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

She was proud of the way the retreat had turned out. After a night of pounding on doors, begging caterers, and bribing several store clerks to open early, she had arguably one of the better saves in her career. By the time the second day had started, she had a continental breakfast catered. Brandt spent the night polling people’s special skills and found an employee who was a yoga instructor in his free time to lead a few sessions. Someone else had worked as a children’s camp counselor and managed to make up arts and crafts for those grown-ups who wanted a break from the outdoors. Deep even agreed to revisit her childhood trauma and lead a sort of botanical hike for groups. At the end of the rib eye dinner, everyone had been working on their friendship bracelets and smiling through Moana movie night, complete with spiked hot chocolate and cookies.

Changing how she approached the sore spot on her back, Dylan thought about how to report on the more substantive parts of the retreat. Jared had left a number of panicky messages for her and would be less than impressed with her revived interest in the high-ropes course. Tim and a few of the senior leaders had done some brainstorming around departmental issues, including how best to use the newly created staff-appreciation committee. She just hoped that was enough.

“Dyl, you gonna be ready soon?” Neale’s voice floated up the stairs.

“Probably gonna need another fifteen minutes,” she said, shaking her head and pulling on her shirt before lowering herself onto the bathtub ledge to put on flat shoes. Somehow, she’d let Stacy talk her into going to another townie bar down the street.

Gritting her teeth, she used the top of the toilet tank to push herself up, marveling at the indignity of her situation. Glancing in the mirror, she looked at her hair more closely. She hadn’t intentionally worn her hair natural since she’d realized there was a way to control it. But in this light, the curls didn’t seem like a bad thing. Sure, they were all over her head, but wasn’t that what hair did? It worked for Neale. Not that she was a great barometer of social norms. Still. Dylan paused.

She’d started pressing her hair in middle school, a pit of hell that killed off any girl’s need to stand out real quick. After a while, pressing her hair was a part of her morning routine. Something she did on autopilot. And, of course, Nicolas liked her hair straight, which had mattered at the time. But she wasn’t sure she liked maintaining it every day anymore.

She’d let go of glitter dusters after middle school. Why couldn’t she let go of this too? Taking a deep breath, she unplugged the straightener with unexpected speed, preempting her internal tug-of-war before it could get started.

“Finally,” Neale hollered from the living room, clearly listening for Dylan’s slow shuffle down the stairs.

“I can’t believe Stacy talked me into this,” Dylan said, muscles hissing as she leaned heavily on the banister to support her jerky hop from one foot to the next. “And what is the rush? The place is two feet away.”

“Martini Sunday,” Neale said breezily before looking up. “Oh, is that your natural texture I see?”

“That place has a martini special every night of the week. And I don’t have time for the straightener and your beloved martinis in my current state.”

“And to think Billie said you were too uptight to stop pressing your hair.”

“Billie should know better than to bet against me.”

“I guess she owes me money.” Neale smirked, fishing around in the stack of coats by the door. Finding one of Dylan’s, she put it on with a dissatisfied sniff.

“That’s mine.”

“No wonder it’s so dull.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Neale didn’t move to take off the coat, so Dylan began rummaging around for another one. “Climbing is a serious workout. I’ve never been so sore.”

“Who even are you? Curly hair. Climbing things . . .”

“Shut up. Do you have your wallet? Or were you gonna use mine too?”

Neale shrugged and reached for the door. “I’m just saying, for a retreat that almost went up in preserved-animal flames, it sure seems to have made you a new woman. Or turned you back into the old one. I’m not sure which yet.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Dylan walked through the door. “My grand transformation will never be at the hands of Tim Gunderson. Let’s go.”

“Definitely back into the old one,” Neale said, grinning.

Smells like mistakes, Dylan thought as the heavy door closed behind her with a whoosh of cold air. The Brick Heart was around the corner from Lenny’s, but it might as well have been the same place, down to a woman who looked suspiciously like Mrs. Claus working the door. The bar was primarily lit by neon signs advertising different beers, some of which had stopped being available to the public sometime in the early nineties. The cracked vinyl of black booths duct-taped together seemed to be a major feature of the decor. The sticky floors, however, were unintentional. Or at least Dylan thought they were. Glancing up, she noticed Stacy waving at them from a booth close to one of the windows, the red light from the neon above her head giving her hair a pink tinge.

“Come on, Neale,” Dylan said, looping her arm through her sister’s and pulling her toward the table.

“Hey, Delacroix. I was starting to wonder where you all were,” Stacy called, scooting farther into the booth to make room for Neale and eyeing Dylan as she carefully lowered herself across from them, trying not to howl in pain on the way down. “What happened to you?”

“Long story. It involved taxidermy and a ropes course. I need a drink before I tell it,” Dylan chuckled.

“Well, the good news is, we can fix that. And drinks are half-off. Although, Dylan, these are not the gold-laced martinis you tried to order at Lenny’s,” Stacy said, waiting