Shatterproof (7 page)

“Okay. Well, listen, Ellis, I’m on the party planning crew and I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

 “We’ve rented a karaoke machine and it would mean a lot to us if you’d do a number.”

I nearly choke on my martini. That’s taking accessibility way too far. “Karaoke? Uh, no. I’m not much of a performer.”

“Are you kidding? You were
inspiring
up there.”

The kid’s head is so far up my butt it’s indecent. “There’s a big difference between speaking and singing.”

Dylan hands me a shooter glass. “Try one of these. It’s the special project shooter we invented.”

The shooter is layered and smells delectable. Tilting my head back, I pour it down my throat. “Yum. What’s in it?”

“Raspberry schnapps, Grand Marnier and crème de cacao. We call it the ‘Go-Postal.’”  He slides another one towards me. “I heard about you during training.”

I swallow the second Go-Postal. “Really?”

“Yeah, they said you were the best project lead in Canada and that we’d be lucky to work with you.”

“Huh.”  So, I’ve become a module on the basic training. That’s what happens when you’re the oldest living project lead, with one precisely-knotted exception.

Midlife crisis: 
a period of emotional turmoil in middle age characterized especially by a strong desire for change.

“I couldn’t wait to meet you,” Dylan says. “I hope you’ll be my mentor.”  I look around and notice that a dozen others are listening to our conversation and nodding.

“Save the flattery for the client, Dylan,” I say, although I can’t resist smiling. I should mingle with my people more often. It doesn’t even faze me that they have me completely surrounded.

Dylan hands me a third shooter and tries his luck again. “So, how about the karaoke, Ellis? It would make you seem more accessible to the team.”

This kid is gifted; he’ll make partner in record time. “I’ll think about it.”

“We could do a duet. I’m in a band, you know.”

“Still thinking.... Don’t rush me.”

“Oh, come on. It’s one song. Do it for the team.”

The crowd starts chanting “El-
lis
, El-
lis
,” and before I can grab hold of something, they push me back up the stairs and onstage. The whole maneuver was so carefully orchestrated I never really stood a chance. I’ve got my work cut out for me with this team.

I expect some current pop tune I don’t recognize to appear on the karaoke screen, but instead, the machine strikes up my all-time favorite duet,
Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around
, by Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks. My Dad used to follow my mom singing this song when I was just a kid, and she’d shove him away, grumbling, “Oh, Keith, drag your heart out to the garage and start cleaning it.”

It’s not an easy song, but knowing that Stevie was nearly unintelligible helps as I tentatively sing the first verse. Dylan joins in for the chorus, with a deep, strong voice that’s much nicer than Tom Petty’s.

Staring up at him, I see a row of healed-over piercings in his ear and the blue lines of a tattoo peaking over his preppy collar. Turns out he isn’t standard issue NTA material at all. Rather, he’s a rocker who’s strayed far off the path of cool.

Tossing Dylan a smile, I sing the second verse with more confidence.

It's hard to think about what you've wanted

It's hard to think about what you've lost

This doesn't have to be the big get even

This doesn't have to be anything at all

It’s like a million possibilities of what might have been flash before my eyes, especially when Dylan chimes in with:

I know you really want to tell me good-bye

I know you really want to be your own girl

Then we throw an arm around each other, down another shooter, and share the mike for the chorus:

Baby you could never look me in the eye

Yeah you buckle with the weight of the words

Stop draggin' my...

Stop draggin' my...

Stop draggin' my heart around.

Some of the other consultants have gathered behind us to sing backup, and for a moment my worries fall away.

But before the last notes fade, the “weight of the words” hits me. Noah’s face pops into my head and my eyes start to fill. I grab my jacket and bolt down the stairs.

Outside the hotel, I’m struggling with my coat when Dylan catches up to me. I’ve already wiped away the tears by the time he asks, “Are you okay, Ellis?”

He seems sweet and vulnerable. I want to tell him to run—run away from NTA while he still has his soul.

“Sure,” I say. “Just had a rough day, that’s all.”

I think about all that’s happened in 24 hours, and my eyes fill again. Dylan pats my arm uncertainly, and when the tears spill over, he leans down and gives me a hug. My arms hang loosely by my side but I rest my forehead against his shoulder, noticing he smells vaguely of cedar, like Noah. Finally, I put both hands on Dylan’s chest, and push myself away. In the same instant, he leans down and kisses me. His lips are sticky from the shooters. There’s no mistaking him for Noah now, and I give him a quick shove that breaks the seal.

“Don’t be sad,” he says, slurring slightly. “You’re an amazing singer.”

“Goodnight, Dylan,” I say, opening the hotel door to shove him inside.

That’s when I see a flash of red, as Baxter and his cranberry tie disappear into an elevator.

The phone is ringing in my condo. I race to pick up, hoping it’s Noah, and drop the handset while I’m saying hello.

Scott is laughing as I retrieve it. “Are you drunk?” he asks.

“No, why?”

“You’re wasted!”

“You can’t tell from three lousy words.”

“Actually, I pegged you at ‘hello.’ Not drinking alone, I hope?”

“I just got back from a project kick-off.”

“Drinking at a work party? Who loosened your girdle, Eleanor?”

“Like you never drink at work functions.”  It comes out as fuck-tions, and Scott laughs even harder.

“Did you dance, too?”

“Actually, I sang. I have a good voice, you know. Anyway, what’s wrong? I can’t remember the last time you picked up the phone to call me.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay after last night. I mean, with you and Noah.”

It’s not like him to worry, which only worries me more. “I hope so,” I say. “Hey, do you think I should take singing lessons?”

He guffaws. “Forget it, Number 1. You’ve got four corners.”

“I am not
a square.”

“If it weren’t for us, you would be. Now, take that girdle off before bed. Don’t want you choking on your own vomit like some dissipated rock star.”

I
’m at Jiffi Auto Glass by 7:02 a.m. and there’s already a line up. I meant to be waiting when the doors opened but I had to take the subway to work to pick up the car first. After a martini and four shooters, I wasn’t in any condition to drive home last night. Worse, I’m brutally hung over. The headache is already breaking through the first two Advil.

I help myself to the coffee from the urn on the counter, choosing to skip the milk substitute and drink it black. It scours my throat on the way down, adding to the acid that’s already swirling below.

I am in deep trouble. Yesterday, for the first time in many years, there was no communication from Noah—despite two voicemails, one e-mail and five texts from me. My vague hope that things would simply right themselves was foolhardy. And when he hears about Ottawa, I suppose the ultimatum will be revoked, and a simple pink slip offered.

The thought makes me set the coffee down to run my hands through my still damp hair, before covering my eyes briefly. How did it come to this, when Noah knew exactly what he was getting from the start? We met at the airport, after all. I had just returned from Seattle, and was leaving for Edmonton in my first stint as project lead. Noah had attended a conference in Tucson, and was heading for Edmonton to meet with clients of the bank he still works for. During a flight delay, we had a glass of wine in the executive lounge and argued about the best and worst airports, and shared tips about restaurants in far flung cities. We had itchy feet in common, as well as a powerful attraction that led us to meet for dinner in Edmonton the next night. By the end of the week, we were a couple.

For nearly three years, we made conflicting schedules work for us. Every reunion had a frisson of excitement and rediscovery. Noah wooed me with flowers, and love letters, and little gifts packed into my carry-on to warm my heart in a cold hotel room later. We started a tradition of “dirty weekends,” where we’d use travel points to meet in different cities, emerging from the hotel only for nice dinners. And our annual getaway to an exotic locale was sacrosanct. Now that I think about it, our last big vacation was two years ago, to Fiji. Work was so heavy last year I didn’t take a real break.

Aside from that, I’ve skipped out on many dinners and conferences that were more about politics than actual work to spend time with Noah. I tried to prioritize him, at the cost of my professional profile, and certainly over sleep, family and friends.