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

Dylan gripped the sides of the seat as if it were her only hold on reality. The windows began to fog up with her body heat, and the panic started to subside. With its disappearance came the feeling of physical illness.

Mike wasn’t meant to be a casualty in all this. She envisioned him showing up for the meeting, jittery with enthusiasm, all good natured with warm smiles. He’d probably sat in the stupid lobby waiting for her, sure she would stroll in any moment, his confidence dripping to the floor with each passing minute. Eventually realizing he’d be taking the meeting alone. She was supposed to be by his side. It was such a small ask, and she had told so many big lies to make him ask it.

Dylan’s eyes were burning. Tilting her head back, she pressed the heels of her hands into them. She wasn’t going to cry about any of this. Not Technocore or Kaplan or Mike. As she opened her eyes again, her heart squeezed. She had to call him and apologize or at least try to explain herself.

Dylan didn’t turn on the car, hoping the chill would keep the nerves at bay. Biting down hard on her lip, she found his number, closing her eyes briefly as she hit the little green call button. After two rings, she began hoping she could leave a voice mail. Maybe he was in a meeting and she wouldn’t have to—

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mike.” She paused, feeling the disappointment that came with an unwanted answered phone call. “It’s Dylan.”

“Hey.” The reticence in his voice stung. “What happened to you yesterday?”

Dylan’s heart dropped a few inches toward the snakes twisting in her stomach.

“I’m so sorry. Tim came up with this whole appreciation scheme, and of course it was doomed, and then I tried to text you, but I got interrupted and I forgot to hit send—which I know sounds bad. Then Tim kept me busy all day, and . . . yeah.” Dylan let her insufficient, rambling explanation die off.

“So you couldn’t call?”

“No.” Dylan shook her head, trying to organize her thoughts, remorse threading through her. “I mean, yes.”

“It’s fine. It was just awkward. He had no idea why I was there.” Mike’s tone was so different from Jared’s. There was no screaming or threats. He was quiet, as if he was leaving space for her to say something that would make it make sense. The softness implied a reset button Dylan couldn’t find.

“I was so involved I lost track of”—Dylan squirmed in her chair, looking for an emotional loophole—“literally everything.”

“It’s just . . .” Mike paused, and Dylan could almost see him rubbing the back of his head, his mouth quirking uncomfortably, as if searching for the right words caused him physical pain. “It just struck me as odd. Then our admin started calling other people on the list, and most of them had no idea who you were; they hadn’t even heard of Crescent.” The color drained from her face, leaving an empty gray to stare at her from the rearview mirror. Static appeared where her brain function should have been, the last of Mike’s sentence coming through as though muffled. “Do you know any of those people? Or did you just make the names up?”

The sound that cracked out of the back of her throat was supposed to be the word I, but the vowel never materialized. Mike paused again, allowing more time for her gurgle to turn into a sentence.

Clearing her throat, she said, “I can explain.”

“Okay.”

“My friends helped me.” The fog over her brain seemed to thicken as her lungs tightened. Dylan turned her focus just outside the car windshield, homing in on the little blue badge scanner near the front entrance to the office, and started again. “I thought I’d have time for them to make introductions, before everything went haywire. But I didn’t. I messed up. Big-time, and I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

“Why wouldn’t you mention that? I rearranged our biggest fundraiser betting on this.” A wave of genuine hurt washed over Mike’s words, halting as he tried to process the deception. “The event is two weeks away. There are actual children’s developmental opportunities at stake. You could have been honest with me about it. My job. My coworkers’ jobs. Why do this?”

Dylan’s heart collapsed as he pushed aside her apology. She could almost feel the weight of his lost trust seeping into her, scanning through the scattered bits of reason and trying to create a coherent story line for her.

She struggled to apologize to Mike again, feeling unable to find the phrase she needed. “I don’t have a good reason. I wanted to help you, but I got in over my head everywhere else. Honestly. That’s it. That’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

“Help me out here. I’m trying to understand what went wrong. Did I do something?”

Frustration took root in her chest and began creeping its way down her spine, numbing her senses as it went. She didn’t know how to explain her life. Couldn’t he just accept I’m sorry without needing a PhD’s worth of understanding around her mistake? I’m sorry was literally all she had left to give, and he just couldn’t accept it. She snapped, “Were you listening? You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t even about you.”

Mike drew in a sharp breath. Dylan imagined the tension pulling across his shoulders as she listened to him exhale. “You are right. I’m sorry I phrased it that way. What I want to ask is how can I—”

“No.” The word slammed against her brain so hard it felt like she hadn’t even thought it before it came out of her mouth.

Dylan was done with being manipulated. First, Nicolas with the thinly disguised threats that were supposedly in her own best interest. Next, Tim with the incessant need for cleanup on aisle stupid. Then Jared, shouting outsize demands.

Whatever nice-guy mental jujitsu Mike was capable of, Dylan was not in the mood. She’d messed up, and she’d admitted that.