The To-Do List

I rolled over in bed, still half-asleep, my cooling eye mask perched on my forehead, when a wash of sunlight slipped through the curtains and hit me all at once.

Oh shit.

I’m late for work.

My chest tightened as I jolted upright.

I wrestled my phone free from the folds of the white down comforter. When my face unlocked the screen, it was already open to the perfectly curated to-do list I’d made before passing out. The first item read: Wake Up Early.

So much for that.

I tapped Marc Thorpe, IdealU’s CEO. He answered on the last ring in a groggy voice.

“Hello?”

“Marc, it’s Tessa Wilde.”

“Tessa, is everything okay? It’s three in the morning.”

A flush of humiliation and confusion swept over me, tightening my throat. I hung up abruptly and checked the time for myself.

What the hell? He was right.

I pulled back the curtain, and a deep darkness pressed against the glass pane. I blamed the earlier light on a pitfall of townhouse living, figuring some asshole’s high beams must have cut across the street.

I ripped the curtain shut across the rod and climbed back into bed. I set three alarms for 6:00, 6:15, and 6:20, then dragged the mask over my eyes. Pressing my face into the silk acne-prevention pillow recommended by my favorite Korean beauty influencer, I lay there for another hour, drifting nowhere.

When sleep finally proved hopeless, I reached for my phone, ready to cross off another item from that day’s list: Clean the kitchen.

I slipped on my robe and made my way upstairs to the kitchen of the split-level townhouse. But when I flicked on the light, the sight shocked me. The kitchen was immaculate.

The gold-flecked marble countertops shimmered beneath the recessed lighting, a sight I hadn’t seen in weeks. Every stainless steel appliance gleamed. The shine of the newly waxed cherry hardwood led me across the room to the fridge.

I opened the fridge and saw that someone had tossed the spoiled Chinese leftovers. Instead, there were neat rows of groceries, including lemon La Croix I forgot to chill.

As I closed the door, my Persian cat, Marshmallow, wound herself around my ankles and let out a tiny mew. I bent to refill her bowl, only to find it already topped off.

I scratched between her ears, and I reached into the pocket of my robe for my phone. Jules must have cleaned.

I shared my townhouse with my baseball star fiancé, Julian St. Clair, during home games and the off-season. He’d left late the night before for a team-bonding trip in Boston, and apparently, he’d spent his last hour home cleaning the kitchen.

Thanks, babe. You know how to make a girl less stressed. Can’t wait until you’re home.

He reacted with a heart almost immediately, then sent a mirror selfie from the airport.

I stared at his selfie. Jules looked handsome even in bad lighting: tall, broad-shouldered, with a laser-white smile and bronzed skin, his carry-on behind him.

I checked off cleaning the kitchen and slipped my phone back into the pocket of my robe. Since I’d already ruined Marcus’s sleep, I decided the least I could do was get an early start on the workday and try to make up for it with productivity.

Settling at the kitchen island, I opened my MacBook Pro. Ready to start my workday, I launched Outlook first.

What? No new emails?

I started at the screen, rapidly pushing refresh a few times. Still nothing.

In all my time at IdealU, that had never happened. The other executives worked all hours of the night, and my boundaries were a character flaw, loathsome to them, as I insisted on a few hours each evening to decompress. I only got away with it because I’d argued that my company-mandated wellness plan required at least six hours of sleep to rejuvenate my skin.

I went to my inbox and looked at the timestamps, noticing the read messages. I frowned, wondering what had happened. A weird glitch, I assumed.

Next, I checked my calendar and noticed a red block for 9:00 a.m.

Employee Evaluation — Marcus Thorpe.

I didn’t remember scheduling it, though, to be fair, I’d been under pressure for months. IdealU had promoted me to West Coast Marketing Director six months ago, and since then, the days had melded together. I barely had time to eat anymore. The upside was that I’d lost five pounds.

I hadn’t planned on getting dressed that day, but Marc’s invite changed that. Anything less than camera-ready, and Marcus would issue an infraction. At IdealU, employees were the face of the brand. Each employee had a personalized wellness plan that was supposed to be collaborative, though more often than not, it reflected whatever insecurities their supervisor thought they could monetize.

The year before, my period gifted me a vicious acne breakout.

“You have two weeks to fix your face, Tess.”

Distracted, I almost jumped out of my chair, greeted by Marc tapping his foot beside my desk.

“You’re up for an executive-level promotion. We want nothing getting in the way, do we?”

With panic rising, I hurried from the kitchen to the bathroom, ready to begin the morning rituals that kept me executive-ready: cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, and coconut oil swished in my mouth while I washed my hair.

But when I pushed open the half-latched door, I stopped, my mouth agape.

My scattered products lay across the vanity, their caps off, and clear liquids dripped on the marble. I called Marshmallow from the hallway, and she stared at me innocently. I shook my head.

“I swear you’d get away with murder because you’re so cute.”

Then I saw myself in the mirror. My skin was smooth and bright, my lashes dark with mascara, and my lips shiny with peach gloss. My hair looked clean and styled, as if I’d just left the salon.

Had I showered before bed?

I stood there searching my reflection for an answer, trying to remember the night before. I’d spent the day working at a trade event, smiling until my cheeks ached and assuring strangers that wellness was only a subscription away. By the time I got home, the entire day was hazy.

I’d wanted to watch a couple of episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta with Julian before he left, but the last thing I remembered was him saying not to worry. We’ll catch up when he gets back from Boston. That had become our love language between our busy careers.

We’d met three years earlier at a tech conference where Julian had given the keynote. By California standards, I was an ugly duckling: too pale, too flat-chested, ten pounds too heavy, clothes too cheap.

But I made him laugh with a pop-culture reference, and he asked me to dinner the next time he was in town. I said yes before he’d finished asking.

That was before my promotion, of course. Now my days were so crowded, I could barely tell when the next one started.

I shook my head and snapped back to reality. I crossed off morning beauty routine, then immediately scanned the list for what I could complete next.

Returning to the bedroom, I studied myself in the floor-length mirror, turning slightly to check for any stretch marks highlighted by the morning light. As I hooked my bra behind me, I cringed at my company-sponsored breasts. Two years earlier, IdealU paid for me to go from a B-cup to a D-cup. A C would have sufficed, but Marc overruled me.

“A larger bust size could help you get promoted faster," he argued.

I pulled on a white mock-neck sweater and shrugged into my camel Burberry blazer, hoping the layers would disguise the five pounds I still hadn’t lost since my last review. Last came the diamond-encrusted T hanging from the eighteen-karat gold chain Jules had given me for my thirtieth birthday the month before.

With two minutes to spare, I logged into Zoom. In the camera preview, I smoothed my hair, straightened my lapels, and checked that my cleavage hadn’t swallowed the pendant.

Marcus was already on screen, framed by exquisite bookshelves against one of those fake backgrounds. His lips looked freshly filled, his skin pulled taut and ivory-smooth, his blue eyes sharp as pins. A few seconds later, Sloane Vandermeer, Ideal U’s chief wellness officer, and Brittany Sterling from HR joined the call.

“I’m glad you ladies could join us,” Marc said.

His demeanor remained bright as ever. My stomach lurched.

“As you know, Tessa, you stepped into an executive role six months ago. Per company policy, we review both your performance and wellness plan every six months. How do you think you’re doing?”

Sloane and Brittany flashed their best mean-girl smiles. As I began speaking, they lowered their eyes to their keyboards and started typing feverishly, fake nails clacking against the keys.

“I think it’s going as well as it can, Marc. Now that I’ve had more time to sleep, I’ve been hitting my targets every month. My skin is clearing, and I’m down five pounds.”

I resented how chipper I sounded, like I was the teacher’s pet and eager to be graded.

Sloane stopped typing and leaned closer to the camera.

“I was reviewing your wellness plan from the last cycle. You were supposed to be down ten pounds two months ago. Do you remember that?”

“I’ve been trying the best I can,” I said. “It just seems to stick around.”

Brittany smirked as she continued typing while Sloane shared her screen, showing the evidence she pulled from my Instagram: a video from my birthday trip to Napa Valley with Julian. I sat at an outdoor table with a glass of Chianti in one hand, laughing as a sparkler hissed from a white ramekin in front of me.

“Crème brûlée doesn’t look like trying, Tessa.”

Heat climbed the back of my neck as I questioned my outfit choice.

Marcus rubbed his hands together and arranged his face into something that was supposed to resemble sympathy.

“Now, Tessa, I’d like you to take the rest of the day off. It’s time to make a list of goals for the next six months. The weight loss should be your top priority if you’re serious about your future with Ideal U.”

Before I could defend myself, he removed me from the Zoom meeting. My reflection stared back at me on the laptop screen. Then my head throbbed. I dry-swallowed an ibuprofen before calling Julian on FaceTime.

He answered almost immediately, wearing a white t-shirt that showed off his muscles.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

I grimaced as he flashed the dimpled grin that caused me to fall in love with him.

“Perfect timing, I just got to the hotel. How’s my girl?”

A tear rolled down my cheek before I could stop it.

His brown eyes softened. “What’s the matter?”

“The same old shit. Marcus and Sloane put me on trial again.”

Julian exhaled slowly through his nose. “Babe, I’ve been begging you to quit. It’s hurting you.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is from where I’m sitting.” He shifted higher against the headboard, the white v-neck pulling across his toned pecs. “You’re beautiful. You don’t need them judging you.”

“I don’t want to quit,” I said. “My career is important, and I need the money if we’re going to pay for this wedding.”

“You know I can afford it,” Julian replied.

I became woozy.

“I know, but that isn’t the point.”

A sharp knock sounded at his hotel door, followed by muffled laughter in the hall. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey, babe, can I call you back? The boys are here. We’re headed to lunch.”

“Wait, Jules —”

The screen went blank before I could finish.

I blinked tears back as the clock above the stove ticked and the fridge hummed beneath it. Then I opened my Notes app before taking Julian’s advice. My thumbs moved faster than my thoughts as I typed:

Update wardrobe

Drink more

Focus on work

I stared at the three lines glowing on the screen, proud that I’d omitted anything weight-related.

I meant to copy everything into an email and refine it to the collaborative and grateful language IdealU preferred, but exhaustion washed over me before I could begin. I closed my eyes for just a second, but when I opened them again, darkness had swallowed the room.

I woke in a cold sweat, tangled in a blanket on the sofa.

I dreamt I was trapped inside the IdealU headquarters. No matter how far I walked, I couldn’t find an exit. I was starving and desperate to rest, yet I couldn’t pull myself away from my work.

I reached for my phone and noticed, somehow, I’d slept for fifteen hours, but I didn’t feel rested at all. The screen lit up with eight messages: three from Julia detailing his flight home tomorrow, and five from Marc. The first read:

Thanks for staying so late. If you keep putting in these hours, I suppose I can bend the weight rule.

I hurled the phone across the room so hard that it bounced off the end table. I had no recollection of working the night before.

Before I could make sense of that, my stomach rumbled so fiercely that it seemed to shake the room. I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, expecting the lemon La Croix Julian stocked. Neat rows of hard seltzer had replaced every, lined up with deliberate precision.

What the hell. Did I take an Ambien?

The cabinets were bare, so I ordered Pad Thai for dinner and trudged downstairs, intent on changing into something comfortable. When I opened the dresser in search of my favorite joggers, they were gone. In their place lay a row of low-cut silk nightgowns, each folded with department-store precision. I slammed the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the frame, then yanked open the next one, only to find more of them stacked.

By then, I was too tired to question anything, so I pulled one over my head, letting the silk settle cold against my skin.

The room started spinning in slow circles. I felt so unsteady, I could barely trust my own legs. I crawled into bed, pulling the duvet over my head, and opened another note on my phone, desperate for some shred of control. But after typing only a few letters, exhaustion consumed me.

When I woke the next morning, sunlight pooled softly across the sheets, and for the first time in weeks, I felt rested. My phone was still curled in my palm, the screen glowing with the Notes app left open. There was only a single word waiting in the center of the page: Dye.

I stared at it for a moment, then gave a sardonic laugh.

Dye roots, duh. I was overdue.

Before anything else, I went to the bathroom and mixed the color in a plastic bowl. I worked the cream carefully along my part line and temples, watching the dark disappear beneath it, and for thirty peaceful minutes, everything in my life seemed in order.

When the timer chimed, I stepped into the tub and bent beneath the shower to rinse. Cold water pelted my scalp, causing me to wince. The sharp chemical smell rose at once, comforting and familiar, and for a moment I stood there with my eyes closed.

Then a strange, deep pressure unfurled in my chest. Something felt wrong. I reached for the faucet, but before my hand could find it, the showerhead tore loose from the wall with a brutal crack and slammed into my temple. White light burst across my vision. My knees buckled beneath me, and I slammed hard against the porcelain, my cheek striking the rim, the taste of coppery blood filling my mouth.

Somewhere above me, water exploded from the exposed pipe in a furious stream, beating against the tub so loudly that it drowned out my gasp. It burned my shoulder before turning cold enough to sting. I tried to push myself upright using the edge of the tub.

From the bedroom, I heard the faint ringing of my alarm clock as water rose above my ears, smelling of chemicals and blood. Just before everything went dark, I understood everything.

Die.