The Checklist, Addie Woolridge [ebook reader for pc and android txt] 📗

Tammi tossed a glance at one of her manicurists, who began filling a basin without batting an eyelash.

“I said the same thing,” Stacy said, throwing Dylan a reassuring smile. At least Stacy understood that life with Nicolas was demanding and having Jared for a boss was nearly the same as having a second boyfriend. Albeit one she liked a lot less.

“You girls take your shoes off and go over there. I’ll grab your colors.” Dylan almost protested but stopped herself. Tammi had begun selecting their colors after Stacy made a particularly questionable nail-art choice. At the time, she’d been irate and convinced that the two of them were out to destroy her business reputation. Dylan helped broker a color-selection compromise, which saved Tammi’s reputation and Stacy’s fashion sense. She remained proud of her solution to this day. In many ways, Tammi choosing colors was Dylan’s first corporate-productivity project.

Setting their shoes aside, they settled into their pedicure chairs with a couple of gossip magazines each, Dylan turned back to Stacy. “You were saying about work?”

“Oh yeah. So I got a raise. But you know Dr. Marshall teaches dentistry at UW, right?” Dylan hadn’t known that Stacy’s boss taught in the dentistry program, but she nodded anyway. “He suggested I apply for a master’s in dental hygiene. And I think I’m gonna do it.”

“Look at you. First a raise. Now graduate school.” Dylan bounced in her chair, causing her manicurist to tsk. She put her foot back in the basin with a mumbled apology.

“I know most people think it’s silly that I even got a bachelor’s degree. But there are some real upsides—”

“Stace, stop. It isn’t silly at all. It’s awesome.” Dylan sighed. By most people, Stacy meant her family. In high school, she had entered a city college program to complete her associate’s degree at the same time as her high school diploma, then started working right away. There was good money in the Castello family business, and her family didn’t see why she wanted to go to a university if she “only wanted to clean teeth,” as Mrs. Castello put it. Instead, Stacy had put herself through night school, working at Dr. Marshall’s clinic during the day.

“I’m not getting above myself or anything. It isn’t curing cancer. Although we can help identify it. But you know what I mean.” It was Stacy’s turn to fidget and earn a nasty look from her manicurist, who was steadily trying to remove the stubborn remnants of her bubble-gum-pink polish. “A lot of times, we are people’s first line of care. And Dr. Marshall said that with a master’s, I could teach other hygienists someday.”

Stacy stopped to catch a breath, and Dylan seized the opportunity to halt her self-sabotage. It felt like physical pain to watch her friend buy into someone else’s vision of her. “Don’t say what you do isn’t important. It is. Think about how many little ones sit down in your chair, afraid, and leave happy and healthy.”

“You should’ve seen the one I had today. I get a sick joy out of calming those kids down.”

“Exactly. Which tells me you are on the right path, and I’m exceptionally proud of you. You put yourself through college with this. I didn’t even have a real job in college, unless you count beer consumption. In which case, I was paid very well.” Dylan smiled.

“Well . . .” Stacy paused, chewing on her words for a moment. “I’m glad you are proud of me, because I wanted to ask you a favor. I need a character reference. It’s a short letter. You can say—”

“Done. I’d write a novel if it meant you getting into graduate school.”

“Really? At first I thought I should ask Sandra at work, but then I found out you were in town. And you have known me way longer. It seemed like a sign. Does that sound bananas?”

“Yes, but I like your brand of bananas,” Dylan said, watching the smile on her friend’s face spread.

“Okay, girls,” Tammi interrupted and handed a color directly to Stacy’s manicurist without flourish. “Stacy—for you, a new shade of pink. Something softer than your usual, but I think you’ll like it.”

Pushing up one sleeve, she shook out her semiblonde extensions and fixed a hard look on Dylan before producing an electric-yellow bottle. “You work too much. Learn to have a little fun.”

“Oh no, Tammi. I haven’t changed that much.” Dylan twisted the corners of her mouth southward but tried to keep her tone light. Technocore was in the business of running over business owners, not her.

“You need to be bolder too.” Tammi turned to the technician and added, “Give her a smile,” then walked away without another word.

Dylan grimaced. In Tammi’s kingdom, there was no dissent. And this is why God invented nail polish remover, she thought.

Dylan was in the habit of checking her email before she got out of bed. This was a ritual for her and Nicolas, and half the time it left one or both of them in a foul mood. Listening to the sound of Milo running in his sleep, she briefly entertained the notion of giving up the phone ritual. It wasn’t like Nicolas was here to see her brush her teeth before touching base with the company. A small sense of dread filled her stomach as she rolled toward the edge of the bed to grab her phone from the side table, where its alarm was cracking out a generic, upbeat “wake-up” tune.

A flurry of emails from Jared requesting time to “dialogue” greeted her. But still no email from Tim announcing next steps to the staff. It had been a week, and given Jared’s I’m-in-charge-so-get-back-to-me-ASAP voice mail, Dylan wasn’t sure she could wait much longer for Tim to act if she wanted to stay employed. By the time she finished putting on her eyeliner, her nerves were so on edge she skipped breakfast to get to the office quickly, hoping to put an end to the tension building in her neck and