Page 27 of Ticket to You

I listen to the sounds of Ophelia shoving things around until she can make a pathway to the bed. She gets in, flicks the bedside lamp off, and slows her breaths until they’re calm enough that I can’t hear them.

After a moment, her voice breaks the silence, so quiet I think I might have imagined it. “Abrams?”

“Brooooks?” I whisper toward the archway to the bedroom, stretching out the syllable and carrying weight in it.

“Thank you for the help with the watch. It’s…it’s important to me. And thank you for humoring me today. The macarons, the museum, all of it. I’m sure that’s not how you would choose to spend your day.”

“I had a nice time.”

I truly did.

15

OPHELIA

When I wakeup in the morning, it takes a few minutes for me to understand where I am. But after seeing the lavish furnishings, fine curtains, and fresh flowers, the fog fades. Carefully, I peek to the left, but there’s no sign of Adam on the couch. I lie motionless for a moment longer, listening for any sign of him, but I’m met with only silence. I unfurl my legs from the wild tendrils of sheets and tiptoe into the living room.

On the coffee table, beside the card from Henri Roche, is a sheet of embossed hotel stationery. It reads:Went for a run.

Ofcourse,Adam Abrams is the kind of guy to get up at five a.m. to jog during a stay in Paris rather than eating three pastries like the rest of us tourists.

I’m knee-deep in my makeup routine with my hair pulled up in big rollers when I hear the hall door open. I take my time finishing out my best natural makeup look and pulling out my rollers before striding out of the bathroom with my chin high. Adam is still in the living room, so I busy myself by rummaging through my suitcase for an outfit.

“I think Henri Roche has you covered,” Adam says from behind me.

I straighten quickly, suddenly realizing I had my ass sticking out of my silk pajama shorts when I was bending down. I try to keep my eyes on Adam’s face, but his running shorts show off even more of his deeply tanned muscle than I’ve seen before. My eyes betray me by lingering a second too long on them. Even worse, my gaze moves too slowly up his exposed arms and then to his face, where the corners of his mouth twitch. He's leaning against the marble fireplace, a garment bag hung on his finger, held away from him like how I imagine a new parent holds a dirty diaper.

“Someone delivered it to the room a few minutes ago,” he explains.

I take the bag without a word and lay it on the bed. When I unzip it, a puff of pink tulle explodes out like a busted can of Pillsbury biscuits, and I dig through it to find what way is up on the outfit.

Adam scoffs, and I look over to see him with his eyes widened. “What the hell isthat?”

“A dress,” I respond flatly, glaring at him. But actually, I’m not one-hundred percent sure myself.

While Adam showers, I get dressed in my new outfit. Even for me, it’s a lot. The base is a thin bodysuit in baby pink. I feel practically naked in it, and the skirt over the top doesn’t help much. It’s composed of semi-sheer fabric in a matching shade of pink with a line of bows at every tier. After a pep talk, I work up the nerve to look at myself in the floor-length mirror.

There, staring back at me, is a Frankenstein’s monster of a ballerina mashed with Little-Bo-Peep. With a grimace, I turn and check the back. Sure enough, half of each butt cheek hangs out of the bodysuit, partially exposed beneath the tulle of the skirt. I reach under the tulle to pull more of the bodysuit down, but it climbs right back up. The best I can do is push as much of the skirt to the back as I can, the tulle eventually building up enough so my ass is at least somewhat shielded.

Note to self: keep Adam in front of me at all times today.

* * *

There’sa mischievous gleam in Adam’s eyes during our silent drive to Roche’s studio. I never thought I would miss Adam’s bored-dead expression, but now I would give anything for it. He’s made it clear how ridiculous he finds the fashion industry, and my outfit is surely adding fuel to his fire.

“I must admit,” Adam says after parking the car outside Henri’s building, “I’m getting excited to talk to this genius designer of yours now that I’ve seen his work.”

“Youdon’t need to talk,” I tell Adam, doing an awkward climb out of the car so I can keep him from seeing my backside. “I do the talking. You just take pictures, maybe some notes, whatever, but he’smystory andmyinterview.”

Adam salutes, grabs our camera bags, and stands at the bottom of the marked stairwell, raising his eyebrows at me.

“After you,” I stammer, pushing more of the skirt to the back as a woman passes behind me.

Henri’s studio is almost exactly what I imagined it would be like. I’ve been to dozens of designers’ workspaces, and they’re more or less the same: bolts of fabric piled up everywhere and leaned against the walls, trimmings in heaps on tables, dress forms in varying amounts of draping, and sketches pinned up everywhere. In Henri’s studio, the only difference is the massive arched industrial window dominating the far wall. Morning light pours in, reflecting off a table of satin swatches in a brilliant, colorful rainbow.

“Coucou, Ophelia, mon coco,” Henri greets me as soon as I walk in through the metal door. He saunters over, passing Adam, and takes my hand before kissing my cheek. I’ve only met Henri twice before, but his affectionate greeting doesn’t surprise me. He’s known for being unapologetically enthusiastic, a sharp contrast from most French designers I’ve met.

When Henri steps back, I automatically assess his clothes. He’s in loose-fitting trousers cuffed up twice at the ankle and a linen shirt unbuttoned halfway. His hair is tight on the sides and longer at the top, where it’s pushed away from his face. A neat beard nearly disguises the roundness of his jaw. As I’m taking in his outfit, he’s taking in mine with a grin of pride.

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