The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  “At least we are on the same page here,” Mike muttered under his breath. “Look, I’m not interested in being a scapegoat or a punching bag or whatever it is you are doing.” It sounded as though he had stopped pacing, and his tone softened again. “I care about you. So how about you call me if you work things out or if you want real help working things out. Okay?”

  Her heart squeezed, but she had little to say in response. Luckily, her mind was still storming, and she let that carry her through the conversation. “I don’t need help.”

  “All right. Talk to you later,” Mike said, his tone heavy. He waited a beat for her response before hanging up the phone, further irritating her. Even his brush-offs were reasonable.

  Worse, Mike had sounded sorry too. Glancing at herself in the rearview mirror again, she scowled. She was still an ashy shade of I-just-got-fired green, and any blood left in her face had made its way to her cheeks, reminding her of sinister clowns in movies. The whole look added to her growing sense of horror. What had she done?

  In the mirror, Dylan almost didn’t recognize herself. What kind of person tore into someone for asking reasonable questions? Her heart plummeted as soon as the words optimistic and fool circled back to her. Mike didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Hadn’t Jared just shouted at her for pointing out that he was overreacting? Yet here she was, unreasonably angry at Mike for . . . what? Being kind.

  “Holy shit, that was mean,” she whispered to herself, nausea washing over her as other parts of the conversation came back. One-night stand who is too nice? Those words had come out of her mouth, and she hadn’t even meant them. Those words were so hurtful. They were cruel. She was a lot of things, but cruel? Even at her rock bottom, she never wanted to be that kind of person.

  Taking a sip of her cold coffee, Dylan choked back the stone lodged in her throat. Dropping the phone into her lap, she looked out the foggy windshield at the fuzzy gray of the Technocore office and shivered, a sheen of her own body heat coating the windows. After blowing on her hands, she jammed her index finger into the start button and waited for the windshield to clear.

  “Damn it!” she growled at the hazy walls. She couldn’t even get out of her soon-to-be ex-client’s parking lot without more failure. Dylan swallowed tears down. Crying was for people who hadn’t pulled themselves together after feral childhoods. Women who drove over flower beds to escape ex-boyfriends didn’t cry when they threatened them. They didn’t cry over disappointing new friends, shitty bosses, bad jobs, or nice-guy neighbors.

  Taking another deep breath, she checked her rear windshield and tried to smile at the microscopic patch of visibility opening up. Soon she would be able to safely exit the parking lot and this hellhole of a town. She reached down for her coffee as her phone dinged again. The familiar tone of a text message asking her why she hadn’t turned the thing off already. Reminding herself that she couldn’t go anywhere, she picked up the phone.

  Hey! Did you turn in the recommendation letter?

  Dylan froze, the icy temperature outside finally reaching her veins. She stared at the little “. . .” implying there was more message on its way and tried desperately to think her way out of this.

  My application page says incomplete and I know everything is in. I’m gonna call. I just wanna make sure my ducks are in a row before I start making demands. LOL!

  Stacy had to know she didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. Dylan hadn’t done the letter. Feeling her body start to thaw, she typed out a response.

  Holy shit. I had a crisis at work, and I forgot. I am SO SORRY.

  Stacy typed back almost immediately.

  But you knew the deadline

  I reminded you like 50 times

  All you had to say was “I’m too busy. No”

  Dylan hit send on her half-finished text, eager to get something out there.

  I’m so sorry. I’ll call them and explain the whole thing

  Stacy’s response appeared immediately.

  I’m going to have to wait until next year and reapply

  I’m sure there’s something I can do.

  Dylan choked on the stale air in the car, willing the vehicle to finish defrosting. She continued typing, afraid to risk another catastrophic phone apology. She needed to ask for forgiveness from Stacy in person.

  All my hard work? the stupid standardized tests! my other recommendations? WASTED

  I’ll drive over now. We can call them together.

  Her head began to spin as she read her friend’s reply.

  Don’t

  Don’t come over. Don’t call them.

  Your help isn’t helpful. Stay out of it.

  I’m just so sorry! Tim went off the rails and I basically got fired. Then, I fucked over Mike, too.

  Dylan hit send, hoping her list of excuses would buy her the momentary reprieve she needed to reason with Stacy. But as she began typing, Stacy’s reply appeared.

  Not everything is about you!

  Dylan felt her friend’s words like a slap in the face. The truth behind them burning as much as her regret. Stacy’s typing bubble disappeared as Dylan sat there, her heart breaking. She had to say something. Feeling her fingers fumble around the keyboard, she hit send on another round of apologies.

  I’m sorry.

  I completely messed up.

  I am so sorry.

  Intellectually, Dylan knew her friend had walked away from the conversation, and she couldn’t fix it. She couldn’t fix anything. Not her job, her old relationship, her new relationship, or her broken friendships. Dylan felt the prickling in her eyes turn into an aggressive sting and cursed the foggy windows. Her nose started to run as a pitiful hiccup escaped her lips. Hunching low in her seat, she could almost see the road through the windshield.

  If she could be anywhere else, be anyone else—someone with less mess in their past, less disaster in their present, and less nothing in their future—she would be. Blinking at the hulking gray outline of her former building, she gave up caring.

  “Fuck it.” Dylan put her foot on the brake and her car in reverse. Tucking herself into a crouch, she drove off.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dylan didn’t bother to fix her nearly perpendicular parking job as she bolted toward the house. She fumbled with the keypad on the door as a frenetic laugh fought to escape her throat. Her mother would change the code on the one day she needed to be home. Jangling the knob in the hope that someone had left the thing unlocked, she fell off kilter as Neale swung the door open.

  “Oh God. Did Dad text you too?”

  “What?” Dylan blinked at her sister as she pushed herself upright using the doorframe.

  “Dad and Linda are at it again over the Tiger. He is so dramatic.” Neale rolled her eyes, standing aside to let her sister in.

  “I don’t . . .” Dylan started into the hallway, then stopped to look at Neale as she closed the door. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Nothing.”

  Taking a deep breath, Dylan looked at her sister as tears started to roll down her face. She glanced over at the living room but decided the cleaning job she had done had long since lost out to Milo’s fur. Instead she opted for the stairs, gracelessly flopping down as another sob shook her body.

  “Dyl, don’t cry. I wasn’t telling you to fix it. Mom is there smoothing things over now.” Neale looked at her sister with a mixture of alarm and horror as Dylan tucked her knees under her chin and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve.

  “Thank you,” Dylan said into her thighs, a fresh round of tears running down her face. “It’s not that. I fucked up. A lot.”

  Neale settled next to her with more dignity than Dylan had mustered, tucking her ratty tennis shoes close to her sister’s chocolate-brown heels. Leaning her head against Dylan’s shoulder, Neale asked, “Can you tell me?”

  In between ugly sobs, Dylan explained the entire messy affair from end to end. To her sister’s credit, Neale did not ask questions. In fact, out
side of trying to wipe her sister’s nose with her sleeve, Neale didn’t interrupt her for the first time since she was old enough to talk. As Dylan rubbed chunks of mascara out of her eyes, Neale lifted her head to face her sister.

  “So there is a lot here.”

  “Your weeklong stint as a guidance counselor is showing,” Dylan laughed, looking at the black smudges covering her hands.

  “I was really more of an admin at a counselor’s office,” Neale corrected, a smirk creeping across her face. “I’ll put it out there that I’m going to want a different set of details about Mike Robinson later. Knowing you, that requires some wine and a lot less snot, so know that I have notes.”

  “I might need something stronger than wine for that.”

  “Weed is legal as long as we aren’t near a school.”

  Dylan giggled at the speed with which her sister replied, then fell silent, the edges of her sweater soaked with tears.

  “Dylan, I think we are low enough that I can be frank,” Neale said, pulling a piece of Milo’s fur off Dylan’s sweater. She felt her spine stiffen at the touch, although she knew it was the words that caused the tension. “You have been laid low by that sad, self-important suit wearer,” Neale said, hugging her knees, subconsciously mirroring Dylan’s posture.

  “Which one?”

  “Better question: Why do you know so many?”

  Dylan looked over at her sister, who met her gaze with benign kindness etched on her face.

  “Nicolas.”

  “I really have.” Dylan sighed, sinking back into herself. When Neale didn’t fill the space, Dylan felt her thoughts slide out of her mouth. “The problem wasn’t really the suit. It was that his personality was his suit. A gray attempt at purchasing class.”

  “Dylan, that was very biting of you. I’m proud.”

  “Thanks. I wish I could say it was intentional.”

  “Okay, but here’s point number two, which is out of order and wasn’t actually a point I was going to make, but now seems like the time for hard truths.” Neale scowled at her own digression, shook her head, and continued. “Anyway. You need to take credit where it’s due. The second suit guy. Where the hell is he? You should have a whole team for this job. Instead he sent you and some vague promises about turning up. You deserve credit for all of the good stuff you did at Technocore.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Stop it. You being good at your job doesn’t make you responsible for Jason being bad at his,” Neale said.

  “Jared. But yeah.”

  Neale shrugged at his name as if it were an unimportant detail. “Honestly, just because I don’t get your job doesn’t mean I can’t tell you’re good at it. If Kaplan can’t see that, do you really want to make partner there?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Damn right I’m right.” Neale grinned. “Tell me when I’ve been wrong?” Dylan opened her mouth to start a list, but Neale held up a hand. “Rhetorical question.”

  Dylan smiled, feeling the dried tears on her cheeks stretch and crack with the unfamiliar movement. “Anything else?”

  “What?” Neale asked, staring at a stain on the ceiling.

  “You said that was point two. Are there more?”

  “You know there is. Don’t play.”

  Dylan felt her neck tighten again. She had been hoping to avoid a discussion where her faults were on greater display.

  “Standing up your work friends, even when you are terrifically surprise busy, isn’t cool. But the real question is, Why did you make those promises in the first place?”

  “I just wanted to keep a lid on everything. Keep people happy. That’s my job.”

  “Bull. Your job was to improve Technocore’s image and operations. How does overpromising and underdelivering serve that goal?”

  “Okay, enough with the tough questions. Are you going to be a consultant now?” Dylan arched an eyebrow at her sister.

  “It looks like Kaplan may be hiring.”

  “Ouch.” Dylan flinched.

  “All right, that was mean. I’m sorry, Dylan. Too much tough love?” Neale leaned her forehead on her sister’s shoulder, as if the closeness of the gesture would take the sting out of her words.

  “I just finished snotting everywhere. Maybe proceed with caution for another fifteen minutes?”

  “All I’m trying to say is that you wanted to fix things so badly you made it worse. It’s okay to say no. Especially when the request is unrealistic given the other variables.”

  “God, you sound like me at work.”

  “No need to sling insults. You know how I feel about nine-to-five.” Neale giggled, lifting her head off Dylan’s shoulder to look at her sister. “Ready for the superhard stuff?”

  “Yes, but be gentle. I still have at least twelve minutes on my snot timer.”

  Neale laughed, nudging her sister’s foot with her old sneaker. “There isn’t a gentle way to say this part. You messed up with Mike and Stacy. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but you need to fix it.”

  Dylan’s chin trembled, and she focused all her effort on keeping tears off her face as her sister continued.

  “All the other stuff you can walk away from. Doing nothing is an option you can respect, but you can’t leave them that way and sleep at night. It’s just not who you are.”

  “I know.” Her voice was timid, but Dylan worried that if she put any more effort behind it, whatever was holding the next wave of tears back would lose ground.

  “Take it from me. Some relationships are too dear to let go of without a fight.”

  Dylan nodded and felt a few tears dislodge in the process. Neale reached up with the corner of her sweater, prompting Dylan to use the back of her hand to wipe them away and exhale a shaky breath. “You’re still right.”

  “Like I said, tell me when I’m wrong!” She laughed and wrapped her arm around her sister. Neale was taller and her shoulders were narrower, but her arm was long enough to make room for Dylan under her protective cover. Squeezing her sister, she added, “You are good at fixing. You can do this. I wish I could fix this for you now, but I don’t know how.”

  “I don’t either.” Dylan shuddered as the tears started in full force again. “I never don’t know how.”

  Neale wrapped her other arm around her, pulling Dylan into a strange, crouched bear hug. It wasn’t particularly comfortable but was comforting just the same. Brushing Dylan’s hair away from her face, Neale planted a kiss on her sister’s head, her hair muffling her words. “You’ll try. And maybe fail. But you’ll sort it.”

  “Thanks,” Dylan mumbled into the little pocket of space between their shoulders.

  “It’s what I’m here for,” Neale said, before releasing her sister and straightening her spine. “We have to get up now,” she said, abruptly getting to her feet.

  “What?”

  “We gotta get up. I can see Mom and Dad coming back across the street, and you know how much Dad loves group hugs and crying together. I’m not in the mood for all of him today.” Neale cringed.

  Dylan laughed as her sister pulled her to her feet and tried once more to wipe her face with her sweater. She ducked under her sister’s arm and smiled. “Any last words of wisdom, oh sage?”

  Neale looked out the window, where their parents had stopped to admire the Tiger in the yard, putting on a show for the neighbors, before answering. “You should go get your stuff from Technocore on Saturday, before they march you out of there with a big stupid cardboard box on Monday. That is the worst.”

  Dylan chuckled before realizing her sister was serious. “When did you ever get packed and escorted out of a place?”

  Neale blinked at her sister’s question for a moment, then grinned. “Never. I saw it in a Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson movie, though, and it looked awful.” Neale put the actor’s wrestling name in air quotes before shaking her head and turning up the stairs. “You coming to hide from Mom and Dad or what?”

  Dylan steele
d herself and scanned her badge to get into the office that occupied her nightmares. She had to admit there was wisdom in Neale’s interpretation of the cinematic efforts of The Rock. Getting marched out on Monday would be much worse than shooting them an email saying Thanks for the headaches. The badge is in the mail. Her shoulders relaxed as the blue security light clicked. No one would be there to see her shred an astronomical amount of paperwork and leave with a tasteful cloth grocery bag full of possessions.

  The emptiness of the place was eerie as she crept off the elevator. It looked like a cubicle wasteland, the appearance of the place growing sadder as the motion-sensor lights shuddered to life. Failed employee-appreciation certificates poked out of every recycling bin lining the hallways. More than one misnamed fleece jacket was crammed into the small wastebaskets or dropped haphazardly on the floor. To her chagrin, Richard Chou’s jacket was gently placed on a hanger jammed into his cubicle wall, mocking her with its care. Shaking her head, she made her way over to her office, flipping on the aggressive overhead lighting.

  “Okay, girl, you are almost through it.” She said this little reassuring number to her corkboard, then straightened her posture before pushing back her desk chair and lifting a stack of papers.

  After a half hour or so, her shred bin was looking precariously full, and an uncomfortable stiffness from sitting still had settled into her bones. She stretched up with a yawn, grabbed the bin, and started toward the staff kitchen shredder. A loud thud stopped her in her tracks.

  “Ouch!”

  A cursory glance at the computer monitors in the cubicle jungle told her that she was supposed to be alone. Shifting the weight of the box from one arm to the other, she grabbed a stapler off a nearby desk. Creeping toward the kitchen with her stapler weapon at the ready, she poked her head around the doorjamb and said, “Hello?”

  The figure with his head in the refrigerator yelped and knocked it against a shelf. Yanking his head out of the fridge, Tim turned around to face her, rubbing the spot he had bumped. Next to him stood Steve, holding a cabinet door with one hand and clutching at his collarbone like he was wearing pearls with the other. His mouth was still stuck in a terrified “Oh!”