The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  Dylan brushed the crumbs from her fingers into her wastebasket before taking the phone. The photo, provided courtesy of Tim Gunderson, showed him making some sort of prayer gesture to a confused-looking older man, his candy apple–red car posed carefully in the background so the reader could see his NO HANZ license plate. Dylan bunched her lips into a tight O.

  “Keep reading,” Deep said, leaning back and fighting to keep the distaste from her perfectly highlighted cheekbones.

  Seattle’s Tesla-Wielding Millionaire Repents

  Tim Gunderson, the beleaguered founder of Technocore, donated his notorious red Roadster to a local shelter on Monday night. Gunderson said of the car, “I’m hoping it can be used to transport families during what is arguably one of the most difficult times in their lives. Shelia [editor’s note: Gunderson named his car] got me from place to place, and now she can help other families do the same.”

  Since Gunderson tweeted the news, many can’t help but wonder if a standard tax-deductible gift might have been more helpful. Still others noted that there is no guarantee that Gunderson’s company will be afloat in six months, so it is probably best he hold on to those pennies.

  “Well,” Dylan said, picking up another cracker. “At least he buried the meme.”

  “Brandt said the same thing. Frankly, the picture looks stupid, but the idea wasn’t all bad. The shelter will probably sell the car, but at least we don’t have to see it in the parking lot anymore,” Deep said, exhaling slowly. “I can’t figure out what brought it on or why he felt the need to hire a photographer to document it.”

  “That’s my fault. I gave him everyone’s feedback, and I think he may have overcorrected.”

  “I heard people have been putting bus passes in the office mail for him,” Deep giggled.

  “Is ‘people’ you?” Dylan half laughed, using air quotes, before remembering her headache.

  “I wish. I’m too lazy to pick up passes just to give them to Tim. Maybe next time, though.”

  “If I do my job right, there won’t be a next time,” Dylan said, feeling better as the crackers worked their way through her system.

  Deep stood up and smiled. “In that case, I’ll pick some up this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dylan drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, releasing some of her nervous energy as she crept toward the airline sign Nicolas was waiting under. To her family’s credit, they were keeping the jokes to a minimum, and her dad had even made an attempt at dusting. Dylan was so grateful for his effort that she hadn’t even told her father that she’d gone back over his dusting job after he’d left the house. If she didn’t know any better, she would say the Delacroix were excited to meet her “ghost” boyfriend. She just couldn’t decide if their excitement was a good thing or a whole kettle of mess waiting to boil over.

  Inching closer, Dylan spotted Nicolas yammering into his phone. She flailed at him through the windshield until Nicolas gave her a brief smile and a wave. After pulling up to the curb, Dylan hopped out of the car, risking the drizzle to open the trunk and greet him.

  “Well, Mark, you and I both know how this ends. Hi, babe,” Nicolas said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek and handing her his luggage.

  “Hi,” Dylan said to his shoulder as he jumped into the passenger side, covering his head with the in-flight magazine. She wished she’d borrowed the magazine to cover her own hair as she dragged his luggage to the back of the car, shutting the hatch, and then darting around to the driver’s side.

  “All right, Mark. Gotta go; my girl picked me up . . . yup. Talk Monday,” Nicolas said, then hit the end-call button and reached over to turn up the heat in the car.

  “I also have seat warmers, right here in the center,” Dylan said, looking over her shoulder and feeling a fresh blast of hot air hit her. The airport was not made for so many people, and the Seattle drivers were so busy out-nicing each other that it was nearly impossible for her to figure out when people were letting her go and when they were doing the required no-you-go dance.

  “How was your flight?”

  “Turns out Kaplan’s companion ticket only covers business class.”

  “I’m surprised they gave you business class. Half the time consultants don’t even get that,” she said, waving as another car stopped to let her over, essentially halting traffic for no reason other than being polite.

  “I’d revolt,” Nicolas said, clucking his tongue.

  “Luckily it’s not a long flight. And the magazines in business class weren’t so bad,” Dylan said, grinning at the road and waiting for him to laugh at the joke. The car stayed silent, and she cleared her throat, trying again. “I’m so excited you’re here. My parents can’t wait to meet you. Dad even made an attempt at using cleaning supplies.”

  “It should be good. And even if it isn’t, it’s a short trip.”

  The blue glow of his cell phone highlighted the harder edges of his face as Dylan attempted one of her father’s calming yoga breathing techniques. Gripping the steering wheel, she faced forward and addressed the elephant in the SUV.

  “Nicolas, I know their lifestyle can be unorthodox, but this is important to me.”

  “I know, babe,” Nicolas sighed, pocketing the phone and leaning across the console to kiss her cheek again. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure your family is less unusual than you say. Besides, parents always love me. I even googled your mom’s and dad’s work. I’m ready for this.”

  “Thank you. That is all I needed to hear,” Dylan said, relaxing her grip on the steering wheel.

  “Where are we staying?”

  Dylan had decided it was best to introduce Nicolas to the family in doses, until she could be sure the transition was smooth. Besides, there was no way both of them would fit in her childhood bed, especially with Milo constantly trying to crawl in.

  “Just down the road from my parents’ house. Near the university. The place is supposed to be cute, and I figured you might be hungry. There is a Seattle staple nearby that you have to try. It’s a burger place everyone—”

  Dylan’s breath caught, and she sighed, interrupting her own thought. The drive into the city from the airport was one of the most gorgeous views from any airport ever. Even on the wettest days, the picture-postcard skyline, complete with cranes and the Space Needle, seemed to reach out of the water, its lights twinkling like rare gems. It was always stunning. No matter what, she always felt like she was home the moment she saw it. “I love this view.”

  “It’s nice,” Nicolas said, flicking a glance out the window, the blue glow of his phone back in full force.

  Dylan decided to enjoy the low hum of the radio until they reached the hotel; that way Nicolas wouldn’t have to split his attention. After a few minutes and several more no-you-go turns, she parked at the hotel and bounced around to the trunk. As she finished heaving the suitcases out of the back, Nicolas appeared around the bumper, giving his phone one final tap and pocketing it again.

  “Well, this looks decent,” he said, grabbing the handle of his roller bag and moving toward the front door. “I looked up the burger place you said was good, and everyone on the internet agrees. I think we should try it.”

  Dylan sat on her hands so she couldn’t fidget. In a totally uncharacteristic move, she had forgotten her wrap, flat iron, and round brush at her parents’ house, meaning that she was sporting her curls for the first time in roughly ten years. She didn’t mind the curls, but she wasn’t crazy about the level of unexpectedness that came with them. Today was not the kind of day for surprises, even harmless strange-hair-day ones.

  Dylan tugged at a lock of her hair, catching Nicolas’s eye before she looked down at her watch. Of course, her family was late.

  “I see why you straighten your hair,” Nicolas said, stirring three raw sugars into his coffee.

  Dylan wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean, but before she could formulate a full response, the diner bell jingled, and her mother’s voice
filled every available crack in the room. “I don’t know why they hate firecrackers. And if the Robinsons are going to paint the house—Dylan!”

  Henry began frantically waving as Bernice marched toward the table. Gently nudging her dad forward, Neale appeared wearing something that had only recently belonged to Dylan but was now covered in strategically placed holes and haphazard lace. The whole ensemble was very “Miss Havisham meets the Olsen twins.”

  “You must be Nick!” Bernice said, stopping in front of Nicolas’s chair and gazing down at him with her arms wide, waiting for him to stand and hug her.

  Nicolas blinked at her for a moment. Slowly getting up, he stretched out a robotic hand. “I go by Nicolas.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” Bernice said, still holding out her arms.

  “You are Nicolas,” Henry shouted, opening his arms wide and filling up whatever space Bernice’s alto did not manage to reach. Dylan squirmed in her chair, waiting for Nicolas to hug her family. Never mind that Bernice rarely gave hugs, and when she did, they felt like stone-person hugs.

  “Hello,” Nicolas said, rotating the hand that Bernice either ignored or didn’t notice toward Henry.

  Neale floated around behind them, waving in short jerks, which felt a lot less strange as Dylan watched her parents imitate Christ the Redeemer. Her mother and father spent a lot of time staying in one pose as part of their jobs; their arms weren’t even close to tired. Nicolas glanced at her, and she mouthed, “Hug.” Out of the corner of her eye, Dylan could see the waiter coming over with menus.

  As if out of some horrific family nightmare, Henry caught sight of the server and shouted, “Calvin! Good to see you.”

  Calvin clearly mistook Henry’s pose as a hug for him and, without missing a beat, embraced Henry, then Bernice and Neale in turn. “Where have you been? Haven’t seen the Delacroix in a while.”

  To Dylan’s horror, Calvin’s hug didn’t prompt Henry to give up on Nicolas, who was still standing there staring at the whole family like a deer facing down loud, oddly dressed headlights while they chatted with Calvin. Dylan’s anxiety alarm began screeching in her head as she hopped out of her chair and wrapped her arms around her mother for a granite hug.

  “Mom, come sit next to me,” she said when Bernice finally released her from her death grip. Hanging on to her mom’s arm, she pulled Bernice into the nearest chair before calling to Henry, “Dad, let Calvin do his job. Come sit down.”

  “Right. Are those for us?” Henry asked, pointing to Calvin’s menus.

  “They are. I’ll be back with your coffees.”

  Plucking the menus from Calvin’s hand, Henry took to passing them out before having a seat. Once he selected a chair, Neale meandered over to the last chair, next to Nicolas, and sat down.

  “We were saying our neighbors are ghastly,” Henry said without preamble or prompting. He looked slightly wonky with his purple glasses perched on the tip of his nose to read the menu.

  “Is this the thing with the neighbors?” Nicolas asked Dylan as Calvin reappeared. She nodded briefly and smiled as he rolled his eyes.

  “But their son is lovely. Isn’t he, Dylan? Noble profession, teaching is.” Bernice narrowed her squint in a way that suggested she wasn’t just trying to read the menu. Dylan’s heart pounded at the mention of Mike. The last thing this visit needed was Nicolas asking questions about their neighbors. A few small hiccups aside, she liked her life in Texas. She had a good thing going for her. Or mostly good, anyway.

  “Mom, he works in a museum.”

  “A children’s museum. So he’s an art lover too.” Never one to let a detail get in the way of her point, Bernice added, “And he is getting a PhD.”

  “Anyway, his parents are fascists,” Henry added.

  As Calvin took orders, Dylan tried to get a pulse on everyone at the table. So far, it seemed like Henry was oblivious to the hug snafu. Neale had probably picked up on it but had already decided not to care. Bernice, on the other hand, would likely take the slight to her grave. Fortunately, she had a fair number of wrongs to keep track of, so Nicolas could bounce back from this with either a few well-placed laughs at her mom’s jokes or a couple of good jokes of his own.

  “Nicolas, tell us about yourself. Dylan says you’re an attorney?” Bernice asked as soon as Calvin left the table.

  “I practice family law at Grey, Campbell, and Keller. We cater primarily to high–net worth individuals to protect their assets.” Nicolas applied his most winning smile as he said this, pulling his shoulders back and taking a seated power stance.

  “What does that mean?” Neale asked, tearing open a sugar packet and dumping half of it onto the table before noticing and shifting to let her coffee cup catch the rest.

  “I work primarily on divorces, with the occasional annulment thrown in.”

  “That sounds”—Bernice paused, and Dylan could see her mother trying to pick out a convincing lie—“like a very challenging job.”

  “Especially if alimony and children are involved. I’ve one client who is working through his third divorce; I swear every wife tries to take him to the cleaners. But that’s why he retains us.” Nicolas smiled around the table, relaxing a little.

  “It sounds like this guy is bad at being married. He’d save himself a lot of money if he gave up on the idea altogether,” Henry said, laughing.

  “Yes, but then the firm wouldn’t get paid. His bad choices are good for business,” Nicolas chuckled in response.

  “Capitalism at its finest.” Neale shook her head, her curls moving with her disgust. Dylan forced a nervous laugh from her throat as Bernice and Henry grimaced at each other.

  “You know, Bernice, I was thinking about it on the flight up here—I remember a client had one of your pieces as a point of contention. Both she and her husband loved it. In the end he was willing to take less in the settlement to keep it.” Nicolas smiled again, clearly thinking this was flattery.

  “My work was a bargaining chip?” Bernice waved her coffee spoon at Nicolas.

  “People use sentimental possessions as leverage all the time. That is basically what keeps me in business. Otherwise, they could get an eight-hundred-dollar divorce through some half lawyer online.”

  Bernice looked like someone had just told her that she’d received a lifetime ban from REI. Dylan’s spine stiffened as her mother’s lip curled, prepping for a rant that could only end in something terrifically insulting to God, country, and at least one man sitting at the table, when Calvin appeared with their food.

  “All right, who had the marionberry french toast?”

  If her father hadn’t already hugged him, Dylan might have done it. Waving as her scramble came up, she was relieved to see Bernice relinquish the rant in favor of munching on a bite of pancakes. Working to change the subject, Dylan said, “Mom actually has a show coming up soon. What’s the series called, again?”

  “Three Souls.” Bernice smiled, and her entire body softened. “It’s an exploration of aging, parenting, and what it means to rear souls as your role in society shifts.”

  Neale, who had appeared to tune in when she sensed a Bernice diatribe, gave Dylan a helpful nod and asked, “Is it mostly canvas work, or have you decided?”

  “I’m still working with the gallery, but I think mostly canvas. Maybe a few of my earlier bronzes. I’m not sure that I want to put them on the market. But your father thinks seeing the progression of my work is important for this show.”

  “And you don’t have to sell them,” Henry pointed out.

  “Yes, but you know how it is. Once collectors know a piece exists . . .” Bernice shook her head, taking another bite of her food.

  Breaking off a piece of his muffin, Nicolas said, “It’s funny—I had no idea art like yours was so expensive.” He chuckled, then added, “I mean, the divorce piece wasn’t even a big painting.”

  “Well, not everyone likes to hang Animal House posters on their walls,” Bernice quipped.

  Just like that
, the calm Dylan had restored vanished. All she could do was hope Nicolas would cram the rest of his muffin into his mouth so he couldn’t fit any more of his foot in there.

  “Art comes in price ranges like anything else,” Neale said diplomatically. “There is a market for art, and people purchase what is meaningful to them at a price that makes sense for the market; thus the market supports itself.”

  Nicolas was flustered, surprised Neale had explained a basic economic principle to him and that the principle applied to the fine art world the same as any other market. “I mean . . . it’s good Bernice can support herself with art. It’s a tough business.”

  “Well, we can’t all be employed sucking the algae off of foolish men with too many wives,” Henry said, scooping the last bite of breakfast onto his fork. “But we do okay.”

  Dylan racked her brain, trying to remember the last time her father had slung an insult. That was usually her mother’s domain. She opened her mouth to jump in but wasn’t fast enough.

  “It is unfathomable that a little lady like me can support myself. Sometimes, I even support my family,” Bernice said, mawkishness dripping from her words.

  If Nicolas had missed Neale’s tone, he certainly picked up Bernice’s and Henry’s. Unfortunately, he was not the kind of man who backed down in a fight. “I took a class on entertainment law in school. Artists are so involved in the creative process that pricing and selling their work can be difficult, because labor doesn’t always match the buyer’s price expectations. Not to mention the constant shift in consumer tastes. It’s why making enough money to support yourself is difficult.”

  “You took a class in law school?” Neale snickered.

  “Good thing you are familiar with our struggle.” Bernice folded her napkin.

  Dylan’s head swiveled like a woman possessed as she searched for Calvin. They needed the check before someone threw food. Probably Henry, but Bernice was still holding her fork in a menacing way, so she couldn’t be sure. Catching Calvin’s eye, she waved with only the faintest hint at discretion. This was an SOS situation. She couldn’t risk a subtle gesture being missed.