Page 17 of Ticket to You

Adam scoffs. “Not at all. We will balance each other out.”

After Adam changes into jeans and throws on a sweater, we make our way to my apartment in silence. I live close enough for us to walk, and I stay a few steps ahead of Adam so I won’t have to look at him. Despite myself, his intense gaze has a habit of making my cheeks flush.

Landing my brownstone apartment at its competitive price was a one-in-a-million chance. I’m determined to hold onto it as long as I can, because, though this city varies greatly from Oklahoma, this specific street reminds me of my childhood.

The home I grew up in was tiny by anyone’s estimation, but it was loved endlessly. The day my grandparents bought the house, the two of them went to work planting trees along the driveway. They grew as I did, creating a lush green canopy, just as the trees on my street here in New York do.

My neighbors are familiar and each one I pass waves and greets me. Today, one of their kids is learning to ride a bike on the sidewalk and a few people sit on their stoops to cheer her on. I think my grandparents would have felt at home here.

I take Adam through my building’s front door and up the narrow staircase. Only when in the comfort and security of my apartment do I look back at him. He surveys the room unapologetically. Like Adam, my work often comes home with me. But in my case, that means every closet, surface, and cabinet is filled to the brim with gifts from designers and samples to test. Adam flips through the newest issue ofAtelier Todaythat sits on the coffee table, runs a hand over the carved fireplace mantle, and inspects the books that line the living room shelf.

My apartment is not fancy. It doesn’t have the nicest fixtures. Tiny cracks are forming in the corners of the drywall. Much of the original wood has been painted time and time again, creating a thick coat of white paint that chips in some areas—the landlord special. But I love my apartment, regardless. It’s reasonably affordable and is the closest thing I’ve had to a home in the past six years. The air is dry and dusty like old books in a library, and there’s a certain charm that comes with creaking floorboards and loud, outdated radiators.

“It’s very quaint,” Adam says.

I scoff. “You sound surprised.”

Adam sits on the couch, eyes flitting around the room. He’s so cold, so unreadable. I want to crack his head open and peek inside. “Do you want to go get whatever clothes you think might work for the trip and we can go from there?” he asks.

I hurry to my room, grateful to have a moment alone to catch my breath, and rummage through every drawer looking for anything halfway tactical. After pulling out my collection of athletic wear, I return to the living room, arms full.

“You readOutdoorsy?” Adam asks as soon as he sees me.

I look at him and instantly regret it. The corner of his mouth twitches. In his hands is a copy ofOutdoorsyI stole from Gemma’s apartment last month.

“Of course, I read it. My best friend is an editor there. She tells me about the stories she works on, so I might as well read the finished product.” I drop the clothes in a heap at Adam’s feet, hoping to distract him from the magazine.

“Does Gemma talk about me?”

“Never,” I reply, hoping it might bruise his ego.

“This is an old issue,” Adam says after a few minutes. He flips through the magazine.

“And?”

“Andyou said you readOutdoorsyto see what Gemma’s working on. But this issue is from three years ago.”

“Your point?”

“This also happens to be an issue I had a particularly big feature in,” Adam says, tapping his name, in bright, bold yellow letters, on the front cover. He smirks. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen on his face. “And it was on the top of the stack, meaning you read it recently.”

I roll my eyes, trying to play off Adam’s observation. “You caught me. I’ve been treasuring any magazine that has your name on it. Just imagine the things I do to the ones with your picture.” I hope my sarcasm will hide my humiliation.

Adam isn’t far off. Really, he isn’t off at all. This isn’t the onlyOutdoorsymagazine I snagged from Gemma that had Adam’s name on it. At first, it was to see if he was as conceited in writing as he was in person. After all, I’ve never wondered about the state of mountain biking in Nepal or the price gouging at American ski resorts. But Adam has a knack for journalism, and his writing is captivating. EvenIcan’t deny that.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” I say, trying to change the subject, “I have one night to prepare for this trip, and we’re wasting time.”

Between Adam’s stature and his unyielding intensity, I can’t keep my eyes off him for more than a few minutes at a time. He eventually sheds his sweater. I’m close enough now to see that even his forearms are toned in lines of muscle, the arms of a rock climber.

Adam works through the pile of clothes with me. He holds up a lavender workout dress. “Don’t you have anything more practical?”

“You know that’s cute,” I say, grabbing the dress from his hands. I pull out a blood-orange nylon skirt and matching windbreaker. “What about this?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Every time Adam looks at me, his face contorts a bit, like he’s eating sour candy. Looks like this trip will be hell for us both.

Adam sifts through each piece of clothing and narrows it down to a few pairs of plain leggings, my running shoes, and a puffy black coat Gemma got me for Christmas. It still has the tags on.

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