The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  “In that case,” Mike said, scooting out of the bench, “let’s go.”

  Dylan smirked at her own misguided physical response and began the slow, painful slink out of the bench with what little grace she could muster. Feeling her muscles howl as she stood, she turned back to Mike. “Before my sister and very best friend decided to skip out on us, you were saying that no one wants to invest until someone else invests.”

  “After you,” Mike said, pushing the door open. “Basically. I need to find someone who’ll take a quarter-million-dollar risk, just to get a bunch of other people to take that same risk. On the upside, the other fundraisers like your live text-to-give idea, so that’s something.”

  Passing through the door ahead of him, Dylan noticed that he was still carrying Neale’s jacket. “Want me to take that?” she asked, before adding, “Never let it be said you have inexpensive taste, Mike.”

  He made a small noise that was somewhere between assent and a laugh. Handing her the jacket, he said, “Unfortunately, there is a difference between having expensive taste and having expensive things. The higher-ups aren’t saying it yet, but I think I may have to retire this dream and put in some blocks or some other tired experience.”

  The night air felt good against the Rollercoaster-induced flush. At least, she thought it was the drink that was causing the flush. Risking a glance upward, Dylan decided that Mike had a nice neck. The kind where someone’s head would fit comfortably between his shoulders and his face. It was a neck made for being close to, for cuddling, as well as other, less . . . neighborly things.

  Dylan paused, thinking of her current living situation and the possible city-ordinance violation her parents were planning to file against the Robinsons. She shuddered, deciding to focus on the less distressing aspects of her off-limits neighbor. Like his work situation.

  “Maybe I could help some more? I still have a month left on my placement out here, and I don’t do much, except try not to get fired, so I may as well do something good with myself.” She was mostly babbling now, filling their walk with more acceptable thoughts. “I do know a fair number of well-connected people through my parents’ work and Kaplan. Maybe I could introduce you? Help you get some better meetings?”

  “Are you being serious?” Mike had stopped walking, focusing all his attention on her. “I mean, you already connected us to the text-to-give company and the stock-gift-facilitator guy.”

  “Of course I am.” Dylan tried to act affronted, as if the idea hadn’t just walked half-clothed into her head. A small voice in the back of her mind suggested that connecting Mike to actual money would be a lot harder than giving him the email address of a few civically minded former clients, but she pushed it aside. If by some miracle Kaplan didn’t fire her, it would look good on her résumé, and the partners took pro bono work very seriously. It would be a win-win for her career and for Mike. Spending more time with him was just an added bonus.

  “Well, if you are serious, I’d love to go over donor names with you.” Mike looked genuinely surprised, even a little touched.

  “Pffff. Serious as a heart attack.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, an alarm sounded that her promises might be bigger than her actual skills. But surely she could learn this. Jared basically played charity golf every other weekend, so how hard could this be?

  “In that case, I think everyone at Crescent would murder me if I didn’t at least try.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Mike began walking again and bouncing on his toes with the kind of enthusiasm that would make Stacy proud. “I mean, I know it’s a long shot, but we have an event in three weeks. This is a super late addition to the program, but for that much money, I’m sure my big bosses would be willing to rearrange the evening to make a big announcement about the room.”

  She heard the words three weeks and cringed internally. She didn’t know a lot about fundraising, but even in the business world, finding millions of dollars in three weeks was a stretch. Unless you had a connection. Which she had just billed herself as having. “Exactly.”

  Dylan was vaguely aware she was leaning toward him as he spoke and cursed his magnetism. He was all easy charm and comfortable shirts. Or smiles. She was pretty sure she meant smiles. She frowned at herself and attempted to redirect her focus to Mike’s words.

  “—maybe we can go over a list of names to try to get meetings with tomorrow? Do you need more time? Maybe the day after?”

  “Let’s say Tuesday so I have time to think,” Dylan said in her best no-big-deal voice. She reasoned Mike was over the moon about the prospect of reviving the sensory room, and she could use some positivity heading into the homestretch with Technocore. Three weeks of concentrated time together doing something good for the world would be enjoyable, especially with Jared breathing down her neck.

  “Dylan, this is just fantastic. I’m not gonna lie—I decided to come out for a sorry-about-your-dream drink, and then there you were. It’s like fate.” Mike began moving down the sidewalk again, streetlamps highlighting the excitement on his features. They were nearing their parents’ respective homes, and suddenly Dylan felt like walking much more slowly. If they reached their driveways, the magic of the moment would die in the floodlight of the Robinsons’ motion sensor.

  Mike must have noticed the hesitation in her pace, because he looked down at her, concern scrawled across his forehead. “Dylan, are you all right? I don’t mean to pry, but breakups are hard. You don’t have to answer the question beyond yes or no, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you candidly.” He took a deep breath, pulling the shirt tight across his chest, a hint of a joke crossing his face. “I mean, he did understand what a routine meant to you.”

  She laughed, rolling her eyes at her own reasoning. “Routines are overrated.” Nicolas was the last thing on her mind. However, there was no polite way to tell Mike that she was more interested in what was happening under his button-up, so she settled for, “You know, I think I am. Who knows, maybe it is just shock, but believe it or not, I’m kind of okay with the whole thing.”

  The skepticism slowly abated from Mike’s brow. “I believe you, but I also believe that just because everyone else thinks he was a jerk doesn’t mean he lacked any redemptive qualities. You lived with him for years, so I’d understand if you are hurt by it ending and want to be able to express—”

  “You are a very good, sweet person. You know that?” Dylan interrupted, suddenly torn between breaking the spell and falling into his orbit. “Really, I drove over a flower bed to break away. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. All I’m saying is that it’s okay to not be okay. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I’m at my parents’ place all the time. You are always welcome to come over to the house . . . as long as you don’t drive through our front lawn afterward.” Mike smirked and turned toward his driveway.

  “I’ll leave that to my parents.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Mike said before stopping midmotion and tilting his head to one side. “Actually, hold on.”

  Mike stepped deliberately into her space, his expression focused and steady. His eyes were dark, and the intensity made Dylan feel hot all over. Her lungs stopped working, her heart fluttering in her chest. She looked up at him. Mike bit down on his bottom lip as he reached up, running a hand along the side of her face. Was he actually going to kiss her in the middle of the road, between their parents’ houses?

  Dylan’s lips parted unconsciously as he leaned closer, still holding her gaze. If she was going to put a stop to this, the time was now. She forced air into her lungs but felt the sentence she should say make its way back down her throat as Mike’s hand gently cupped the side of her face. Who was she kidding? She would not be putting a stop to this, parental wrath or no.

  He moved an inch to the side, sending a tingle of anticipation through her. Seconds seemed to tick by as Mike’s gaze jumped down to
her lips, then flicked back up to her eyes. His breathing slowed to a whisper of a movement, and Dylan felt her thoughts haze over with desire. If he delayed this kiss any longer, she was sure she would lose her mind. He ran a thumb over her left cheekbone, then drew his hand away and stepped back.

  “Eyelash,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

  “What?” The word came out sharper than Dylan intended.

  “Eyelash. What did you think was going to happen?” Mike’s expression was somewhere between naughty delight and mock innocence.

  “Not . . .” Dylan opened her mouth, searching for words. She felt like she had run headfirst into a brick wall, her senses completely disoriented. He was supposed to be kissing her right now, not waving stray body hair in her face.

  She could almost strangle him. Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her in the middle of the road. The guy was a general flirt and sworn enemy of the family. Dylan gave herself a shake and tried again. “The way you were moving all slow. I thought it was a bug or something.”

  “A bug? You didn’t think anything else?” Mike said, looking down at the eyelash he held. Gazing back at her, he raised his hand and blew gently on his thumb. The gesture shouldn’t have been sexy, but it was making Dylan wild.

  “Yes. I mean, no. What else could it be?” Her head was officially a mess. She needed to get out of the middle of the road before she humiliated herself any further.

  “I was asking you,” Mike said, a playful lift at the corners of his mouth as he looked her up and down.

  “Apparently, an eyelash.” Dylan eyed her parents’ front yard. Unfortunately, her father had recently added lights to the Tiger, so there was no way she could hide behind it until Mike left and she could retrieve her dignity from where she had dropped it at his feet.

  “Well, if that’s it. I’ll let you go inside.” Mike exhaled slowly.

  She wasn’t sure if she had truly never been a hugger or if so much time with Nicolas had turned her into someone who “didn’t do hugs,” but either way, now seemed like a bad time to sort that out. Instead, she reached out and patted Mike’s bicep. In the moment, it seemed like the best in-between action. In the split second afterward, she was sure it was the most awkward of all possible options. She had just enough time to notice his bicep flexing under her touch when Mike looked down at her hand and then back at her as if he was suppressing a laugh.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he said, shaking his head and walking backward out of her reach.

  “Night,” she said, putting her arm down faster than she’d ever thought possible.

  Still walking backward, Mike crossed into his moms’ driveway, bringing on the white floodlight of doom. “Night, Dylan.”

  The Robinsons’ light reminded her of alien-abduction movies, and she thought it might not be all bad if they descended and took her out of this humiliating moment. Recognizing only Neale would actually wait for the aliens to save her, Dylan made a breakneck limp to her front door. Growling at whoever had locked it, she furiously typed in the code and prayed that her mother hadn’t reset it. Mercifully, the door clicked open, allowing her to fall into the hallway without risking a glance backward.

  It sounded like Neale and Stacy had either gone elsewhere or found somewhere in the house to crash that wasn’t the living room, which was just fine by her. Dylan wanted space. Shuffling toward the first staircase, she decided it was probably good she had not tried to make a move on Mike for at least two reasons. First, because there was no clear indication he wanted anything from her. It was an eyelash, for Christ’s sake. In fact, after that arm pat, his expression had shown the most pitying look anyone had given her since her sorority sisters had insisted she throw out her toe socks during sophomore year.

  The second, she thought as she winced up a step, was that she was too sore to do much of anything right now anyway.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dylan tried not to readjust her hem as she walked toward Masu Bistro. She didn’t need to be nervous. In fact, she’d managed to scrounge up a list of names for Mike, just like she’d promised. Admittedly half of the names were from Deep, who might have googled local philanthropists, and Charlie, who’d absolutely read them in the Seattle Times.

  Walking past one of the roughly three dozen trendy sandwich spots in Capitol Hill, Dylan tried to focus on anything other than her nerves or adjusting her skirt, so naturally, her thoughts landed on her mother. More specifically, Bernice and Neale doing the Free Vagina dance in the hallway the morning after the Brick Heart. It was meant to inspire her to date again after so many years tied to “that wet sack of cow excrement,” as her mother had put it. Really, it was mostly lewd gyrations and the pair of them shouting “Free the vagina!” every so often. The entire event was somewhat amusing but also left Dylan with a deep urge to demand more anatomical accuracy. They really wanted her to free the clitoris, after all.

  Rolling her eyes, Dylan gave in to temptation and adjusted her skirt ever so slightly before pulling on the door handle of the sushi spot. Stepping through the doorway, she was struck by the intimacy of the place. Unlike half the restaurants in the neighborhood, Masu was small, with a massive black counter at the center of the space. She and Mike had decided to grab a late dinner, so only a few patrons were scattered at the tables clinging to the edges of the restaurant. Once her eyes adjusted to the dark, she spotted him installed in a corner of the bar near an exposed-brick wall, chatting affably with the chef behind the counter.

  Dylan smiled and waved, the gesture reaching dorky levels of enthusiasm. So much for playing it cool. Taking a deep, calming breath, she smelled hints of oil and pickled ginger. Dylan focused on the familiarity of those smells over the backflips her stomach was attempting. Mike said something to the chef, whose shoulders shrugged as laughter crept into his face, before he turned away to work on an order from a customer across the bar.

  “Hey there,” Dylan said, shrugging off her khaki trench coat and placing it on the back of her bar chair.

  “Hey. Glad you could make it.” Mike stood up, giving Dylan a brief moment to assess him. Gone was the soft shirt, replaced by a well-fitted navy-blue sweater that could only be described as some kind of sexy Mr. Rogers situation, over a white cotton T-shirt and gray slacks that probably came from a place more reasonably priced than they looked.

  Dylan smiled at his outstretched arms, determined to do a better job hugging him than she had a few nights back. Leaning into him, she felt her skin humming, as if all the static electricity in the air had suddenly decided her body was the place to be. As she inhaled his spicy smell, the buzz picked up, and she wondered how someone managed to smell like a kitchen and so good all at the same time. Probably the same way his arms managed to feel fit but not intimidating. He gave her a tight squeeze before relaxing his hold on her. Dylan let go, unexpectedly missing his warmth, and took a step back. Clearing her throat, she settled into her chair.

  “Did you find the place okay?”

  “More or less. This area has changed so much since the last time I was home,” Dylan answered, risking a glance away from her menu to look him over once more.

  “I swear something new opens every other week. When I first moved in, I planned to try every spot in the neighborhood. Then I found this place, and now I’m that guy who eats at the same restaurant three nights a week.” He laughed at himself, sitting sideways on his barstool and relaxing his solid shoulders into the wall behind him, pulling the Mr. Rogers sweater taut across his chest.

  “You like what you like. No shame in that.” Dylan feigned a casual cool. She expected the tingling sensation to decrescendo after she sat down, but it had no intention of doing anything like that. Recrossing her legs, she perched the platform of one heel on the strip of wood that functioned as a footrest before testing it with the full weight of her limbs as she relaxed. The shoe suddenly hitched down the thin wood, causing her to jerk forward as the heel hit the strip. Dylan squeaked and caught herself with her forearms before
she managed to go face-first into the bar.

  Mike’s forehead creased as Dylan tried to right herself with all the grace of a baby hippo exploring its first mud bath. “We can move to a table, if that is easier for you. I didn’t think about your shoe of choice when I picked this spot,” he said, inclining his head toward the heel she was trying to untangle from the clutches of the stool.

  “No, no. This spot is good,” she said, attempting a lower-abdomen crunch to extract her shoe, silently thanking Pilates for whatever core strength she possessed.

  Mike looked at her with more than mild concern. “Are you sure? Because it’s not like the place is—”

  “What can I get started for you?” the chef asked.

  Dylan had never been more grateful for a conversation to be interrupted as she finished righting herself with a shimmy so her backside was once again centered on the stool.

  “Mike, you are the expert. Any recommendations?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her chair but let it drop when Dylan glanced back down at the menu without additional comment. “Maybe we order in rounds? I usually let Chef pick. He never lets me down. Except for that one urchin thing. I did not like that.”

  The chef cackled, as if it was one of the better jokes he had played on a patron. “You said you were in the mood for something wild!”

  “I believe my words were ‘something new and unexpected.’”

  “Shoulda been more specific.” The chef’s expression looked like a cat who’d caught a mouse. “But I won’t do that to your lovely date. What are your opinions on sashimi?”

  The man asked this question in such a mundane tone that Dylan was halfway through, “Love it!” before her mind tripped on the word date.

  “Good, good,” he said, retreating to the other side of the counter to grab something.