Page 76 of Ticket to You

“No. My layover is in Dubai.” He pushes his curls back with one hand. “Is everything okay?”

In my head, I can hear the pounding of my heart, somehow louder than my booming footsteps were just moments ago. “Hold on, I had this big, really freaking cute thing I was going to do, but then the woman at the ticketing counter…never mind. Give me a second. It’ll be worth it, trust me.”

I flip through Adam’s English-to-Chinese dictionary. He takes a step closer to me, watching my finger move along the pages to the correct spots. “I hope you don’t mind that I stole this from your apartment,” I mumble.

I flip to the I’s.

“Wo…” I say, probably butchering the pronunciation. In my periphery, I see Adam stifling a laugh. I turn to the L’s, “ai…” and finally to the Y’s, “ni.”

I snap the book closed and peer up at Adam. His smile breaks wide, and he closes the gap between us, cradling my face in his hands. “I love you too, Ophelia Brooks,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against mine. “From the beginning. I would travel to the ends of the earth with you.”

I wrap my arms around Adam, pressing my fingers into the muscles of his back. My lips part, and Adam’s warm breath fills my mouth, fills the hollowness in me. Adam moans softly, bringing his hands up and wrapping them in my already-destroyed tangle of hair. Urgency flicks heat into every limb, and I somehow find a way to pull even tighter against him.

We could probably strip down right there in the center of the airport terminal if not for the countless onlookers. Chuckling, Adam pulls back, just enough for us to catch our breaths. For the first time in hours, it feels like my lungs can fully expand.

“What happens next?” he asks, his full lips curving into a sideways smile.

It’s not the first time one of us has asked that question. And this time, I'm not giving Adam the wrong answer.

EPILOGUE

ADAM

With both ofus neck-deep in independent journalism, Ophelia and I have never been busier. There’s an endless string of interviews and trips lined up for us, including monthly visits with my family.

Between Ophelia and I, we have six employees, two websites—one that she leads, specifically focused on fashion—and one print publication,Wonderings Magazine. Our date nights usually include us editing the other’s work or ordering delivery while we plan our next trips, all of which we take together.

I had to block tonight out in our calendar for a “real” date three months in advance.

“Remind me where we’re going again?” Ophelia asks, shaking her hair’s curls out.

“Nice try, Philly. I’m an hour away from the surprise. I’m not spoiling it now.”

“At least help me decide what to wear. I’m flying blind here.”

I follow Ophelia into our bedroom. She had to cut down her closet significantly when she moved in at the end of last year, so it should be easy enough for her to pull a few outfits for consideration. She appraises my loose-fit olive pants and simple linen button-down, using it as her guide.

Ophelia pulls out a white sundress, a magenta jumpsuit, and a matching set. I grab the last option immediately, a hand-embroidered skirt and matching tank top. When Ophelia joined me as a founder ofWonderings Magazine, Serena, the Swiss embroidery artist we met on our first trip together, sent Ophelia the outfit as a congratulatory gift.

“It reminds me of when I fell in love with you,” I explain as Ophelia dresses.

After finishing her look with the strawberry watch I bought for her birthday last year, Ophelia follows me to the subway station and onto the One Line. She smiles knowingly, already certain of where we’re going. This line goes directly to Central Park.

Ophelia gestures to the oldOutdoorsy Magazinetote bag I’m carrying. “What’s in that?” she asks.

I tighten my grip on its handles. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ophelia narrows her eyes, suspicious.

“How’s Laine doing in Montana?” I ask as we climb the steps to the street.

Laine is the most recent journalist we hired atWonderings. Within days of being hired, she convinced us to let her go on a trip to Montana for a full cover story. I already know Laine’s trip is going well, but I need to keep Ophelia talking so she won’t be so focused on what the upcoming surprise might be.

“Laine’s doing amazing,” Ophelia says. “She’s already done dozens of interviews. You know how it was initially going to just be about this gorgeous mountain town she’s visiting? Now Laine has enough content for food, fashion, an op-ed, and—oh mygosh.” Ophelia stops talking, her mouth hanging open.

A white horse-drawn carriage stands at the entrance to the park, just like the one that took Hoffman Publishing’s employees to the holiday party on the night we met. The coachman stands with a sign readingOphelia Brookson it. I keep one of my hands in Ophelia’s and the other securely on her waist as she climbs slowly up and into the carriage.

The summer sun peeks out between cotton candy clouds. We pass families playing frisbee and catch, parents pushing strollers, and countless couples walking hand in hand. It’s the kind of day with weather so perfect everybody takes advantage of it.

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