Shatterproof by Yvonne Collins, Sandy Rideout Page B

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 guykissed 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