Shatterproof (11 page)

B
ack in my office, I slip on my coat to try and warm up. I’ve checked with Sherri and my e-mail, and all seems quiet. The buzz in the halls is back to its usual level, although I can’t take the comfort in it that I once did.

Thanks to Wonder Glass, it appears that I’ve salvaged my reputation at NTA. But I’m still stuck with the Ottawa gig—a fact that I need to share with Noah, if he’ll ever talk to me again. The cinnamon hearts on my desk remind me that I’m going to have to call him today to wish him a Happy Valentine’s Day. I’ll ask to see him tonight, and break the news in person that I’ll be commuting as of next week.

I pick up two small, silver model airplanes from my desk. Noah gave them to me to capture a couple of significant moments in our relationship. The first represents the plane we took to Edmonton together the day we met. The second is the plane we took to Costa Rica a year later, a trip that cemented us as couple. Aside from the cinnamon hearts, there are no other personal items in my office. There are plaques and awards, and dozens of trinkets from clients, but only the planes have meaning.

Now, I direct the planes at each other with my left and right hands, making a crashing noise as they collide.

The phone’s ring startles me, and I drop the planes onto the industrial gray carpet.

“There’s someone to see you,” the receptionist says, no longer giggling. “Noah Taggert.”

I drop the phone without even responding, and jump to my feet. Then I open my drawer and pull out a hand mirror. As suspected, I look awful. My mascara is running from the snow, my fine hair is sticking up all over, and my face is doubly pale. I think about taking a moment to fix myself and decide it might be better if my insides and outside match.

The walk from my office to reception is short, but I still have time to play through several scenarios. The very best is that Noah has defied my longstanding request and is delivering flowers to me for Valentine’s Day. That one’s highly unlikely, but I hope at least that his face will brighten when he sees me, so that I’ll know that there’s something worth fighting for. I want to make this right, for him, for me, for my brothers. I need to figure out a way to get the planes back in the air.

Noah has perched in a visitor chair, still in his coat. He stands when he sees me, but his expression is a mask, totally unlike my emotive boyfriend. The dark circles under his eyes, and the two-day stubble aren’t promising. I notice he’s wearing jeans, which means he skipped work today.

He stares at my coat, but doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer an explanation. Instead, I lead him away from prying eyes downstairs to the cafeteria. It’s 3:00 now and the place is nearly empty. I motion him to a seat in the corner while I head to the counter to buy two cups of coffee. While adding cream and sugar to his, I decide to add a couple of drops of Wonder Glass. It probably won’t work to heal the cracks in our relationship, which clearly began long before this week, but it’s worth a try.

Finally I sit across from him, smoothing my hair behind my ears. I take a sip of coffee before asking, “How are you?”

“Upset,” he says.

“Me too. I was going to call you again later. After I figured out what to say.”

“There’s nothing else
to
say. The picture said it all.”

My stomach gives a heave, tossing the coffee back into my throat. Holding a serviette to my mouth, I swallow hard to clear the acid, and croak, “What picture?”

Instead of answering, he pulls out his blackberry and scrolls through his inbox. His brow furrows. “It’s gone. But I got it this morning. A picture of you and some guy kissing. It came from an NTA account to my work e-mail.”  His fingers work quickly as he tries to find it. “It must have been recalled.”

My brain races as I try to position this. In the end, I decide to be honest. “What happened is that Baxter took a photo of a drunk newbie kissing me at a project launch party last night. Then Baxter sent it to the entire company, as well as you. He’s trying to sabotage me, as usual.”

Noah stares at me, refusing to be sidetracked. “Are you having an affair?”

“No!  The guy
kissed
me,
and it meant nothing.

“You let some colleague kiss you. At a launch party.” His voice is completely flat.

“I was drunk,” I say, knowing how pathetic that sounds.

“You were drunk,” he repeats. “At a launch party. When has that happened before?”

“Never,” I say. “I’ve never been drunk at a launch party, and I’ve never let anyone kiss me.”

His eyes drift over my left shoulder as he tries to put the pieces together. “You were upset about the proposal and got drunk.”

“I was upset about the ultimatum, but that’s only part of it.”  I nudge his cup toward him. “Drink your coffee, it’s getting cold.”

Ignoring me, he stares into space, continuing to calculate. Eventually it starts to add up. “Was the launch party for a new project you’re taking?”

I nod, slumping in my chair.

“And it’s out of town?” he asks.

“Ottawa,” I say. “Reuben stuck me with the post office project.”

“Partners don’t lead projects.” Noah pauses. “Ah. He broke his promise.”

I nod again. “Baxter told Reuben we were getting married and he mommy-tracked me.”

“Asshole,” Noah says. “After all you’ve done.”

My hopes rise. Maybe sympathy will win out. “It’s never enough.” I give Noah’s coffee cup another nudge. “Drink.”

“You’re taking Ottawa?”

“I fought hard, but it’s an important client and Reuben only trusts me.” Noah starts to speak and I interrupt. “I know that sounds absurd, when he doesn’t trust me enough to make me partner.

“Walk away,” Noah says.

“Walk away? After 13 years?”

“You’d get another job in a second.”

“It’s probably no better anywhere else in my line of work. Anyway, it’s only Ottawa, Noah. I’ll be home every weekend.”

“I don’t want a weekend girlfriend. I want a wife. I want a family.”

“I’ll come home mid-week, too. I can swing that.”

“And that’s when we’d have the baby? Mid-week?”

“We’ll start as soon as the project is done.”

It’s the match that lights the bomb. “That’s your answer for everything: 
when the project is done, when the project is done.
But nothing ever changes. You know what? If you can’t make us a priority now, you never will. So forget it.”

I push the coffee toward him one more time. “Forget what?”

He pushes the coffee back. “Forget me. Forget us. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Calm down,” I say. “Drink your coffee and let’s discuss this rationally.”

“Discuss it with your new guy. You’ll have plenty of time together in Ottawa.”

“That’s not fair. You can’t really believe anything’s going on.”

Shoving the chair back with a scraping noise, he stands. “Ellie, it’s over.”

“Noah,
no
.”  I stand, too, and my plastic chair tips over with a clatter. “I love you. Let me figure this out. Please? I can fix it.”

The cafeteria staff are staring and I don’t even care.

He turns to walk away and I catch his sleeve. “I’m done,” he says, jerking his arm away.

“You’re really breaking up with me?”  My voice is breaking now. “But it’s Valentine’s Day.”

“You’ve never been romantic. It’s just another Tuesday, right?”

I follow him into the foyer, still pleading. “You can’t throw away six years just like that.”

He turns at the bank of glass doors and shakes off my hand. “I didn’t,
you
did. And I hope you and NTA will be very happy together.”

I press my forehead against the cool marble wall of the restroom stall, one hand on either side. At least I’m standing. I spent the past 20 minutes kneeling beside the throne, waiting to throw up. But when someone noticed me under the door and threatened to call for help, I managed to get to my feet and assure her I’m fine.

Eventually, I settle on the toilet and reach into my pocket for my phone. My hand hits the vial of Wonder Glass, and I consider taking a swig myself, simply to forget what just happened. But that won’t make it un-happen. And no matter what, I don’t want to forget Noah.      

Still, I’d rewind our relationship about 18 months, if I could, to the point where the first sign of trouble appeared.

It was a sticky summer night, and Noah and I went out for a walk after dinner. He wanted to stop for ice cream and I resisted. I’d budgeted exactly 45 minutes for the walk. Stopping would have set me back 20 minutes, and I needed that 20 minutes for a romantic interlude with Noah before getting back to work. Not because I was feeling particularly amorous, but because I felt guilty that I hadn’t been investing much energy into our relationship. One thing led to another, and when Noah realized I’d slotted him into a 20 minute “appointment,” he flipped. He accused me of being profoundly uptight and I accused him of being profoundly insensitive.

I felt like he didn’t recognize the effort I was making to balance a very demanding job and our relationship. Later, I tried harder than ever to spend what little time we had together on activities he valued, but it seemed like it was never enough. He didn’t complain much, but for someone with my personality, getting a failing grade in anything is hugely stressful. Still, I never stopped loving Noah, or hoping our relationship would take off again. Only today has it hit me that we may be permanently grounded.

I dial the number for Jiffi Auto Glass by memory, and Vera picks up instantly. “Hi hon. I guess it’s not going so good over there.”

“How’d you know?”

“Jimmy’s having a helluva time with your windshield. It looked good for a couple of hours. Then a new crack showed up—a deep one.”

I start to cry. “My boyfriend. My fiancé. He just broke up with me. The photo I mentioned? He saw it before it was pulled back.”

“You doused him with Wonder Glass?”

I wipe the tears away with the sleeve of the coat I’m still wearing. “He wouldn’t drink it. And now he’s gone.”

“Oh, Ellie, I’m sorry,” she says. “We really needed to get on this one early.”

“I know. I messed up.”  I’m sobbing openly now. “Is there any hope? He’s the love of my life.”

“The formula’s good for 12 hours, 13 at most. If this guy really is the love of your life, you’d better follow him and force the stuff down his throat if you have to.”

I stand up and unlock the restroom stall. “Okay, I’ll go after him.”

“Don’t get sidetracked,” she says. “And whatever you do, don’t use the serum where you don’t need it.”

“Can’t you make more?”

“One batch per problem, hon. Make this one count.”