Page 73 of Ticket to You

Don’t risk it!

Don’t be a coward!

Do youreallywant to go back to struggling to make ends meet?

TELL HIM, DAMMIT!

Gemma nudges my elbow, yanking me back into my body. “Tell him,” she whispers, much softer than the voice in my head.

38

ADAM

I hatethe thought of being without her.

39

OPHELIA

I catchglimpses of myself in the reflection of the subway’s windows. I looked like a hot mess this morning in Adam’s oversized button-up, and I look like a complete train wreck now. My hair is somehow even more disheveled, my eyes are red and bloodshot, and my cheeks are sullen and dark.

Gemma and I switched shoes before I ran out of Hoffman Publishing’s building. Her white, bulky sneakers are a size and a half too small, but I have bigger things to worry about than pinched toes.

From personal experience, I know that Adam is someone who arrives at the airport hours early, even though he has TSA PreCheck. When I tried to call him during my run to the subway station, it went straight to voicemail, leaving me with only one option: rush to his apartment and pray for a miracle.

I run on autopilot from the subway stop to his apartment, ignoring the fact that my skirt rides up higher with every long stride I take. My chest pounds in time with my steps, both my heartbeat and my pace growing faster the closer I get to Adam’s apartment. Adrenaline pulses through my ears, cutting me off from the sounds of the city. It’s just me, Adam’s key in my fist, and the smell of his cologne wafting up from his shirt, reminding me why I’m doing this.

When I get to Adam’s apartment, I jam his key into the building’s lock and almost leave the key behind in my efforts to rush upstairs. My knees shake as I climb the three—ugh,three—floors, but finally, there’s his now-familiar apartment door, slightly ajar.

For just a second, I falter at the sight of the open door, but then I run the final few steps with my chest forward, as if my heart is propelling me.

“Adam!” My voice is a pitch higher than usual and breathy from my overexertion.

But he isn’t here.

Instead, on the couch, there are two heads of curly, inky black hair and they both turn to me, wide-eyed.

Eloise breaks into a wide, toothy smile. Naomi’s mouth drops open and her eyebrows furrow.

“Philly!” In mere seconds, I’m wrapped up in Eloise’s long, toned arms. She’s in her scrubs and still smells faintly of rubbing alcohol. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice muffled by my mess of wild hair.

I try to come up with the right words, but I fall short and mumble out something like: “I, uh, wanted to tell Adam something. What are you two doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to Adam about what happened last weekend,” Naomi says.

At the sound of her mother’s cool, even voice, Eloise releases me from her full embrace but leans over to rest her head on my shoulder.

Naomi stands, smooths out her navy, sleeveless dress with one hand, and approaches me slowly. “And now that I’ve read what he truly feels for you, I realize that an apology, asincereapology, is long overdue.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking between Naomi and Eloise. Aside from their eyes, they look so similar, like they could be sisters rather than mother and daughter.

Naomi holds out a small stack of cards to me. I take them gingerly, careful to avoid touching Naomi’s skin as though it could burn me.

The postcards.

Eloise’s voice shakes with excitement. “Mom wanted me to let me into Adam’s apartment so she could apologize. I always get his mail for him when he’s traveling, so I did that out of habit on my way upstairs and…Well, see for yourself.”

I skim through the postcards while Eloise guides me to sit on the couch. Each message is brief, with the text jammed together tightly in the small space on the back of each postcard.

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