Before I can take my turn, Mom comes up behind me and slips my cardigan over my shoulders. Baxter smirks, but it fades fast when I send the cue ball rocketing across the table. It makes the break with a satisfying crack, and sends two of my balls straight into the side pockets. Even I’m impressed when I don’t foul a single shot. And Baxter’s smirk is long gone by the time I sink the eight ball with a flourish and hand him the cue.
The win won’t help one bit on the corporate front, but it felt good just the same.
“Not the Valentine you had in mind?” Noah asks, appearing at my side.
I rest my forehead against him and groan, “Why didn’t you stop them?”
A laugh rumbles in his chest. “They’re unstoppable, you know that.” After a moment, he says, “There’s something else, El. I want—”
Before he can finish, there’s the clink of cutlery on glass and Scott calls for silence. Oh great, a speech. I don’t want Baxter hearing anything about my private life that he could use as a weapon.
“Contrary to popular belief,” Scott begins, “there are some fascinating stories about Ellie I could share. But as my birthday present to her, I’m going to deny myself the pleasure. So I’ll just turn over the spotlight to the guy I consider my older, and more mature brother: Noah Taggert.”
Noah looks sheepish. Meanwhile, my parents and Jasper have materialized beside Scott, forming a row of expectant faces.
“Wait a second,” I say.
Noah holds out his hand, palm up, and Jasper steps forward holding a small box. He makes an elaborate show of snapping the box open and displaying the contents as if he were flogging a product on the Shopping Channel. The lights make the jewel inside sparkle. “Yes, folks, it’s a carat-and-a-half cubic zirconium,” Scott says. “Emerald cut, if that means anything to anyone.”
There’s a squeal. It means something to Charlotte.
“No one could be happier about this than I am,” Scott says. “Except of course, our mother.” Indeed, from the corner of my eye, I see Mom is clutching Dad’s arm for support. “Mom knows her only hope of grandkids is Ellie, so this day has been far too long coming. Better get on it, El. Make the old girl happy.”
“Scott,” Mom hisses. “Leave your sister alone. Let Noah speak.”
“What’s left to say?” Jaz says. “Just make it official, already.”
Jasper finally surrenders the ring to Noah, who takes my right hand from my side, uncurls my fingers, and sets the box in it. “Ellie, will you?” he asks.
I look at the sparkling stone. It’s actually a radiant cut, and I have no doubt whatsoever that it’s real. It’s exactly what I’d want, if I wanted an engagement ring. And the simplicity of the proposal itself would also be perfect, if I wanted a proposal. But I would never in a million years want those things to come together tonight, at Tease, in front of Baxter Thorpe.
Looking up at Noah, I can tell he knows that. He succumbed to my family’s pressure. So, I lean in to hug him and mutter, “What can I say?”
“You could say ‘yes,’” Noah says, into my hair.
“I could say yes,” I repeat, dazed.
My mom picks up the last word and holds it aloft like a trophy, “Yes!”
Noah is sitting on his front steps when I pull into his driveway. A light snow is falling, and his bare head and shoulders are dusted with flakes. But he hasn’t been here long. My foot was heavy on the accelerator.
I wait until we’re inside before blurting, “Noah, what were you thinking?”
His expression is a mixture of guilt and defiance. “I was thinking that I wanted to marry you.”
A voice inside tells me to stop, but like my brothers, I’ve become unstoppable. “And that’s the best way you could bring it up?”
“It was Jasper’s idea,” he says.
“It was my mother’s idea. Have I ever seemed like the type who’d want a jumbotron proposal?”
“It was three words in front of your closest friends.”
“And Backstabber Thorpe.”
He glares at me. “That’s why you’re so upset, isn’t it? Because Baxter heard it.”
“That’s one of many reasons. But of course I’m upset that Baxter will tell everyone I’m about to crank out kids. Reuben will think I’m not committed to the job.”
“You just spent six months in Australia. What’s left to prove?”
I give an exasperated sigh. “You know what it’s like at NTA. I won’t make partner if they think family is my priority.”
“Well, is it? Your priority, I mean?”
I stomp through his living room, booting one of his hockey shin pads with my bare foot and cursing. As always, the place is littered with sports equipment. In the kitchen, I open the fridge and reach for the wine I opened last time I was here.
“That’s three weeks old,” he says, probably to make a point of how seldom I come to his place. It’s no wonder, with dirty dishes piled in the sink, and a battered dining set that came with the house he inherited after his mom’s death.
I pour the wine into a juice glass, wincing as I take a sip.
“So?” Noah asks. “Is family your priority?”
He’s really asking if he is my priority. I want to throw something at him right now, but I say the right thing. “Of course.”
My tone must not be convincing, because he snorts.
“What? It is.” I wave my left hand at him. “I’m wearing it, aren’t I?”
“Thanks for sounding so happy about it.”
“Well, come on, it was an ambush. How am I supposed to feel?”
He walks back into the living room and collapses onto the brown leather sofa that’s been with him since college. “You can still say no.”
“I said yes.”
“You didn’t, really. I was hoping for a sincere yes, now. But we don’t have to do this.”
“It’s done,” I say. “I always meet my commitments.”
Throwing me a fierce glare, he swallows hard, clearly choking down what he really wants to say. He settles for, “That’s all I am to you?”
Reaching for the remote, he turns on the TV as an excuse not to look at me.
I sit down across from him. “Of course not. But you know my career’s important to me.”
“I know I’ve been dating my TV for the better part of six years.”
“That’s unfair. I’ve spent every spare moment I could with you, when I was home.” He doesn’t respond, so I say, “Could you turn off your other girlfriend?”
He turns down the volume. “I know your career is important to you. Just like you know I want to get on with things. Have a family. It’s my half-life, too.”
“The average life span is shorter for men,” I say. It’s a feeble attempt at lightening the mood.
“All the more reason.” Setting the remote on the coffee table, he leans over and takes my left hand and twists the ring so that the diamond catches the light and casts a tiny universe of stars on the threadbare carpet. “If this isn’t it for you, El, now’s the time to say so.”
“Or what?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I started talking about marriage three years ago and you’ve been putting me off ever since. If I’m not what you want—”
“It’s not that. It’s not about you.”
Dropping my hand, he says, “It’s a hundred per cent about me, okay?” His voice has an edge as sharp as the diamond. “If I am not what you want, let me move on.”
The stale wine roils in my stomach. “Not wanting to get married right now doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you.”
“Yeah, it does,” he says, turning up the volume on the TV again. “It means you’re choosing work over having a life together. And it’s been long enough.”
“Are you giving me an ultimatum?”
He keeps his eyes on the TV. “I gave you a ring.”
“With strings attached. You want me to scale back at work, not travel, have kids.”
“I want you to
make our relationship your priority. If that’s too much to ask, I have to accept it.”
Setting the juice glass on the coffee table, I get to my feet and put on my coat. “Well, since you’re making TV your priority right now, I’ll head home.”
With heavy snow forecast for overnight, I expect him to try to stop me, but he doesn’t. I button my coat as slowly as I can, waiting, and finally he says, “You probably shouldn’t drive. A storm’s moving in.”
“Yeah,” I say, heading out the door. “It sure is.”
The snow has stopped and the sun is edging over the horizon as I pull out of the condo’s garage. I barely slept a wink, with my mind racing in tighter and tighter circles. My brothers would tell me to chill, that everything will work itself out, but I’m simply not wired that way. All I can do is try to keep Baxter from blabbing about the proposal before Reuben makes the partnership offer. If Reuben thinks my priorities have changed, he’ll put me on the “mommy track” long before that’s an issue. It’s unfair—hell, it’s illegal—but it’s the reality of NTA.
I’m an hour ahead of schedule, and the traffic on Bayview Avenue is so light that it shouldn’t be a problem to beat Baxter to Reuben. After Rueben’s regular Monday conference call, I’ll pop in for a chat and subtly mention the birthday party. I’ll let him know that my family pressured Noah into proposing but that we chatted afterwards and decided it isn’t the right time.
Once the partnership paperwork is signed, I’ll figure out how to handle the situation with Noah. Surely if I’m working mostly in Toronto and spending more time with him, he can manage to tune out his ticking clock for awhile. Maybe I’ll invite him to move into the condo. As a gesture. He can rent out his house.
I stop at a red light and the sun hits the windshield in a bright burst. That’s when I see it: a chip, just to the right of my sightline. It must have happened last night during the storm, when I was crawling behind a snow plow and salt truck. The chip is small, but there’s a tiny crack emanating from it already. I run my finger over the spot from the inside, but the glass is perfectly smooth.
Behind me, someone honks. The light is green.
Taking a deep breath, I press the accelerator. It’s lucky I’m not superstitious. Otherwise, I’d be worried that a chip in the windshield is a sign that my life is cracking around me.
Rational people don’t see signs in chipped windshields.
Rational people do, however, get chips repaired immediately, because cracks can spread and put the entire windshield at risk. The Lexus dealership is only a few minutes from the NTA office on Bay Street. I’ll drop off the car and walk from there.
As I exit onto Richmond Street, I see a sign for Jiffi Auto Glass. Although it’s just after 7 a.m., two cars are pulling into the lot and the small office appears to be full. If it’s that popular, it must be good.
Slowing to a crawl, I read the lettering under the company name: Chips and Cracks Disappear like Magic with Wonder Glass™.
A horn honks behind me again and I decide to turn in. I can catch a cab to NTA and still be well ahead of Baxter.
Inside Jiffi’s dingy office, there are five people ahead of me waiting to talk to the petite, silver-haired woman behind the counter. Her nametag reads “Vera.”
“Close the door, hon,” Vera calls. “It’s a cold one. Scrunch up, everyone.”
I pull the door shut behind me and Vera goes back to her murmured conversation with the man at the front of the line. Finally he passes her his keys in exchange for something I can’t make out, and leaves smiling.
The next customer is an attractive woman wearing a dramatic black cape. Her conversation with Vera is just as long and just as hushed. What’s so complicated about saying, “My windshield’s chipped. How much will it cost, and when can I pick it up?”
There are two people still ahead of me when I get close enough to the counter to tap my fingers on it impatiently.
Vera glances over at me with startlingly blue eyes. “Relax, hon,” she says. “It’ll only be a few minutes. Have a coffee.” She gestures to a carafe at the end of the counter.
I shake my head, resisting the urge to point out the sign on the wall that reads, “Fast, Efficient Service.” Instead, I dig out my Blackberry to keep my hands busy. This kind of delay drives me crazy at any point, but today it’s nearly unbearable.
Half-life:
1 : the time required for something to fall to half its initial value;
2 : a period of usefulness or popularity preceding decline or obsolescence.
Nice. Yet it turns out the average life expectancy for women in Canada is 83 years. With a few keystrokes, my brothers could have verified that I have several years to go before reaching the half-way point.
Still, it suddenly feels like every second counts now, and I’m wasting too many of them in Jiffi Auto Glass. At this very moment, Baxter is choosing the perfect tie for betrayal—perhaps adorned with tiny scythes, like the Grim Reaper’s—and twisting it into a full Windsor knot to choke the life out of my career.
When my anxiety spikes into the red zone, I step out of line and head for the door. Now I don’t even have time to drop the car at the dealership.
“Wait,” Vera calls after me. “It’s almost your turn.”
“I’m late for work,” I say.
“But what about your windshield?”
“It’s just a tiny chip.”
“Cracking?” she asks.
“Slightly,” I say. “You can barely see it.”
“Well, you can’t ignore that. We’ve got the best liquid polymer on the market. Seals chips and cracks like new.”
My hand is on the door now. “Well, maybe I’ll stop by on my way home.”
“Don’t leave it too long, hon. The smallest chip can turn into a big ol’ spider web of trouble. The faster we get at it, the better.”
NTA covers three floors of a high rise on Bay Street. The windows are walled off by offices inhabited by partners and senior project managers. The rest of each floor is filled with a maze of cubicles holding the worker bees.
Normally, I’m in so early that the gentle buzz of the hive hasn’t really begun. But today, many of the junior consultants are already at their desks because they’re getting out early. There’s a launch party tonight in a nearby hotel for the postal service project.
I’ve always found the hum of the hive soothing. It gives me a feeling of belonging, of being part of something bigger than myself. Scott and Jaz call me the “the last of the company girls,” and I suppose that’s not far off the mark. Although I’m not blind to NTA’s shortcomings I’ve never wanted to wander from job to job, as many of my peers have done. Nor do I envy my brothers’ laid-back approach to their careers. Jaz is a software designer who shows up to work at 11 wearing jeans. Scott is in sales, and averages a job change per year. They’re 31, and I keep expecting them to lock into something, but it hasn’t happened yet.
My brothers would never have survived the NTA inculcation. The company deliberately captures people young to mould them. The first year is almost entirely about training, an intensive program designed to suppress individuality and encourage groupthink. The approach is so effective that most people don’t notice the spirit has been sucked out of them until years later, if ever. Staff progress steadily up the ranks, with money and responsibility increasing at a seductive rate. The only perk NTA doesn’t offer is generous vacation. Too much time away from the hive, and conditioning fades.
I’ve been told by Reuben and other partners that I’m one of NTA’s best and brightest, and I flatter myself that it’s true. My projects always come in on time and under budget. I’m known for an almost military-like precision in staging implementation and deploying staff. It’s a discipline gained by measuring myself against over a hundred people with similar backgrounds and skills.
Along the way, I’ve developed a shell that didn’t exist when I arrived. In my early years at NTA, I’d occasionally break down in the restroom wh
en things went wrong, but that hasn’t happened in a very long time. In fact, I suspect I’m viewed as tough, even cold. I don’t waste much time worrying about what people think of me—other than my superiors, and even then only to a point. It’s the work that excites and energizes me.
By the time I reach my office, I’ve absorbed enough of the communal energy to call out a cheery hello to Sherri, the administrative assistant I share with Reuben and a few others. Sherri is my closest pal at NTA. She’s smart and thorough, but has no interest at all in growing in the company. As a result, most people see her as part of the furniture. I’ve always valued the support staff, and Sherri regularly goes above and beyond to help me.
Today, she beckons and whispers, “Baxter’s in with Reuben.”
“Already? Why?”
She shrugs. “It wasn’t in the calendar. Reuben came in early and Baxter was already hovering.”
My stomach sinks. “Is the partner meeting still booked?”
“Lunch at Canoe,” she says. Giving my arm a reassuring pat, she adds, “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
But as I slip the key into the lock of my office door, Baxter emerges from Reuben’s office. He’s wearing a jaunty cranberry tie that I can’t help viewing as a red flag, especially given the spring in his step.
“How’s the first day of the second half?” he calls.
It takes me a moment to realize he means the second half of my life. “Feels exactly the same,” I call back. “Did it feel any different for you?”
He smiles, his forehead immovable. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”
I hide out in my office until Baxter is gone. Then I poke my head into Reuben’s doorway and find him with the phone to his ear. Seeing me, he shakes his head and gestures to close the door.
Sighing, I retreat to my desk and switch on my laptop. Work has always had a calming effect on me, and hopefully today will be no exception.
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