Page 59 of The Checklist
“How was he the worst?” Mike asked, turning the full weight of his gaze on Dylan before swallowing his beer.
“He wasn’t the worst. He just wasn’t ...” She shrugged under the intensity of his look. How could she explain Nicolas? For years, his behavior had seemed logical, in a way. Nicolas’s rules for their life together provided a kind of structure at a time when it seemed like she never had any. “He was kind of ...”
“He steamrolled people. And he wasn’t nice to me,” Neale said, winking at her sister.
“How could anyone be mean to our Neale?” Stacy asked, sounding like someone’s tipsy aunt.
“Good riddance. You are too good for someone who is unkind,” Mike said, an easy smile running across his face.
“He is worse than unkind—” Stacy started, and Dylan began to wonder how quickly demons found new hosts to possess, when Mike cut her off.
“Right, maybe let’s call him a transcendental asshole?”
Stacy began cackling, while Mike snorted at his own joke and eyed Dylan as she unclenched her jaw. A snort-laugh was something she deemed goofy. Yet it was having a catastrophic effect on her heart rate, which had spiked since Mike had strolled in wearing that sexy bedsheetshirt. Dylan forced her heartbeat to steady and took another sip of her drink. It tasted less like industrial cleaner now.
“Mind if I have some?” Mike pointed to the pitcher.
“Of course! You bought the thing,” Neale said, picking up the pitcher and pouring some directly into Mike’s beer glass. Noticing Mike blanch at the combination of Roller-Whatever and beer foam, Neale added, “You won’t be able to taste beer anymore. Trust me.”
The clean freak in Dylan gagged as Mike shrugged and picked up the glass, eyeing it dubiously before taking a sip and wincing. “Oof. I won’t be able to taste anything after that.”
“It grows on you,” Neale said.
“Does it? Because I’m not convinced,” Mike said, sucking air in through his teeth. He set the glass down. “So, Stacy, what’s new? I hear you may be going back to school?”
“Yes,” Stacy said, straightening up in the booth, her posture implying seriousness. “I want to be the kind of person dentists look at and go,What do you think?You know what I mean?”
“Makes perfect sense,” Mike said, taking another tentative sip of his drink, this time without choking. “So what goes into this program? More clinical work, I assume.”
If it was possible, Stacy perked up even more. “Yes. It is a lot of clinical work; basically you become a dental therapist. I want to continue working with children.” Stacy drained her glass, looking over the rim of it as she smiled. “Dylan is actually writing my character reference.”
“Sure am,” Dylan said, feeling her gut drop a fraction of an inch. She still hadn’t looked at the paperwork Stacy had given her, but it would go on the top of tomorrow’s to-do list.
“Glasses are empty,” Neale announced, as if it were new information to everyone at the table. “Dylan, there is a little left in the pitcher; why don’t you finish that? Stacy and I can get more.” She began pushing at Stacy’s thigh for her to let her out of the booth, like Stacy was also a Delacroix sister. Which, in a way, she was.
“Oh. Right. Okay,” Stacy said, grabbing her purse and jumping off the bench.
“Be right back,” Neale said, bouncing down the vinyl seating after Stacy.
“Do they need another pitcher?” Dylan frowned as the pair giggled their way to the bar, each of them occasionally looking back at the two they had left behind.
“Do either of them have to drive anywhere?” Mike asked, looking over his shoulder.
“No. They don’t. Let them have all the disgusting liquor they want, I guess.”
“God, it’s gross, right? I was worried I was the only person who thought so.”
“So gross. But it’s on sale, which makes it seem like a lot better deal than it is.” Dylan shrugged one shoulder. Her skin prickled where Mike’s glance landed, and she forced herself to stop noticing the sensation.
“Sometimes cheap is just cheap. When a drink tastes like this, I’m not sure free would be considered a good deal.”
“Ugh, and they are bringing more. We need a plant or something to dump it into,” Dylan said, then added, “The floor is pretty sticky; maybe we put it there.”
“This doesn’t seem like the kind of place where you need to be concerned about safety,” Mike laughed, poking at a hole in the duct tape patching the booth.
“Tell me, how’s building the experiential-learning room going?” Dylan said, feeling herself relax at last.
Mike sighed heavily, leaning his full weight against the booth. “My vision has stalled.”
