Page 24 of Ticket to You

“Besides devouring these macarons? Not much. I might stop by the Palais Galliera to get some last-minute research done for tomorrow’s article. But you don’t need to come with me. It’s a museum of fashion. You’d hate it.”

“You sound so sure, but you barely know me.” Adam is wearing black sunglasses, hiding most of his expression, but I watch the corner of his mouth twitch.

“It isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse,” I say hesitantly.

Adam stands from the table. “I assume you know the way?”

* * *

We getfree admittance to the museum, thanks to our press cards. But even if we hadn’t, this is something I would have prioritized when budgeting. My grandma loved sewing and fashion, and every time I learn more about it, I feel closer to her.

I move throughout the museum in its entirety, from the historical to the contemporary collections, and Adam follows, always a few paces behind. Throughout the museum, I try to keep my comments minimal, knowing that any time I open my mouth I raise the threat of droning on for hours. But when we arrive at my favorite section, haute couture, I can’t stay quiet any longer.

“Some of these pieces were worn by the most fashionable women in the twentieth century, like Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelley. And look at this, this detail work with the cerulean beads? It’s a work of art, don’t you think?” I jump from mannequin to mannequin, talking to myself more than I talk to Adam.

“So this is it,” Adam says after my energy has waned a bit.

“Hmm?” I ask, unable to look away from the fuchsia feather headpiece in front of me.

“This is why you work atAtelier. It’s art for you.” Adam’s eyes are softer than usual, his jaw unclenched.

“There are a lot of reasons I work atAtelier, first being the luxury of a steady income. But yes, I see fashion as art.”

“And you’ve always loved fashion,” Adam says, his assumption not a question.

After taking one last, very long glance at the room, I have mercy on Adam and take him through the exit. The museum has revived my tired spirits, and I feel like I just did a triple-shot espresso. Outside, the sun has dipped lower. Soon, the lights on the Eiffel Tower will sparkle for us. I smile at the thought.

“Tell me more about fashion,” Adam says.

I snort.

“I’m serious. This is all new to me.”

Try to be friends for the sake of the trip, I remind myself, taking a heavy breath before speaking. “Growing up, fashion wasn’t something I worried about. Just getting clothes on my back was the key priority. Bonus points if they fit.”

“How do you mean?” Adam asks, watching me from the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t grow up with money. When I went through a growth spurt in middle school, I was growing out of clothes faster than we could buy them. So my grandma taught me how to sew and knit, something she always adored. At first, I didn’t think about style at all. But during my junior year of high school, my grandma gave me my first copy ofAtelier Todayand a fewrealsewing patterns.

“By the time senior prom rolled around, I wanted to do something special. Just buying a newdress would’ve been out of the ordinary for me. But I wanted more than that. I wanted a dress that felt like art.”

I tell Adam about the drive to Oklahoma City, the fruitless department store search, and my return to my hometown thrift store. I tell him how my best option was an ’80s wedding dress that I brought home, dyed blue, cut the sleeves and some of the underskirt out of, and chopped the hem above the knee.

“I had spent so long thinking that clothes were nothing but utility, and I ended up loving the thought that I could express myself through what I was wearing.”

Just by looking at Adam, his effortless style, his casual air, I know he grew up relatively wealthy. I can pick out someone who comes from money easier than I can pick out a good avocado. Despite how down-to-earth Adam tries to come off in his writing, he’s probably never been inside a thrift store.

“When it comes to journalism,” I continue, “the real draw for me is simply hearing people’s stories. Especially ones about love and family.”

I pause, suddenly feeling warm. Deep down, there’s been a pit of loneliness in my torso ever since my grandparents passed. I live vicariously through my interviewees and their stories of love and family. To tell Adam that would be to expose the rawest parts of me.

Adam nods thoughtfully and sticks his hands into his pockets. Eventually, we wind our way back to the Eiffel Tower. I sit on the grass and wait in patient awe for what I know is to come. Adam sits beside me, his body angled toward me rather than toward the Tower. As the night drapes its inky cloak over the city of Paris, the magical spectacle unfolds before our eyes. The Eiffel Tower’s thousands of lights twinkle, blending in with the blanket of stars behind it. Each delicate flicker of light seems to breathe life into the steel structure.

A cool breeze whispers through the air, carrying with it a renewed sense of tension between Adam and me. A silence envelops us, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city and the occasional click of our camera’s shutters.

I turn to find Adam’s eyes softened by the enchantment of the moment. His voice, usually sharp, takes on a gentler tone. “It's... beautiful,” he whispers, his voice laced with a hint of wonder.

My breath catches in my throat. As we sit united in awe, I glimpse something else. Here is Adam, undeniably handsome Adam, with his brow knit and jaw flexed in a way I’ve never quite seen before.

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