The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  She found a spot, and her tired body groaned as she got out of the car. Earlier in the morning, she’d managed to get back into her parents’ home undetected and sneaked in a power nap before forcing herself out of bed and into the shower. Unfortunately, she still needed about four more hours of sleep before she would feel rested. Clutching the biggest coffee travel mug she could find, Dylan heard her phone ding as she stomped across the damp sidewalk. She felt around the bottom of her purse, anxiety coursing through her body. Would Mike text so soon? She hoped not, because she hadn’t the slightest idea what she would even say.

  When she finally located the source of the ding, Nicolas scrolled across the screen. Secretly she was grateful he’d refused to be listed in her phone as Boyfriend or with any sort of heart-based emoji. He said that was demeaning and exclusively appropriate for teenage girls. She disagreed, but it did save her the trouble of having to fix his name in her phone.

  Forcing herself not to tap her pointy-toed houndstooth heel as she waited for the elevator, Dylan practiced breathing in and out while consistently checking the number above the elevator door. She’d started to wonder who on the second floor was taking so long to get out of the stupid thing when the door finally opened. She rushed in and jammed the little “close” arrows before turning back to her phone.

  Hey babe. You haven’t been answering my calls.

  Watching the “. . .” that followed his text, indicating he was typing another message, a pang of nostalgia leaned on Dylan’s solar plexus. Not long ago, a checking-in message from Nicolas would have meant something to her. A rare moment of him demonstrating that he was thinking about her.

  I really want you to hear me out. I think you’ll feel better once you’ve heard my reasoning.

  Dylan snorted as the nostalgia bolted from her memory, replaced with a reminder of the roughly fifty-seven text messages she’d received every time she hadn’t answered his calls and he’d wanted something from her. The thing with Mike might be complicated, but he wouldn’t demand she talk to the super about their toilet anytime soon. Comparing Nicolas to Mike was like comparing a Fig Newton to a Tim Tam. One might be better for her according to the nutritional label, but the other was clearly a superior choice by every other reasonable measure.

  I don’t like how we left things. We were fine before your family was involved.

  Nor would Mike trash-talk her family. And he had good reason to dislike them.

  Please. Let’s talk.

  Dylan bit down on her bottom lip, tired of Nicolas’s emotional manipulation. His version of begging might have seemed cute to him, but she thought she would feel even better if he just left her alone. For the sake of her stuff not being in the street like in a nineties R&B music video, she answered:

  I’m OK with where we left things. We can arrange for me to pick up my stuff when I return in three weeks.

  As soon as she hit send, his typing bubble appeared, and Dylan secretly wished the Wi-Fi in the building wasn’t so good. She didn’t need to see the response right away.

  Babe. Do we really need to throw away all these years over your family?

  Her fingers flexed in frustration as she tapped back:

  Again, I’m comfortable with the way we ended. I’ll contact you when I’m back in town.

  Doing her best to smile as she passed employees in the cubes on the way to her office, Dylan caught his reply:

  Fine. Don’t forget the apartment is in my name. The locks may not be the same until we have a chance to talk.

  Dylan rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck in the back of her head.

  This feels like you are manipulating me. But, if a call is required in order for us to amicably end this relationship, I’ll give you a call tomorrow night.

  Fitting her key into her office door, Dylan sighed. Was holding her things hostage even legal? If anyone would know how to make her life hell, it was the shark of a divorce attorney she lived with. She should have predicted him doing this. Had she been honest about the odds of their relationship ending, she might have.

  As if the world could sense her apprehension, her desk phone began to ring. Glancing at the caller ID, she groaned as Jared scrolled across the screen. She let it ring twice more before straightening her spine and picking up the receiver.

  “This is Dylan.”

  “Dylan, Jared here. I left you a couple messages this morning.”

  “Yes, I saw. I was just making my way through my voice mail.” Dylan fought to keep the irritation out of her tone. His clipped delivery made it sound like she had not returned his call since 3:00 p.m. last Friday, not 9:32 a.m. the same day.

  “I don’t know if you have seen the trending #TechnoDisasters and #TechnoFails reports on our clients, but Technocore has scored high again. And not in a good way.”

  “You know, that doesn’t surprise me. We had a rough start at the retreat, but if you dig deeper into the hashtags, you’ll see a surprise turnaround in—”

  “I don’t care about the turnaround,” Jared shouted, taking her by surprise. “What I care about is results. I’m not seeing them in all of this junk.”

  Dylan cleared her throat, trying to decide how best to proceed as her boss breathed heavily into the phone. There probably wasn’t a right way to talk him through this, but the alternative of crawling under her desk to wait it out seemed just as unlikely to yield positive outcomes.

  “I can see why it seems that way. But share prices are holding steady, which implies investor confidence, and again, within the trending posts there is actually a change in tone—”

  “I don’t need excuses. I need—no—expect results.”

  “And I think you are seeing them. It’s a real vote of confidence the board hasn’t scheduled a meeting, released a statement to shareholders, or—”

  “I don’t give a shit about what the board hasn’t done. Those assholes created this mess. I want a report on the immediate outcomes of the retreat, action items okayed by Technocore management, and workforce-retention projections tomorrow. Understand?”

  It took Dylan a moment to process being cursed at by a man who was almost assuredly wearing a sherbet-colored cardigan and boat shoes.

  “My understanding was that you would like to be part of the review process before we start putting together some of the documents that both Kaplan and Technocore directors will need to approve.”

  “For God’s sake, did I stutter?”

  “No, you were quite forceful in your language. It’s just Technocore is also your assignment, and I think if you were present, you would see the tenor of the workplace is rapidly improving, even with the stumbling blocks.”

  “At the rate you’re going, there won’t even be a client for me to visit. Get your shit together, or get your bags, because I will fire you. Clear enough?”

  Dylan’s mouth went dry. Jared had been nasty for weeks, but this was a new rock bottom. Trying to keep her voice steady, she answered, “That is a tall document order. Typically, four of us would analyze this kind of data and make a recommendation a week or so later. You do realize you’re asking for a grand total of one hundred sixty hours’ worth of work in two days? Even if I pulled an all-nighter, I wouldn’t have enough time to produce a quality product.”

  “Get it together or get out,” Jared spat. “I’ll look for the documents.”

  The line went dead. Dylan sat motionless until the please-hang-up-or-try-this-call-again voice spoke into her ear. Gently, she set the phone back into its cradle and looked at her closed office door to ensure no one was watching, then let several unseemly descriptors fly.

  By the time she had reached profound dickhead, she had rage shakes. Whatever had crawled into his undies and bitten him was no excuse for cursing at a colleague. That wasn’t just bad managerial tactics; it was bad manners. For a moment she considered sending him a picture of her middle finger and storming off, but then she caught sight of Deep walking toward her desk, chatting with the sociall
y awkward guy from Accounts Payable, and stopped short. Jared was a certifiable asshat, but he wasn’t chasing her out without a fight. Not when things were just starting to turn around.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened a document to start an outline of the items he’d requested when there was a knock on her door. Tension seeping into her jaw, Dylan glanced up at Brandt’s perpetually pale face in her window. He was smiling and waving at her.

  “Good morning,” Brandt said as he stepped through a miniscule crack he’d opened in the doorway, as if a thin opening made his presence less of an interruption.

  “Good morning. How’s it going?” Dylan leaned back in her chair, aiming for a relaxed posture she did not feel. The specter of the world’s worst manager hung over her head like a curse, and she would be damned if even a hint of Jared’s attitude made its way into her office.

  “Your hair is curly!”

  Dylan laughed at the look of genuine surprise on his face as he came to stand directly in front of her desk. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s my best-kept secret.”

  “Not anymore, it’s not.” Deep strolled past Brandt with an excess of confidence and plopped down in the chair across from her. “If I had hair like that, I’d never be bothered with a flat iron again.” Studying her appearance, Deep cocked an eyebrow at her. “Any particular reason you’ve got curls and came in after nine a.m.?”

  “None whatsoever.” In another life, Dylan was almost positive Deep had been a child of Bernice’s. It was like she could smell a good story waiting to be told.

  “It is very unlike you,” Brandt added, without any of the implied suspicion Deep’s question had carried.

  “Just feeling lazy. I figured with this rain it wouldn’t matter what I did.”

  “But that’s never stopped you before,” Brandt pointed out.

  Deep’s smile was devious. “Does it have anything to do with List Guy, because we googled him, and wowza!”

  Dylan’s bark of laughter cut her friend short. “Enough about Mike. Did y’all come in here to ask why my hair is curly?”

  “Don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject,” Deep said, giving her a suggestive wink. “No, we didn’t come to chat about your hair or List Guy. Brandt and I were thinking we could go to lunch and talk about staff-appreciation-committee stuff? We had an idea for a game night.”

  The word no was halfway out of her mouth before Dylan caught herself. There was no way she could deliver what Jared was asking for, so why couldn’t she take twenty-five minutes to walk over to the corner store with them?

  “Sure. But can we make it a late lunch? Like one thirty?” Holding up a hand, she added, “Kaplan’s breathing down my neck on some stuff.”

  “Of course,” Brandt said. “Told you she’d come.”

  “Guess I’m getting lunch.” Deep inspected her perfect manicure, smiling. “We had a bet. You never come out of this office. I thought for sures Brandt would be picking up the tab.”

  “You bet on me being antisocial? Brandt, thank you for your loyalty,” Dylan said, in mock pain. “Deep, you just had an off day. I’m a hermit.” A bit of the tension rolled off her shoulders as the three of them giggled. “Anything else I can do for you before lunch? Any other bets I need to settle?”

  Brandt’s gaze twitched over his shoulder. Dropping his voice to just above a whisper, he said, “Do you think you can help get our reimbursements for the retreat pushed through? I hit the limit on my card, and I don’t want to pay the interest on that thing.”

  Deep nodded along. “Bailing Tim out of dead-animal jail left me broke.”

  The corners of Dylan’s mouth twitched up. “No problem. I’ll get it taken care of today.” Her phone began to ring again as she said, “It’s the least I can do.” Glancing at the caller ID, she smiled apologetically. “Speak of the devil—it’s Tim.”

  “We can finish discussing everything at lunch,” Deep said.

  Dylan nodded her assent as the pair walked out the door. Side-eyeing the phone, she felt the dull throb of deadline panic pick up a notch. Sitting up straight, she cleared her throat. “Hi, Tim.”

  “Dylan. How’s it going?”

  Dylan took a moment to appreciate that Tim did not launch directly into business with her. This was an improvement. Jared’s beloved hashtag watch wouldn’t measure it, but Tim was getting better at being a boss. “I’m doing well. I think our minds must be linked, because I wanted to talk to you about next steps from the retreat.”

  “Yeah, I have a plan for that, and I’m going to need your help.”

  Dylan felt her eye twitch. “Fantastic. I know the staff-appreciation group is eager to get going.”

  “We’ll do that too. But this is top secret. I need you to meet me for an off-site tomorrow morning in the Industrial District.”

  “Industrial District?”

  “I don’t want to spoil the surprise. I’m sending you the address. Be there or be a hexagon!” Tim laughed with too much enthusiasm for a man who’d just invited her to a warehouse district with no explanation.

  “I have a pretty packed day tomorrow dealing with Kaplan. Can you give me a time estimate?”

  “Uhhh . . . couple hours.” Tim said this like he was a fifth grader trying to pick an answer that sounded correct on a math quiz.

  Stress settled into Dylan’s chest, eking its way down her spine. She didn’t have an hour, let alone several, but this might be her only shot at a longer block of time with Tim to get Jared’s requested documents approved. Forcing herself to stop grinding her teeth, she said, “Okay, but while we are there, we have got to work on the long-term plan for employee retention and next steps postretreat. Deal?”

  “Sure. We’ll get everything hammered out tomorrow.”

  “All right.” Dylan thought she could hear Tim squeak with delight and stifled a laugh. It was not a very adult sound. “But if there is a plane hangar or a stabby-looking warehouse involved, I will be long gone in under a minute.”

  “Once you see what I have planned, the warehouse won’t freak you out.” Tim said this in such a dry tone that she couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or if a warehouse was actually involved. Before she could ask a clarifying question, Tim added, “All right, my Rolfer is here. Gotta go!”

  “Hey, Tim. One thing,” Dylan said to the dead air on the other end, then shook her head. Of course Tim was into Rolfing. In fact, she was only surprised it had taken her this long to get confirmation. Pushing her frustration about wasted time aside, she opened a window to email him about Deep’s and Brandt’s reimbursements. Typing out a quick please do this, she blew out a long, strained breath and scheduled the message so that it would go out in roughly an hour and fifteen minutes, hoping to catch Tim post-Rolfing.

  Attempting to swallow her mounting anxiety, she reasoned Jared had said close of business, but he hadn’t said in which time zone. She could send him the documents by 5:00 p.m. Hawaiian Standard Time tomorrow, and he couldn’t say she hadn’t followed directions.

  “This’ll totally work. Not.” Dylan groaned, slumping over in her chair. “Don’t give up. You’re a smart girl. You can figure this out.” Inhaling through her nose, she picked her head up and tried to work.

  She achieved laser focus on her work for all of thirty-five seconds, when her phone chimed again, causing her heart to leap into her throat. Massaging her left shoulder, she reached absently for her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “Shit.”

  Dylan dropped the phone on her desk almost immediately as Mike’s name scrolled across the screen. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as the phone continued to ring. She’d barely had a moment to think about anything since getting to work, including Mike. She certainly wasn’t ready to deal with her choices yet. Holding her breath, she waited for the phone to stop ringing and prayed he wouldn’t leave a message.

  Not that she didn’t want to talk to him. She just didn’t know what she wanted to say. Sorry I lied. I don’t know half the people on that
list, and my life is garbage. How do you feel about trying again from a place of honesty? seemed like not the right place to start.

  The phone stopped ringing, and she exhaled audibly. Whatever she planned to say needed finessing, and she would say it . . . after she got through Jared’s demands. And Tim’s absurd meeting. And everyone else’s requests.

  The phone buzzed, and Dylan glared at the device, which was seemingly hell bent on her listening to her voice mail. Picking up her cell, she held it as though she might be physically ill.

  Mike’s familiar voice crept through the line, comforting despite the dread his words induced. “Hey, Dylan. Turns out Chef knew something about sushi and slow jams that we didn’t.” He paused here, and the image of him nervous as he chuckled at his own joke came to her uninvited.

  “So you were not here this morning, and I thought I’d check in with you. Make sure everything is, uh . . . copacetic.” She imagined him rubbing the back of his head as he tried to find the words he needed to reach her. Despite herself, she smiled, thinking of him in his sweater, pacing around, wearing a hole in the floor of his apartment.

  “Anyway, could you call me back or text me so I know you weren’t abducted by aliens last night? Okay, talk soon. Bye.”

  Shaking her head, Dylan willed the smile off her face, allowing the tension in her shoulders to return. She didn’t need to be endeared to Mike right now, no matter how adorable his voice mails were. The only thing she needed was to get through today; then they could talk. Until then, she would keep afloat by any means necessary.

  Typing fast, she pulled up Steve Hammond’s calendar and looked for a vacancy tomorrow. After throwing a hold on a chunk of time, she picked up her phone, stomach muscles clenching, and typed out a text to Mike.

  Hey! Sorry, you were passed out and things at work went off the rails. We’ve got a meeting with Steve Hammond for 3:30 tomorrow. Maybe we can grab a bite after? Sushi and slow jams not required, but much appreciated.

  Tossing the phone in her purse like it was made of lava, she closed her eyes to stop the room from spinning. If she stayed in the office for another minute, she’d be sick. If she could just find a quiet place, literally any quiet place, to hunker down, she might actually survive the next twenty-four hours. As it was, panic had her sweating so hard she was pretty sure even her shoes were full of water. Dylan reminded herself that she had pulled off some pretty impossible-sounding tasks before. She didn’t have to panic. She just needed to get out of the office.