Page 31 of Ticket to You

My stomach is twisting in tight circles as if it’s turning itself into a cinnamon roll, and my veins feel tighter. The hill is steep and slick with spring snow and ice, and I scramble my legs to try to create friction on the ground to stop us.

But it’s too late.

The earth gives way below us and then I’m kicking nothing but air as if I’m riding an invisible bike. I squeeze my eyes shut, rock my knees to my chest, and mutter a string of curses. Behind me, Marc’s booming laughter bounces his chest against my back.

“You’re a masochist!” I scream through gritted teeth.

I feel the glider curve and open my eyes just enough to see the clearing shrinking below us as we cut through the mountain range. Remembering why I’m in my living hell in the first place, I grab my camera. With fumbling fingers, I adjust the settings, ensuring the shutter speed is high enough that my shaking won’t ruin the photos.

I don’t take my eye off the camera’s viewfinder while we’re in the air, hoping it’ll help me forget that I’m suspended so high that the wild goats along the mountains’ ridges look like ants. But every pocket of air we hit bumps us up and brings me back to reality. Even Marc’s constant babbling does little to help my anxiety. His accent is so heavy and his pace so quick, I can barely tell when he’s switched from English to French and then back again.

Focus, I remind myself, thinking back to my hard drive full of gorgeous photos Adam took yesterday. Each one is art gallery-worthy. I’ll be damned if he shows me up, especially because he has already made his doubts well-known.

The best distraction comes when I shoot Timothee and Adam’s faces up close. They both have refined looks, as though they’re not actual paragliders but rather actors who would play paragliders in a movie. Adam glances over at me and his smile is so wide and bright it stuns me for a moment. He’s in his element and is glowing because of it. I’m struck with gratitude that I have a beanie and sunglasses on, knowing that bloodshot eyes and stressed, sullen cheeks aren’t my best look.

Adam holds a thumbs-up to me, and I return his signal with my still-trembling middle finger, sending him into a laughing fit.

It isn’t until we’re near our landing spot, a clearing low in the Chamonix Valley, that I can appreciate the panoramic views around us. It’s a far cry from Oklahoma where you can stand on a pop can to see the entire state. Here, Mont Blanc and the surrounding Alps jut up against the sky, their steep, indigo facets streaked with lines of brilliant snow. Crevasses in the mountains’ glaciers seem to glow deep blue as if lit from within, and their surfaces look like they belong on another planet. As we descend lower, the peaks level out enough for trees to grow, painting the mountains emerald.

The ground seems to come up to meet us all at once, and I close my eyes, bracing for impact. Marc is giving me instructions, but I instinctively pull my legs up to my chest again, trying to delay what I’m sure will be a crash landing.

“You’re safe, Ophelia,” Marc says, patting the top of my helmet. Only then do I let my feet drop. Once Marc unstraps me from his chest, I fall forward, running my fingers through blades of grass and tiny yellow wildflowers. I’ve never been so happy to feel the ground, even if it’s spinning below me.

I want to stand up, but my legs have a different idea. It’s like trying to support myself on Jell-O, so I busy myself with going through the photos I took. Hopefully, I can look focused and pensive rather than panicked and shaken. The photos are strong,surprisingly strong,given my near-panic attack. I beam with pride.

“Did you get some nice shots?” Timothee asks, joining me on the ground.

“It was all in the model, I’m sure,” I tell Timothee, offering the camera. He flips through some photos, more excited with each one, and I look over to Adam. He’s helping Marc with the gear but staring at Timothee and me, looking completely perturbed. Hopefully, once he sees the pictures, he won’t mind fantastical display of fear-induced nausea.

“Thank you for your help,” Timothee says, setting the camera in my lap and letting his fingers linger there on my thigh for a moment, heat gathering below them. “You must let me repay you.” I start to object, but he cuts me off. “Come to dinner with me tonight,” he says. If it weren’t for my insides still jumbling around, his accent might have threatened to melt me like butter.

“That’s kind of you, but I should focus on helping Adam cull the photos tonight. It’s a big job,” I say, blushing a bit when I see Adam is still within earshot.

Timothee hands me a piece of paper with his number scrawled on it. “In case you change your mind.”

* * *

Adam issilent on the way back to the cabin. He doesn’t even look at me.

“How do you think it went?” I ask, already knowing the answer based on Adam’s expression.

“Horrid, thanks for asking.”

I groan softly. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of the heights thing. Did the photos at least turn out okay?”

Adam exhales heavily through his nose with his jaw clenched. “It’s not your fault. It’s just…Timothee couldn’t stop talking about you during the flight. It’ll be a miracle if I can make that kid come across as anything aside from smitten…or horny.”

“Oh, it can’t be that bad.”

As we pull up to a traffic light, Adam unlocks his phone and opens up the interview recording. “See for yourself.”

I press play but can only get thirty seconds into the recording before I have to shut it off from embarrassment. “He asked about my astrological sign?”

“And your allergies, favorite movies, favorite color, favorite flower, favorite—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I’m sorry, Adam.” I bite my lip and pull the paper with Timothee’s number from my pocket. “I might have a way to make it up to you.”

18

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