The Checklist by Addie Woolridge (color ebook reader TXT) 📗

“Does that make sense?” Tim asked, and Dylan instantly regretted giving him a compliment. That ego was way too quick to rebound.

“Please trust me.”

“We can revisit that at our next meeting.”

Dylan rolled her eyes so hard she was glad Tim was focused on dumping out pop. Of course he would approach this like a negotiation. “Fourth, you will ditch that repugnant hoodie. What did you do, fish it out of a lake?”

Tim looked perplexed, as if he hadn’t really thought about what he was wearing. Sniffing the sweatshirt, he gingerly peeled it from his body and answered, “This was in the back of my car.”

“That is worse than a lake.”

“Is it?” Tim asked, like finding stale clothing in his fantastically tacky car might not be a bad thing.

“It really is,” Dylan said, shaking her head hard enough that her hair wobbled. “One more thing.” Stopping to make eye contact one last time, she added, “If you insist on driving that flashy car, promise me you won’t wear anything you find in it ever again.”

Dylan flipped her blinker on and turned into a generic apartment complex off Queen Anne, looking for an open visitor spot. Since coming back to the drizzly city, she had finally managed to get somewhere at Technocore. So when Stacy had suggested she come over for dinner at her place, it had seemed like the perfect way to cut loose and not obsessively check her email for the first time in weeks.

Dylan put her shoulder into the turn and did her best impression of a race car driver pulling into a pit stop, then threw the car into park. Using her purse as a hair shield, she dashed to the door marked 55 and knocked with more force than she needed.

“All right. Lordy, Dyl, I’m coming!”

“It’s cold,” Dylan shouted at the door, smiling as the petite bleached blonde yanked it open.

“You’re cold because what you’re wearing is ridiculous. Can you get a coat that isn’t for show?” Stacy stepped aside, allowing her friend into her home.

“Lady, this coat is Burberry,” Dylan said, reaching in for a hug.

“Then you paid way too much money just to be cold,” Stacy laughed.

“I’m sorry if I’m not ready to go full Bernice to avoid freezing. Besides, it was a gift from Nicolas. He loathes synthetic fabric without a brand name,” Dylan said, playfully removing her coat. Taking note of her friend’s eye roll, she changed the subject. “Your place is darling. I love it.”

The space was small but cozy. An oversize and overstuffed brown couch stood in the corner, covered in throw pillows. Dylan noticed one of her mom’s pieces on the wall and realized Stacy’s place felt so much like home because it looked a lot like a clean, reasonable version of her own.

“Anything look familiar?”

“Did my parents pawn off those end tables on you?”

“Yes, and the rugs. Shake off the dog hair, and they are good as new.” Stacy smiled, bouncing into the galley kitchen and turning on a string of decorative lights. “Your mom pointed out that the overhead lighting is dreadful, so I use these now. More peaceful, don’t you think?”

“Wait, my mom’s been here?” Dylan tried not to sound stunned as she removed her shoes and set them in the shoe rack. Bernice was barely capable of caring for her own home. How she’d helped Stacy set up her apartment was a pure mystery.

For the second time in a handful of days, it occurred to Dylan that there might be more to her family than chaos. Maybe she was just too close to the source to see around it. The thought exhausted her. Dylan had enough problems at work. She didn’t need to spend her precious free time examining hard truths that had been self-evident until this trip home.

“Both your parents, actually. When they found out I had my own place, they got super into decorating it. I guess it makes sense; Billie and Neale don’t have their own spots, and it’s not like you’re dying for help.” Stacy laughed as she opened the fridge.

Dylan’s ego smarted. Her parents had never even offered to help. Then again, she’d probably made it clear their help wouldn’t be all that helpful to her. Nicolas loved stark lighting and sharp edges, which would have stopped her father dead in his tracks. As much as it ached to hear, she was glad her friend had let them decorate.

“Whatever you got from them, it looks far better in your home than it ever did in ours,” Dylan said, coming to stand in the kitchen.

“You’re sweet. Mimosa?” Stacy’s bob popped up over the fridge; she was holding a bottle of prosecco that cost about seven dollars and a big thing of Tropicana.

“The predinner cocktail of champions?” Dylan laughed. “Sure.”

“Good. I was dying for one on the way home, so I’d be having a mimosa with or without you. I know you drink fancy predinner drinks these days,” Stacy joked, handing her a glass that was a lot more prosecco than orange juice.

“Laugh all you want. Once you have had a real martini, you never go back. Cheers,” Dylan said, raising her glass and following her friend back out to the giant brown couch.

Taking a big sip of her drink so it wouldn’t spill, Stacy flopped onto the couch. “So how’s it goin’?”

“I think I’m getting somewhere with Technocore.” Dylan paused to take another sip. “This whole pop thing was actually good.”

“I saw he posted a joke about it on social media.”

“I kind of thank God for the prank. It made Tim way easier to work with today.” A warm, floaty feeling started to creep over her brain, and Dylan cautioned herself to slow down on the drink. “Also, remind me to tell you about Mike and the museums after this.”

“What?” Stacy drained her glass and eyed Dylan, waving at her to finish up.

“He was easier to work with. It took an hour for us to clean up—”

“Boring!” Stacy