The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  Henry nodded vigorously at Bernice, as Dylan processed her parents’ request. She had always thought of being a Delacroix as a weird brick wall in an obstacle course. A sometimes fun but mostly exhausting element she needed to climb in order to get to where she was going. It had never occurred to her that the brick wall could be there for her to lean against when she needed rest.

  Everything in the room felt so vulnerable, as if their careful familial bond were hanging by a spun-gold thread. Half of her wanted to stand up, walk out of the room, and break the bond. But the small part of her that advocated for her to stay was growing louder, demanding she engage. If her parents could admit they were lost, why couldn’t she? Was there so much left to lose in telling the truth?

  “The thing is,” Dylan started, tucking herself back into the couch, “I thought I made myself clear. It’s like he isn’t taking me seriously.” Her shoulders rolled forward, collapsing in, as if her subconscious was trying to make her less of a target.

  “I see,” Henry said, his expression sobering as he leaned forward to look her squarely in the face. “And how has this been communicated?”

  “Henry, what does that have to do with—”

  “I’m going somewhere,” Henry interrupted Bernice and rolled his eyes. The gesture was so prepubescent it looked absurd on a man in his sixties. Dylan snickered, only pulling it together when her mother caught her eye.

  “Mostly texts. A few angry voice mails.”

  “Oh, honey. Scoot over, yeah?” Dylan pulled her shoulders back and moved closer to the center of the couch so her mother and father could squeeze in on either side of her, the three of them jammed more closely together by their height and matching shoulder width.

  Rearranging the puzzle pieces of their bodies, Henry sat back, wrapping his arm around her and clearing his throat. “You tell CEOs off in emails for a living. Why not do the same to Nicolas?”

  “It just seemed so childish and impersonal after dating the guy for years. We should be able to part better than that.”

  “True,” Bernice said, throwing her arm over Dylan as well. “But I think we both know the kind of man you drive over foliage to get away from is not someone you treat like a grown man.”

  “If there is anything I have learned after forty years of gallery contracts, it’s get it in writing. Preferably in a language you speak.” Henry frowned partially as he added the last part.

  Dylan decided she would rather not know the story behind that little piece of advice. “It feels draconian. Like jumping from level two to level ten at light speed.” Bernice’s right eyebrow joined her left as she pursed her lips. “What, Mom?”

  “Well, it’s not really my place, but—”

  “Spit it out,” Dylan said, attempting to adjust under the weight of her parents’ arms. The gesture was nice, but she was getting hot under so many layers of skin and sweaters.

  “It’s just, if you think his behavior is level two, we need to talk about your bullshit scale.”

  Her father’s arm tensed around her, as if shielding her from the directness of her mother’s words. The squeeze around her shoulders translated to a squeeze around her heart. Her mother was right. Her bullshit scale needed recalibration, badly.

  Somewhere along the way she’d started letting bad behavior control her, first with Nicolas, then with Jared, and even with her clients. As straight talking as she’d thought she was with Tim, how much beating around the bush had she done to cajole him into half decency? It was as if she had gotten so good at repackaging bad behavior that she had stopped seeing it altogether.

  “You’re right. Civility is just throwing good after bad,” Dylan said, slowly nodding in time with her thoughts.

  “That’s my girl. Cut your losses.” Henry announced this like she had won some sort of prize.

  “Let’s get this email written.” Bernice jumped up and ran into the hallway.

  “Now?” Dylan asked, a bit startled by her mother’s sudden burst of energy.

  “No time like the present. Where is your purse?” Bernice called over her shoulder.

  “Kitchen,” Dylan answered, not bothering to ask why her mother needed her purse.

  A moment later the sound of the purse’s contents scattering across the kitchen counter crashed into the living room, along with a triumphant “Ha!”

  Bernice ran into the room, clutching the half-empty bottle of wine and Dylan’s cell phone. She took the phone from her mother, piecing together what she was expected to do. “Do you want me to proofread it?” Bernice asked.

  “Mom, no. Remember when I talked about respecting boundaries? This would be one,” Dylan said, half joking as she opened her email.

  “Okay, but will you at least tell us what you are going to say?” Bernice asked, causing Henry to giggle.

  “We are going to work on your understanding of boundaries after I write this email. Dad, stop laughing—I can feel you reading over my shoulder, and that is just as bad.”

  Henry had the decency to act ashamed. Bernice, on the other hand, took a page out of her husband’s book and leaned in closer to try to read as Dylan typed:

  Nicolas:

  I would like us to communicate through email from now on. I understand the end of our relationship is difficult, but I do not want to be threatened again. Let’s keep it civil and behave like adults.

  Movers are coming to the house on the 3rd to pack up and take my things away. I will be there to help supervise, and afterward, I will return my key. If there are any final bills to settle, you may email a copy of the statement to me and I will transfer you my share.

  Please know that any calls or texts will go unanswered. I expect you to adhere to these ground rules in honor of the time we spent together so we can part on good terms.

  Sincerely,

  Dylan

  “All right. Did I miss anything? Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” She held the phone out so both her parents could see her screen. Henry leaned in to see the tiny font, while her mother adjusted her glasses.

  “I’m happy with it,” her mother pronounced, wrinkling her nose.

  “Hit send. Be done with the rascal,” Henry said.

  Dylan’s finger hovered over the screen. Before she could start the downward spiral of second-guessing her second guesses, she shut her eyes and pressed her index finger down, then opened them just in time to see the little blue line finish scanning across the screen. No turning back.

  Bernice let out a whoop and jumped up. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Me too!” Henry said, reaching over and smothering Dylan in the big hug she suspected he’d been holding off on administering until this moment.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Dylan said, burying her head into the sweater that was steadily causing her to overheat. When she finally looked up, she saw her mother was still holding the bottle of wine she had retrieved from the kitchen.

  “I have to say, Linda and Patricia have good taste in wine. Anyone fancy a celebratory Dylan-just-kicked-him-to-the-curb drink?”

  Retrieving her empty glass from where she had set it on a bookcase, Dylan smiled. “Just think, Mom, when Mike and I get married, that could be your Christmas gift for the next thirty years.”

  Bernice froze midpour to look at her daughter. Henry began to make small, strange sounds that alternated between joy and a cat caught in the dryer. Dylan counted to ten before letting her stoic expression crack. “And you two thought I couldn’t make a joke.”

  Without waiting for her parents to finish processing, Dylan began laughing and grabbed the bottle. With a smile, she finished pouring herself a glass, certain that her parents would catch up on the joke and add a few of their own when they were ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was common wisdom among Seattleites that it only truly poured on special occasions. As Dylan nudged the car door open with her elbow and grabbed a fistful of slate chiffon, she had to admit there might be more than superstition attached to that belief.
Her choice of dress had seemed so reasonable in the cool, dry comfort of an upscale boutique, but as she tried to wedge herself and an umbrella out of the car, she had second thoughts. Deep had convinced her that with her height, something floor length would be showstopping. Now, she wished she’d gone for a cocktail dress.

  Dashing to the museum’s front entrance, she clicked the lock button on the key and listened for the horn’s telltale beep before forcing her way through the museum’s front door and letting her skirts fall to the floor. She marveled at the great hall, which had been transformed. The bright daytime fluorescent lighting had been replaced by jewel tones, carefully offset by playful pink, orange, and red uplights. Shimmering drapes hung over the usual posters and advertisements, giving the space a warm, magical hue.

  “Thank God you are here!” The sound of Deep’s heels clicking against the marble drew Dylan’s attention away from the umbrella clasp she was doing battle with.

  “You look amazing,” Dylan said, giving up on the snap and setting the umbrella in the holder as her friend came skidding to a halt in front of her. The dress Deep had chosen was a black-and-hot-pink color-blocked number that perfectly brought out the rich undertones in her skin. The dress was long sleeve but was cut short, and in true Deep fashion, she had paired it with sky-high bright-pink shoes that showed off her legs and matching pedicure. Even her lipstick matched the shade of pink running through the paneling on her dress.

  “Of course I do. You clean up pretty nice yourself. I was right about that dress, wasn’t I?”

  “It was a bear to get on. Not to mention getting in and out of the car.” Dylan shook the glamour wave out of her face as she said this, then smiled at her friend. “But yeah, you were right.”

  “You look like a 1940s goddess. Very Black Katharine Hepburn. Now we just need Latin Spencer Tracy to show up.”

  “You can’t call him Latin Spencer Tracy,” Dylan hissed at her friend.

  “Why not?” Deep said, throwing her arms up. “He is Latino. Besides, brown Spencer Tracy sounds stupid.”

  “Because other people will hear you. And then they’ll know about him and . . .” Dylan gestured to herself, checking to make sure her voice wasn’t carrying.

  “You are acting weird enough. Whispering is a dead giveaway.”

  “I never should’ve told you about him.”

  “You’re right. But you did,” her friend said cheerfully. “Now, I need you in the room. We kicked the museum staff out a few days ago so it’d be a surprise, and I need all the extra hands I can get.” Deep hooked her arm through Dylan’s and began dragging her toward the sensory room.

  “The thing starts in like twenty minutes. You’re not ready?” Dylan felt her heartbeat pick up, and she quickened her pace.

  “Do I look like an amateur? Of course we’re set. Brandt just needs your opinion on the run of show.” Deep tugged her down the corridor that led to the sensory room. Dylan stepped onto a blue carpet that had been rolled out and roped off as if she were attending a Hollywood party, complete with dim lighting to add to the mystery of what lay behind the big wooden doors. “Now you get why I insisted on the dress.” Deep winked as she pushed on the heavy doors.

  Members of the catering staff were hustling left and right, positioning event programs, arranging silverware, and setting out place cards. But the bustle of human activity was nothing compared to the electric hum of technology that touched every corner of the room. The walls and floors had been redone, and massive projectors hung from the ceiling, painting the room in the gray-blue light of a thunderstorm. Clouds and lightning crashed across the walls as the actual sound of pouring rain echoed around her, placing her right in the eye of the storm. The only thing missing was the water itself.

  In the center of the room, Brandt stood holding a tablet and shouting instructions over the thunderstorm at Sobbing Frank from the admin team, who scurried over to the tech booth to remotely adjust the projectors a fraction of an inch higher. As Brandt stepped back to survey the progress, he caught sight of Dylan and waved broadly, dashing between chairs to get to her.

  “I want a second opinion,” Brandt said, skipping the standard greetings, as Deep rolled her eyes. “Deep says start with thunderstorms, but given the weather, I think it has got to be the jungle theme.”

  “First, this is amazing,” Dylan said, rotating 360 degrees. “I can’t believe you two pulled this off.”

  “I didn’t sleep,” Deep said.

  “This is just the prototype. Wait until we get the LCD screens, misters, and heat lamps in here. It’s gonna be killer.” Brandt’s enthusiasm was almost reckless.

  “He didn’t sleep either.” Deep managed a deadpan before cracking up, forcing Brandt back into serious decision-making mode.

  “Ignore her. So the room is set to a fifteen-minute timer with a transition over forty-five seconds so that the shift isn’t too abrupt for guests. My concern is—”

  “Wait. The room changes?” Dylan interrupted him, stunned.

  “Well, yes. That’s the whole point.” Brandt’s tone implied Dylan was a bit too slow on the uptake.

  “I mean, I know. I just didn’t expect we could make all this happen so fast.”

  “Do you think Technocore is full of newbies?” Deep asked, incredulous. “Of course we can make it happen fast. If the giant screens didn’t need to be custom made halfway around the world, we could have executed the whole thing in forty-eight hours.” She was using sarcasm to play it cool, but pride was rolling off her.

  “My bad.” Dylan held up her hands in a mea culpa. Happiness squeezed her chest. She’d helped come up with something that everyone at Technocore could get behind. For a lot of people, tonight would be the first night in a long time that they could be proud of where they worked. She gestured at Brandt, who was squinting up at the projectors again, and said, “Continue.”

  “Yes. Sorry,” Brandt said, shaking his head and pulling his focus away from the projector. “Like I was saying, given the weather, I think a jungle theme is the best place to start the loop.”

  “Then let’s start there.”

  “I mean, there is the concern that the green may be too jarring—”

  “Trust your instincts,” Dylan said, using her best calming voice.

  Brandt looked as though he might argue when a man in a coat that matched his silver-gray hair appeared, bearing a tray. “Ladies,” he said, nodding, and then turned to Brandt. “Sir. We are about to open the doors. A glass of bubbly before guests officially arrive?”

  “Yes please!” Deep said, snagging a glass with each hand and passing one to Brandt, who was looking more concerned.

  “Thank you,” Dylan said, taking a glass.

  “Happy to help. My name is Trent. I’m your head server for the evening. Anything you need, just come find me.”

  With a slight flourish, Trent made a crisp turn and nodded at two members of the waitstaff, who reached for the giant doors. A jazz trio over in the corner began to play as the tech team in the back brought the sound of thunder down to a low rumble.

  “But I could be wrong.” Brandt jumped back in as soon as Trent was out of earshot. His brow crinkled, the confidence he had gained in the last few weeks beginning to vanish as the clock pelted toward showtime.

  “You won’t be.” Dylan patted him on the arm. “I can feel it. Tonight is going to work out.”

  Brandt nodded, still looking gray around the edges, but pressed a button on his tablet, changing the walls to a dense, moving jungle scene. A big cat began stalking around the room, right as the heavy wooden doors were propped open, admitting the first guests.

  “The jungle is fantastic. You were right,” Deep said, nudging Brandt with her elbow and wiggling her eyebrows, drawing a cautious smile out of him. “Now, put that thing away, and let’s have some fun.”

  “Cheers,” Dylan said before the three of them took a sip.

  Deep twitched her nose at the bubbles, then smiled, looking over Dylan’s shoulder
. “Go get ’em, tiger,” she said and looped her arm through Brandt’s, tugging him toward the party without another word. As soon as Dylan turned around, she caught the short, sparkly streak of light headed in her direction and knew what Deep meant.

  Stacy was weaving around the big circular tables, working hard to suppress the look of wonder on her face. It almost worked, except for her eyes, which were following a big cat around the room.

  Dylan was horror-movie terrified. She’d hoped Stacy would be late so she could find Tim and figure out exactly what he’d meant by “I know a guy” before her friend arrived. Instead, she felt like the miles of fabric in her dress were melting, and soon she would be an emperor wearing some clean underpants and very few explanations.

  “You came,” she called to her friend in a bald attempt at beating back nerves.

  “Well, yeah. I do what I say I’m going to do.”

  Dylan’s smile faltered. “I deserved that.”

  “Yeah,” Stacy said, stopping in front of her friend and looking down. “Don’t get me wrong. When I got the call this morning, I was jumping up and down. I’m super happy. But, like, that wasn’t cool.” Dylan couldn’t help feeling like she was missing nearly every edge of a thousand-piece puzzle. Interrupting her friend to admit she didn’t understand what she meant seemed like a surefire way to get forgiveness revoked, so she stayed silent. Stacy crossed her arms. “How did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “The UW called and said there was some sort of glitch that made it look like they hadn’t received my full application when they had. The thing is, I know you didn’t write the letter. I mean, obviously I didn’t tell them that.”

  “Glitch?” Dylan said, dropping all pretense of knowledge. “Honestly, I talked to Tim to see if he knew anyone who could make a call. I had nothing to do with . . . oh.” She trailed off, thinking about how long it had taken Tim to make that particular call. The guy wore a headset and kept his feet on his desk; she couldn’t imagine a call taking him more than seven minutes.