Cheap prosecco is the devil,” Dylan mumbled as she tried to push her half-curled hair into something that resembled a bun. At some point she and Stacy had decided that Dylan would stay over instead of bothering with a cab. The following morning looked more like a comedy of errors than her standard routine. She was running so late that Stacy ended up lending her a bright-pink sweater to throw over yesterday’s dress, implying that the bottom of her dress was so neutral that absolutely no one would recognize the outfit from the day before. On the upside, there was no shortage of toothbrushes at her friend’s house, so at least Dylan didn’t have to wait to use her emergency office toiletries.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten into the office after nine o’clock, but she also couldn’t remember ever taking a walk of shame from her best friend’s house, so really this was shaping up to be a week of firsts. Fishing Advil out of her handbag, Dylan palmed a few tablets and took a big gulp of coffee. She could already feel the first dose wearing off and made a mental note to stop by the kitchen to fill up her water bottle in an effort to stave off the dreaded twenty-four-hour hangover.

  When she unlocked her office, the red message light blinked at her. Hitting the power button on her computer, she picked up the phone and punched in her voice mail code, then instantly regretted the choice.

  “Dylan, Jared here. I want to touch base with you about the Technocore project details. Better to cover them over the phone. Ideally, before you check in with anyone else. Call me back.”

  If there was a countercure to Advil, Jared’s voice was it. “Delete,” Dylan grumbled, channeling Stacy. Seeing a mass message from Tim, she caught her breath.

  All:

  I have heard you loud and clear. The pop was a bad idea, and the accompanying message an ill-conceived attempt at a joke.

  “At least he kept that part of my draft,” Dylan mumbled, resting her head in her palm and reading on.

  It has come to my attention that you all feel underappreciated. I want to fix that, starting next week, with a trip to the exclusive Silver Pines Retreat in the Olympic National Forest. We will take a luxury bus up on Thursday and be back Sunday afternoon. I hope this will give us all a chance to reflect and heal as a group.

  Thank you for your dedication to Technocore,

  Tim

  “Oooh, pink sweater. That looks good on you.” Deep’s voice floated through the doorway, her pixie cut swept into a style that made her look like she should be working at a fashion magazine.

  “Good morning,” Dylan said, surprised by her own chipper tone. For a brief moment, she had forgotten her sorry state long enough to appreciate that someone noticed her trying out a new color. Even if the new fashion choice was more luck than decision-making.

  “Is it a good morning? I mean, maybe the good news is Tim isn’t a benevolent leader anymore. The bad news is he’s making us work through the weekend. How is this better than diet pop?”

  Dylan grimaced. “He is trying.”

  “I can tell,” Deep said, flopping into a chair across from Dylan’s desk. “I’m here with an FYI because I like you way more than the last fifty consultants. The bullpen is freaking out about finding childcare and canceling weekend plans.”

  “Thanks, I’ll have Steve send a follow-up email clarifying a few things.” And by a few things she meant everything.

  “Also, the interns want to know if they are going to get paid for this, or are they being forced to work for free?”

  “Ugh.” Dylan tossed her head back and closed
her eyes before the room started spinning. “Do me a favor and spread the word that all of this will go strictly by the HR code. People aren’t getting screwed over,” she said, reaching for her water bottle and righting her head slowly.

  “Will do. Rough night?” Deep asked, giving the Advil on her desk a once-over.

  “Never drink cheap prosecco on a school night.”

  Deep laughed. “Or if you are going to do it, you should probably keep extra in your desk.”

  “I’m not even gonna think about drinking cheap champs again,” Dylan said, hoping her face didn’t look like her stomach felt.

  “Honey, never let the next morning stand in the way of a great evening. I’ve got crackers in my desk. I’ll bring them over.”

  “Deep, when I feel less terrible, I wanna know what you’re doing with your evenings that you have this kind of wisdom and crackers at your disposal.”

  “I’m not sure you’re ready for those details,” she said, leaving with a smile that held way too many secrets. Returning with the crackers, Deep said, “I thought knocking would be unnecessary, all things considered.”

  “You are my hero.” Dylan pulled open the box and yanked at the plastic sleeve. When she’d finally liberated a cracker, she attempted a nibble before noticing that Deep had plopped back down in the seat across from her.

  “Not to kick you when you are down, but I’m going to guess you didn’t catch last night’s TeraBlog?”

  “No,” Dylan said, trying to keep the crumbs from flying out of her mouth. She’d signed up for the tech gossip blog when she’d come to Technocore but didn’t spend a lot of time on it. First, she had no idea who most of the people featured were. Second, she didn’t need to read about Tim’s latest mishaps because she was present for most of them.

  Deep pulled out her phone and started reluctantly tapping at the screen. “Let me say that it can and has been way worse. This is just mildly cringey.”