The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  “Sorry,” Dylan said, suppressing a chuckle at the sight of Steve. “I thought I was alone down here. Clearly, y’all did too.”

  “Good morning,” Steve said, regaining his composure and letting the hand at his collarbone drop. “There is no coffee cart on weekends, so we thought we would try our hand at making some.”

  “I think people have hidden the coffee from me,” Tim said, still rubbing his head.

  “And the coffee machine, cups, and creamer?” Steve asked, rolling his eyes. “Man, no one is hiding anything. It just isn’t here.”

  “Actually, Tim hid it from himself.” She hefted the heavy box of shredding onto the counter. “When you first got the coffee cart, you got rid of all the old machines. Then you moved the cart but never replaced the machines, which was one of my recommendations,” Dylan said, shaking her head with a resignation usually reserved for people who lost political races.

  “I forgot about that.” Tim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, while Steve gave him a sidelong glance.

  “Maybe it’s time to reinstate our director of operations position?” Steve’s tone was so thoughtful that Dylan could almost buy the charade he was putting on for Tim. Rehiring a facilities manager had also been her recommendation. Thinking about her work, Dylan suddenly went still, imploring whatever gods were so effective at bringing rain to the city to cast their magic over her imminent departure. She had arrived specifically to avoid being escorted out by HR, and here was the head of HR looking for a coffee cup.

  As if noticing the shift in the room, Steve asked, “What are you doing here on a very early Saturday morning?”

  “I . . .” Her brain stalled out for a moment, and she blinked at Steve a few times to jump-start it. Failing to find a better excuse, she called up some of Neale’s blasé attitude. “I was told I’d be let go on Monday. I’m here trying to organize things for the next person.” Hoping to shift the mood, she added, “Don’t want another Marta’s-office situation.”

  Steve and Tim now looked like their brains had stalled and were also in the blink-to-jump-start phase. Dylan’s half-hearted chuckle was the only sign a joke had even been made. She reminded herself that HR and CEOs had always been a bit of a tough crowd.

  “I don’t understand!” Tim sputtered. “No one consulted me on this.”

  “I certainly didn’t authorize your leaving. Who told you this?” Steve scowled.

  “My manager at Kaplan. I know things haven’t gone as smoothly as we might have hoped, and I understand.” Dylan’s heart sank, despite her attempts at being gracious.

  “That’s not possible,” Steve said.

  “I’m afraid it is. I was told in no uncertain terms to pack my bags. Hence the weekend shredding.”

  Tim’s expression was stoic, while Steve gave the cardboard box of documents an odious look.

  “No. What I mean is, Technocore specifically negotiated our contract with Kaplan. Barring some massive act of malfeasance or extreme negligence, it is impossible for them to fire you while you work for us. Did you commit an act of fraud or corporate espionage?”

  Steve asked this last question like it was a distinct possibility, forcing Dylan to bite back a laugh. “No. Of course not. I wouldn’t even know where to start with fraud.”

  Tim shifted his weight rapidly from one foot to the next, his eyes darting between the two of them. For his part, Steve fixed her with a piercing stare, as if he were trying to compel a confession out of her with just his eyes.

  “Honestly. I’ve filed my reports ahead of time, and I saved my receipts for everything,” Dylan stammered through her dry mouth. Apparently, all the water in her body was making its way to her armpits.

  Steve maintained his stone-cold expression for a beat before quirking an eyebrow and guffawing. “Of course you didn’t. I see bad behavior all the time. The closest someone like you comes to fraud is reporting the person who committed it.”

  Dylan forced herself to chuckle, relieved she was not about to be marched out of the building. Tim, on the other hand, looked horrified. Catching sight of Tim’s face, Steve doubled over, his cackle only intensified by the CEO’s expression. Giving his knee a second hearty slap, he straightened up. “Man, you two have no sense of humor.”

  “I’m not sure there is a lot of humor in HR,” Tim said, turning his nose up.

  “There has to be when you’re the CEO.”

  Both broke into a fresh round of howling, reminding Dylan of the cantankerous Muppet movie critics, Statler and Waldorf. When they finally noticed she was still smiling politely, Steve straightened up, rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses, and said, “Yeah. I’ll give John a call, but how about we proceed as if you are not fired. Show up on Monday; I’ll deal with the rest.”

  Dylan froze as she tried to make sense of Steve’s words. She could see Steve looking at her with a level of nonchalance that made it sound like he unfired people all the time. Next to him, Tim beamed before glancing back at the fridge and grabbing a Coke knockoff product.

  “I don’t get it.”

  Steve shrugged. “As you know, we’ve had a difficult time with consultants. I know John Kaplan from my last company. Good guy. He did us a solid when no one would touch us. I’ll give him a call. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t know about the terms.”

  “We don’t usually see the contract,” Dylan stammered, a wave of relief washing over her. “Associates like me just get told where, when, and how long.”

  “Huh! Who knew?” was all Steve said, as Tim shrugged and took a loud slurp of his pop. “Anyway. You can stop cleaning out your office now.”

  Dylan’s muscles relaxed to a degree she hadn’t experienced in months. Her legs turned to jelly, as if she had been holding a wall sit for hours. Her voice was the only part of her that didn’t feel like it had run a marathon. “Thank you.”

  Unsure of what to do with herself, she started dumping the box of shredding into the bin before something struck her. “Why are you two here?”

  Steve grimaced as Tim took a long sip of his pop, looking around as if no one had asked him anything. Dylan watched as the tension stretched between the two of them, until Tim finally broke under the weight of the meaningful gazes Steve was piling on.

  “As you know, I made an error. And after consulting with Steve and a few others, but not you, because it turns out you thought you were fired, which explains a lot—you can ignore my emails—” Steve’s indignant snort interrupted Tim. Shooting him a dirty look, Tim continued, “As I was saying. After consulting with the team, we told everyone to take the rest of Friday off, our treat. Now, we are here trying to figure out how to rebound.”

  “Makes sense.” Pulling at the sleeves of the ugly sweatshirt she’d borrowed from Neale, Dylan looked between the two men to see if either of them cared to share more. When neither of them said anything, she asked, “What’s the plan?”

  “I was thinking we do an all-expenses-paid trip to Disney—”

  “That’s not happening,” Steve said, raising a dismissive hand. “I’m thinking a staff picnic or a party cruise. Drink tickets, of course. Don’t want people getting out of hand.”

  Dylan stopped listening. A level of stillness descended over her that would give the gold-painted street performers in Vegas a run for their money. If Steve was willing to book an expensive party cruise, surely she could find a better return on his investment. The gears of her brain began to grind over her chance encounter with Steve on Friday.

  “Hang on . . . ,” Dylan said, interrupting Steve’s concerns about Technocore’s lax alcohol policy. She had dismissed Tim’s involvement in Crescent thousands of times. But did that mean she needed to dismiss Technocore’s? What if there was a way to do it? Make it bigger, even? Dylan started again, aware that the two men in front of her were waiting. “Steve, you said you met with Mike from Crescent?”

  “Wait. What’s this meeting?” Tim leaned in, shocked that a conversation had happened without his knowledge.

&
nbsp; “A friend of Dylan’s who was looking for me to donate to his children’s museum. It’s not in my personal philanthropy budget this year, but it sounded like a cool project.”

  “What if . . . ,” Dylan said, exploring the idea as it came to her. “Okay, hear me out. The museum needs a big donation, like, more than one person can give. So what if Technocore paid for the sensory room?”

  “That is a lot of money.” Steve’s expression was skeptical, but the words didn’t sound like a hard no.

  “Obviously. But I think we have a shot at redemption.” Rotating her wrist to help her think, Dylan added, “What if we went even further? We could partner with Crescent to develop the program. Give everyone in the office community service hours. For example, staff get ten workweek hours a quarter to spend off site at Crescent, helping them develop the tech, install the panels, run the room. Whatever the museum needs.”

  “This is exciting!” Tim shouted, bouncing in his organic sneakers. Steve grabbed his collarbone again, and Dylan jumped with surprise.

  “Is . . . it?” Steve finally asked, releasing his chest.

  “Yes! I used to spend hours at Crescent. I love that place. Now Technocore can be intimately involved in the next phase of its development. We’ll have a tremendous impact in shaping the next generation of learners and leaders in Seattle.” Tim stopped shifting around and looked between the two startled members of his audience. “Write that down for the press release.”

  “No.” Dylan and Steve spoke at the same time, drawing a look of contrition from Tim.

  “I love it,” Tim said, his excitement zinging around the small kitchen. Glancing over at Steve, Dylan could see he was starting to catch some of Tim’s enthusiasm.

  “We could launch it as a pilot. If it works with Crescent, maybe we try it with other charities throughout the region. It gives our employees the chance to get involved in something good, explore new skills, et cetera,” Steve said.

  “Let’s call this guy now. Get Mike on the phone,” Tim shouted, his cheeks turning a shade of red that was usually indicative of extreme physical exertion.

  A thought jolted her like an appliance with a short circuit. What if Mike had already pulled the plug on the room and said no to the money? Surely, even if he never spoke to her again, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt the museum.

  “It’s Saturday.” Dylan hated the deadpan in her own voice, but she needed to slow this train down, lest Mike didn’t want her involved anymore and it never left the station.

  “So?”

  “Who is going to answer?” Steve asked patiently. Clearly he was used to riding out the whiplash effect of Tim’s whims.

  “I see. Good point. Dylan, isn’t he, like, your friend or something? Maybe we just pop by his house?”

  Dylan balked, unsure of how to explain just how much she did not want to intrude on Mike at the moment. Luckily, Steve stepped in again. “Tim, that would be weird.” Tim opened his mouth to argue the point, but Steve held up a hand and continued, “We can wait forty-eight hours. Let Dylan come up with an implementation plan. I’ll work out numbers. You can join me for the call to tell the museum’s president. Sound good?”

  Dylan found herself inadvertently nodding in sync with Tim and stopped.

  “Fantastic. Let’s all head up to Tim’s office and get cracking. We have a lot to sort out,” Steve said, clapping his hands and rubbing them like a dad in a TV show.

  “Do you know how to work an espresso machine, by chance?” Tim asked as they strode toward the elevator, the bounce lingering in his step. “Otherwise, maybe we should get a coffee machine or two and test them out today. You know, until we hire a new facilities person.”

  Dylan smiled despite herself. She had come here in Neale’s hideous sweatshirt, prepared to leave as an ex-employee with exactly no friends, no boyfriend, no job, and nothing but a wardrobe covered in dog fur to show for her time in Seattle. Sure, she still had a new fling who wouldn’t speak to her and no friends outside of two tech dudes, and her wardrobe was still covered in dog fur. But she had a job again, and that was a place to start.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dylan tapped two envelopes on the edge of her desk, attempting to funnel her nerves into something less obvious than pacing as she waited for Deep and Brandt. To say Deep had been less than enthused when Dylan had stopped by her desk this morning would be a disservice to the unenthusiastic everywhere. On the upside, she hadn’t been entirely hostile, so there was progress.

  Her heart dropped along with the envelopes as she saw Brandt sloping toward her office door, Deep sulking behind him. Brandt turned the door handle and stuck his head around the edge. “Is now a good time?”

  “Yes. Please come in,” Dylan said with more animation than she felt, trying to counteract the apprehension that rolled off her intern.

  Brandt’s forehead creased as he opened the door an inch wider and squeezed his thin frame into the small crack. Deep gave the door a suspicious glance, then opened it wide to let herself through before closing it without any of the soft touch Brandt had used.

  Dylan felt their eyes drilling a hole into her, so she tapped the envelopes on her desk twice to collect her thoughts. This had worked out smoothly when she had rehearsed it with Steve and Tim. In fact, Tim had noted that as he was a master of apologies, her plan had the patented Tim Gunderson seal of approval and an 82 percent chance of success on his “I-really-screwed-up meter.” At the time it had been a good joke, but now, as she sat across the desk from the two people she had hurt, it was a lot less funny and a lot more terror inducing.

  She stuffed her fear into a small corner of her mind and looked Deep in the eyes, since Brandt was studying the carpet. Setting the envelopes on their side of the desk, she said, “I wanted to give you both these in person. I had a chance to speak with Steve Hammond over the weekend, and we both agreed the pair of you went above and beyond at the retreat. This is your reimbursement, plus the interest Steve calculated. He also wanted to give you both an extra three days of vacation.”

  Dylan paused, taking in the look of surprise on Brandt’s face and the lingering skepticism on Deep’s. Bracing herself, she added the bit she had practiced over the weekend. “I can’t fix that I didn’t get you the money immediately. Or that I let you both down in a big way. But I can say that I value both of you, not just as colleagues but as friends.” Unsure exactly how to finish, she exhaled and added, “So I’m sorry.”

  The fear in the corner of her mind expanded as she waited for a response. Forcing herself to sit back in her chair, she looked from Deep to Brandt and back again. Brandt also seemed to be employing a similar strategy, fidgeting in his chair, eyes darting between the two women as he reached for the check.

  “What’s the catch?” Deep asked, pursing her lips and leaning farther back in her chair. She left the check where Dylan had set it on the end of her desk. Noticing her posture, Brandt withdrew his hand and leaned away as well.

  “I don’t know that it is a catch, per se,” Dylan started, then stopped as Deep’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline, an I-thought-so expression clinging to every inch of her face. Feeling her stomach drop a few centimeters, Dylan sped up her explanation. “It’s just, if you’re amenable to it, I have a project I think would be perfect for the staff-appreciation committee. It’ll be hard work, and it needs to be done in two weeks. So you wouldn’t be able to use your vacation for a few weeks, if you want to work on it.”

  Deep’s eyebrows didn’t twitch back toward normal. If anything, the purse of her lips became more firm.

  “That is the only kind-of, sort-of catch. I swear,” Dylan said, raising her hands to display the fact that she wasn’t holding any cards.

  “What’s the project?” Brandt asked, the curiosity in his voice betraying the indifferent look he was wearing.

  “It’d be setting up a long-term volunteer program for the Technocore staff at a children’s museum—”

  “This is pointless.” Deep cut her of
f, leveling a silencing look at Brandt, who’d started to lean forward at the mention of volunteering.

  “Sorry?”

  “I don’t understand why we’d bother planning any community service when it’ll just get pushed to the side again. We can’t even help our own employees. Hell, our CEO doesn’t even know our names.”

  In all her practicing, Dylan hadn’t rehearsed a scenario where reluctance was the response. It wasn’t that she’d thought all would be forgiven, but she hadn’t expected hostility. She felt the hairs on her arms stand up and rubbed her hands over her skin, trying to calm her nerves. “I know. And I want to reiterate how sorry I am. I understand if you don’t want to do it.”

  “I just don’t see how this is any different than all the other half-baked—”

  “I’m in.”

  Both Dylan’s and Deep’s heads swiveled as Brandt joined the conversation, his tone entirely different from what Dylan was used to hearing.

  “But . . . ,” Deep said, pausing to collect herself. She raised her hand and nodded her head in Dylan’s direction as if she weren’t there.

  “She messed up. And said sorry. Besides, this sounds cool. You’re just being stubborn.” Brandt laughed as he said this, then stilled when he caught a murderous glance from Deep. Forcing his expression into something more serious, he continued, “You know you are. It’s probably why the two of you are friends.”

  Now it was Deep’s turn to explore the various colors of carpet fiber present in Dylan’s office. “It just really sucked,” she said, finally drawing her eyes away from the floor. “We told people we were meeting to work on an idea. And that things would be turning around. Then you stood us up. It was embarrassing,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “Yes, it was humiliating, but things are still looking up. You can’t tell me it isn’t better around here,” Brandt said, his newfound confidence creeping into exasperation.