Page 4 of Ticket to You

OPHELIA

I probably gothrough a hundred paper towels, but after thirty minutes of scrubbing, the only thing I’ve done is spread the stain out so it covers the entire bodice. I won’t be able to wear the dress again, but hopefully, nobody will notice the stain thanks to the romantic lighting and the alcohol flowing through their systems.

I slam my elbow against the hand dryer. I have to do a half-backbend to position the dress under the stream of air and within seconds, my feet are screaming at me in protest. Kicking off my heels, I stand barefoot on the cold bathroom tile.

Only one woman comes into the bathroom during my fantastical display. Her jaw drops open when she sees me.

My fake laugh is supposed to sound nonchalant, but it instead sounds like a wounded kitten. “I’m just…warming up under the dryer. Bit nippy in there, don’t you think?”

The woman says nothing. She just ducks her head and rushes into the nearest stall.

One person witnessing me like this is more than enough, so I slip my heels back on, sing Lizzo’s newest song in my mind, and strut back into the party on the beat, making a beeline for Jane.

“Ophelia,” she says as I near, her eyes glued to my still-red dress. “Look at that. Nobody will be the wiser.” Her sarcasm-rich voice sends an icy shiver down my spine. “We’ve had quite a fun time rehashing the crash.” Jane gestures around the group of executives, and they all join in a collective chuckle, even Jane. It’s strange to see her emote.

Not quite the impression I wanted to make. But at least they’ll remember me.

I pretend to laugh good-naturedly along with them. “So about what I was talking about, Jane…Atelier’s international stories are—”

“And you fell with Adam Abrams, of all people. You two looked like a bowl of spaghetti trying to untangle those long limbs of yours,” Jane says.

“Drinksanda show!” Hoffman’s COO says, taking a long drink of his whiskey.

“It’s a good thing your dress has all those layers,” another woman in the group says. “You were bottoms-up for a few seconds there.”

Jane's face has settled back to its usual statuesque nature, cold and unmoving. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile. Instead, she gives me that familiar eyebrow raise, challenging me again.

“Jane,” I blurt out loudly, trying to speak over the drunk laughter around us. “Atelierneeds an ongoing travel section.” I’ve been planning this pitch for months, and once the words start, they don’t slow. “As I’ve increased the number of travel articles I publish onAtelier’s website, our analysts find theyget, on average, ten percent more traffic than our other articles. In last month’s issue, companies paid apremiumto get their ads as bookends to my article on the history of Indian wedding saris. I’ve already had some of our biggest advertisers reach out asking when our next international story will go to print. Yes, the expenses for international travel are higher, but the return on our investment outweighs that threefold.”

Jane doesn’t need to speak. Instead, she gives me the smallest nod humanly possible. My body threatens to collapse from relief. Anod?Fromher?I wish I had gotten that on video. I’m tempted to go home and add “got the nod from Jane Sommerland” to my resume.

“Email my assistant, and we can try to set up a time to meet,” Jane says, turning back to the group.

That’s it? Thiswas when she asked to meet. After months of gathering data and preparing for this moment, all I get back is a “Maybe we can meet.” My body feels like Earth is focusing an extra bit of its gravity on pulling me down, but I force myself to keep my chin high.

“I understand,” I whisper, plastering on my bestAtelier Todaysmile.

As much as I would love to run back to my apartment and put on an old ’60s movie, a part of me—a very naivepart of me—is holding onto the hope that Jane will change her mind and want to hear all about my idea tonight.

I wander around the party aimlessly. The conversation and laughter in the room around me sound muffled. Usually, I bounce between groups, happy to reminisce with old friends and eager to meet new ones. But my limbs are heavy and even a simple smile threatens to drain my energy. Gemma finds me after a few minutes. Thankfully, she knows me well enough that I don’t have to put on a brave face for her. After one defeated shrug from me, she understands exactly how the pitch went.

“I’m sorry, Ophelia,” she hums. After a few sluggish beats of silence, she adds, “There’s still a party left to enjoy.”

“I don’t know. An enormous bowl of popcorn and a rewatch ofRoman Holidayare calling my name.”

Gemma’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile. “What if I told you I have something to distract you with?”

I hold both hands up. “No, not again.” I know exactly where the conversation is headed. “The last guy you set me up with, theNew Yorkerwriter, had one leg in the grave and the other knee-deep in prune juice. I’m afraid I’ve lost hope in your Cupid efforts.”

One of Gemma’s favorite hobbies is to play matchmaker for me, something she’s tried to do dozens of times over the years to no avail. Her transition toOutdoorsymeant a new network of potential dates to set me up on. Following my most recent breakup, if you can even call it that, Gemma has been relentless about setting me up with one of her new coworkers. But I’ve been avoiding it like I would a fake Louis bag.

“You need a rebound.” Even as she says it, Gemma’s face twists up at the idea.

“You never think I need a rebound. You’re as hopeless of a romantic as they come.”

“What do you want me to say?” Gemma huffs playfully. “That I want you to find your soulmate just like I did at your age? Of course, I do. You know I worry about you being alone.”

“I don’t mind being alone.”Liar.“And I’m always so busy atAtelier. There’s hardly time to meet people.”

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