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

with Crescent. They want to discuss specifics and a couple ideas they have this week. Are you around today?

Dylan

She hit send before she lost her nerve. It was still a pretty chicken email, but as far as chicken emails went, at least it was honest. Using the internet to ask for forgiveness seemed gauche. Dylan wanted to apologize to his face without the threat of any of their parents interrupting them. She reasoned that if she could get to his office, she had nowhere to hide even if she lost her nerve.

Leaning back in her chair, she looked up. The office was mostly empty, save for Deep, who was running around with a notebook in a pair of killer stacked heels that said that this particular fashion major had no interest in hearing no. She and Brandt had divided up the monumental task of getting Technocore ready for Crescent’s gala. He was in charge of the museum site, and she was in charge of wrangling manpower. Dylan wasn’t sure how Brandt was faring, but she was certain Deep wouldn’t leave him short of helping hands.

“Next up on the apology tour . . .” Dylan looked over at her phone and wrinkled her nose before picking up the poisoned device. In between Tim’s excited flailing, he had managed to ask Dylan roughly 752 personal questions. For a while, she had not considered him a particularly interested party, and her answers had been mostly generic. But by question number 379 he’d started to wear her down, and by number 561 she’d confessed the whole dental school failure to him and Steve, who was surprisingly good at operating a complex espresso machine. In the end, Tim had decided to funnel his substantial let’s-make-a-call energy into getting Stacy into dental school.

When asked questions about things like how he would do this and who he would call, all Tim had said was, “Don’t worry about it.” He’d then disappeared behind his office door for an hour and a half before reemerging with a grin and a goofy thumbs-up gesture, leaving her little choice but to hope for the best from a man whose idea of the best was always suspect.

She’d absolutely considered sitting outside Stacy’s house until she came out to talk to her, but Dylan sensed that Stacy was not above calling building security if she was mad enough. Luckily, she had a gala table to fill, and Stacy could never say no to a party that required her most glamour-girl attire.

Opening her text chain with Stacy as a wave of nausea washed over her, she began to tap on the screen.

I know you are pissed, and you have every right to be. But I think I found a way to fix this and make it up to you. Want to meet for coffee?

Coffee was not gonna sell her friend on a face-to-face meeting, and Dylan knew it. Before the message even finished sending, she started typing again, knowing she needed to send the second text off before Stacy told her to shove it.

Or, will you be my date to Mike’s fancy gala?

If you hate my proposal, you can throw a drink at me and storm out like a Real Housewife and never speak to me again. And I promise, I will leave you alone forever after that.

Imagining her friend scowling at her phone over a People magazine she’d stolen from her office, Dylan held her breath and hit send on the last sentence.

Whatever you decide, I want you to know that I am sorry. I messed up royally.

Dylan tossed her phone on the desk. It was well past time for her to head home. If she did much more tonight, she’d be the person who sent emails after socially acceptable hours. Everyone hated that person.

Glancing at her inbox, Dylan’s heart stopped cold for three full beats. Closing one eye and looking away from the screen, she clicked.

Dylan,

I’ve cc’d Susan. She’s a numbers person and can do a far better job with all of this. Thanks to Technocore for their support.

Mike

She flinched at the workplace email equivalent of go to hell, then relaxed the muscles in her face. It wasn’t exactly the resoundingly joyful phone call she wanted. But then again, she had called him an optimistic fool, so a barely polite response was probably better than she deserved. If he insisted on being ambushed with an apology, so be it.

Dashing off a quick note to Steve with the woman from Crescent’s contact information, Dylan began packing up for the night. Attempting a haphazard shrug into her coat, she fished her phone out from under a pile of papers that needed refiling after her cleaning spree. Scooping up the phone, Dylan noticed a text from Stacy. Feeling exhaustion creep into her bones, she opened the app.

This better be a damn good apology, or I’m flipping tables and throwing wine.

The floodlight didn’t blind her as she pulled into the driveway. It should have been a sign something was off. The hairs on the back of her neck should have stood up and paid attention. But Dylan was exhausted, and it was already close to nine thirty as she made her way toward the front door. She pounded in the new code and was greeted by the absence of Milo’s howls and Afro-Caribbean drum circles. “Hello?”

Milo came skidding down the hallway, tail wagging so hard it knocked painfully into the walls as he ran. In answer, laughter floated from the kitchen, causing Dylan to freeze. This was polite laughter. Not the raucous mess that usually accompanied her family’s joy. She petted the dog as he jammed his nose into her kneecaps and set her coat on a hook, praying that whatever was under it was not covered in some combination of mud, food, or paint. She could hear her father speaking at the most reasonable volume he had used in years.

“What a funny way to solve the problem.”

“If only she had solved it intentionally.”

Dylan