Page 15 of Ticket to You

Eloise gawks at the sight of me checking my reflection for too long. “Wait, don’t tell me agirlis coming over.”

“No. Well, yeah, but not agirl,girl. It’s just someone who works at Hoffman Publishing.”

“I feel like I should get a camera out to document this. Have you ever had a girl over? Besides me?”

“Of course.” I straighten the couch cushions and restack the magazines on the coffee table neatly. “Mom stops by now and then to remind me it’s not too late to go find myself a ‘real’ job.”

Realizing I didn’t give Ophelia my actual apartment number, I open my door and stand in the opening so she won’t knock on the wrong door. Despite trying to act natural, I can’t peel my gaze away from the staircase. Soon, Ophelia’s head comes into view. Her hair is flat and dripping from the rain, and she smells like spring. Yet, somehow, she doesn’t look rain-soaked in a pathetic way, like a stray kitten or anything. Instead, she looks like she is about to star in a 2010 music video.

I’m not sure what to say without sticking my foot in my mouth, so I simply stand to the side and gesture for Ophelia to come in. She’s wearing a sleeveless turtleneck and funky pants. Goosebumps are raised on her arms. She’s even shivering a bit. I have to hold myself back from wrapping myself around her to warm her. Instead of acting like a total creep, I turn on the gas fireplace in the living room.

Ophelia’s eyes land on Eloise, who is still sitting on the couch with a giddy grin.

Though I may not know what to say, Eloise never has that problem. “Hi! Come on in! Adam, go get her a towel.”

I nod, hesitating for a few seconds before rushing to the bathroom. Eloise has no filter. In the thirty seconds it’ll take me to grab a towel, Ophelia will probably hear all about my Beanie Babies collection I had as a child. But surprisingly, when I get back to the living room, Eloise is silent, grinning at Ophelia gleefully. Eloise looks at me and sends me a tiny thumbs up. I widen my eyes in a silent plea to not say anything that will embarrass me.

I’m not sure what I even want Eloise to do. On one hand, she’s far better at filling awkward silences than me, but on the other hand, the idea of being with Ophelia one-on-one is deeply intriguing.

Eloise looks between Ophelia and me a few times, her smile growing with each glance, and stands up, clapping loudly. “Well, as much as I would love to stay, I should head back to work.”

Ophelia bites her lip. “I don’t mean to run you out.”

“Oh, no, no, I don’t mind. I see this guy plenty.” Eloise waves her hands dismissively before opening the door. “Love you, Adam.Call me.” Her eyes are already hungry for information on Ophelia.

“See you later, El.” I shut the door behind her before she can say anything to make things more awkward than they already are.

Rather than explaining why she came all this way to talk to me—or explaining howshe even has my address—Ophelia’s eyes dance around the room. Shelves make up an entire wall, each one filled with books, awards, and framed photos. The opposite wall was a massive corkboard filled top-to-bottom with postcards I picked up from my countless travels.

My apartment has all the makings of a work-from-home employee. No less than five half-filled notebooks are strewn about, my open laptop has thirty tabs open, and a microphone for Zoom calls sits on the kitchen counter.

“Make yourself at home,” I say slowly, pointing to the leather armchair by the lit fireplace in hopes she will warm up faster there.

It’s strange to see her here, in her designer clothes and straight posture. She probably lives in some modern, sleek apartment, not somewhere cluttered and lived-in like mine.

Ophelia sits on the edge of the chair. She stares at the photos on the shelves beside her. First, she looks at the one of me, young and fresh-faced, standing with my notebook in hand under the World Olympics logo. I wince when she sees the one of me at a ski hill when I was thirteen. Even with my helmet and goggles, a thick line of acne shows along my jaw. Ophelia spends the most time studying one of the more recent photos of the boys in my family: me, my dad, and my three older brothers.

Another shiver runs through Ophelia’s body, and I hand her the plush white bath towel and the steaming mug of coffee. She takes both gingerly, as if they’re some sort of trap.

I always say the wrong thing around Ophelia, so I stay quiet while she pats her face and neck with the towel and squeezes some of the water from her hair. I watch her, my body prickling with overwhelming heat at the sight of her in my apartment.

Ophelia is the first to break the silence. “You like James Taylor?” She nods to the record player in the back of the room.

“You don’t strike me as a seventies folk kind of woman.”

“You don’t even know me.” Ophelia takes a slow drink of her coffee. “My grandpa and I loved to listen to James Taylor.”

“He has good taste,” I say after a beat of silence, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “And you don’t know me either, which begs the question: why are you here?”

Ophelia glares at my mid-thigh shorts, probably annoyed by my casualness. “I need your help. And I think you might need my help, too.”

9

OPHELIA

Adam’s moss-coloredshorts hit him mid-thigh, and I try to avoid looking at the bands of muscles peeking out. Ugh, does he have to look like a demigod all the time?

He crinkles his eyebrows at me.

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