Page 11 of Ticket to You

I clear my throat. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re the one who deserves this award.”

Ophelia stops walking and turns to face me, folding her arms across her chest. “Don’t be patronizing.”

“I’m not,” I insist. “Starting an entirely new section in a hundred-year-old magazine is quite the accomplishment.”

“But less of an accomplishment when you consider the fact that we’re a fashion magazine.” Ophelia smiles, but it’s tinged with bitterness.

What am I supposed to say to that? Ophelia may be witty and smart, but that doesn’t mean the magazine she works for is. After one look at their highly Photoshopped models and their ads for two-hundred-dollar face creams, I assumedAtelier Todaywasn’t much more than a vehicle for deluding readers’ minds with unattainable visions of luxury.

“It—It’s still impressive,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Congratulations.”

“Very convincing, Abrams,” Ophelia says, rolling her eyes. “If you’ll excuse me…” She saunters off into the crowd.

I spend almost an hour trying to think of anything I can say to Ophelia to make up for the holiday party. But seeing as how this is my last event working forOutdoorsy, I eventually give up my efforts and head back to my apartment. And I try—I really try—to not dwell on the fact that I might never see Ophelia again.

7

OPHELIA

Before I can even setmy purse down at my desk in the morning, a young woman comes to me. Though I’ve never met her, I know she must be Jane Sommerland’s new assistant. People with eyes as wide as hers are the telltale sign of someone who got close enough to the beast to get bitten. Judging by the way she stands like a newborn deer, she must be new to the whole heels-all-day thing.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Did you put oak milk in Jane’s latte instead of almond?”

“Miss Sommerland would like to meet with you” is all the response I get.

I run my fingers through my hair quickly. The busy subway always does a number on my hair, and Jane is a stickler for how her employees present themselves. “Did she say what the meeting is about?”

“All I know is she wants to see you now.” With that, the baby deer fumbles away and I follow close behind, smoothing out my black sleeveless turtleneck.

What Jane wants, she gets.

The door to Jane’s office is already open. She sits behind a desk that’s even more cluttered than mine. Her glasses sit on the tip of her nose and her black bob is so perfectly in place it looks like one solid piece, like LEGO hair. Today, Jane’s love for loud outfits manifests itself as a dress with wavy lines of color, as if it went through a gasoline spill. Jane glances at her assistant, who scrambles away, closing the door behind her as she goes.

Jane studies my outfit from head to toe and lifts her chin an inch, showing approval of my green houndstooth kick-flare pants. That subtle movement is the closest thing to a gold star from her.

“Please sit, Ophelia.” Her voice, unsurprisingly, sounds bored, as if she’s been in the industry long enough that nothing can interest her anymore.

I do as I’m told, careful to keep my chin high. A woman like Jane Sommerland demands confidence.

“You have a big trip planned,” Jane says to me, moving her eyes back down to the swatch book in front of her.

“I do. Our April trip will be our most exciting one yet. My team and I have an inspiring itinerary lined up.”

Jane glances up at me from behind her glasses, her perfectly arched eyebrows ticking up. She’s asking a silent question—I just need to figure out what that question is.

I swallow the lump in my throat, doing my best to stay composed. “We saw a traffic increase of twelve percent to the travel section of the website after our last trip’s content went live. And on social media, four of the top five performing posts this month have been photos from our international trips.” I already fought to get the travel section intoAtelier, but, judging by Jane’s expression, I’m still on the ropes.

“And on these trips, you usually bring a photographer along with you,” Jane says. It’s not a question.

“And an assistant or intern to help. Last month, we also took a stylist and a two-person video duo.”

Jane sighs lightly. “So three people at least, sometimes, what, six or seven?”

“Yes. At the most.” Jane stares blankly at me, so I quickly add, “Usually three, though.”

“Ground transportation, airfare, car rentals, hotel stays, food…” Jane says, her tone nearly a hum. “And for ‘usually three but sometimes seven’ people? That’s already been quite the expenditure.” Jane leans forward with her elbows on the desk, like an invitation to challenge her. But nobody ever challenges Jane.

Until now.

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