Page 30 of Ticket to You

OPHELIA

Mont Blanc isthe highest mountain in Western Europe—or so Adam told me—and it towers over our cabin and the village below us. I saw little of the mountain on the drive. I hardly looked up from my laptop during the last hour of it. As soon as we got to the two-suite cabin, I chose one and stayed there all night. Only now, standing on the front porch, am I able to appreciate my surroundings. In all my years of traveling, this view might top the list. The white spires of the mountain range give way to sheer blue glaciers nested between the peaks. The village is down the hill from us and colorful shops follow the flower-lined river.

As the sun rises, the valley changes, basking in the purple dawn that glows pink, then orange, and finally golden yellow. It’s breathtaking, and if I ignore the fact that Adam is somewhere in the house behind me, I can almost appreciate it fully. I thought we were making some progress during our first day of the trip, but yesterday, Adam was back to his broody self.

I memorized the itinerary Adam sent days ago, but I grab my phone to check it once again to be sure, hoping that somehow the day’s story might have changed. It hasn’t, and my fingertips tingle in response.

Paragliding.

I don’t look out the windows at Hoffman Publishing’s building at risk of getting nauseous. It took me years to semi-adjust to flying in a plane. Yet somehow, I have to paraglide a thousand feet in the air while strapped to some stranger. I’m not sure what is more unpleasant to think about: yesterday’s conversation with Adam or the impending doom of today.

Adam is doing a story on Timothee Rivière, a young man who won the last Red Bull cross-country paragliding race. And Adam insists the only way to understand the story is to experience a sample of it up in the air.

If there’s one silver lining for paragliding, it’s that I won’t have to talk to Adam during it.

Neither of us speaks during the drive to meet Timothee, and I take photos and videos of the passing village on my phone just to have something to do with my hands. To avoid thinking about what I’m about to do, I brainstorm questions for my interview tomorrow with the Swiss embroidery artist. When my anxiety spikes particularly high, I reread Gemma’s “you can do it” text she sent me early this morning.

When we get to the field where we’ll be taking off, my helmet is buckled on by the guy I’ll be attached to, and my cartwheeling stomach is impossible to ignore.

Adam, too, is getting outfitted. Somehow, he seems to enjoy this potentially life-threatening activity. His smile is wider than I’ve ever seen it, and he laughs along with his interviewee with an air of ease that makes him look like someone completely new. I didn’t think Adam had any charisma in him. In fact, I’ve never seen him show much more emotional range than an iceberg.

“I’m not feeling so well,” I whisper to my paragliding partner, Marc, careful to be sure Adam won’t hear. “Maybe I should sit this one out.”

“You will be safe. Don’t you trust me?” Marc seems all too confident, which a grin that shows all his teeth. He’s younger than me by at least a few years and is at least half a head shorter. He’s not exactly who I was hoping I would entrust my life with.

Marc gives me sparse instructions, claiming that he’ll handle everything and that I just need to relax and enjoy. He might as well be telling me to enjoy a root canal. When Marc and Timothee get to work unfurling their gliders, my vision goes spotty. Without thinking, I sit on the ground and stick my head between my knees. It’s warmer than I expected it to be way up high on the mountain. According to Adam, it’s the perfect day for paragliding. But it’s not perfect for someone dressed in expensive wool base layers and a massive black puffy coat. I rip off my outer layers, coat, and beanie and lie back against the snow, squeezing my eyes against the bright sunlight that reflects off the glacier below me.

“Are you alright?” an unfamiliar voice asks. I open my eyes into slits, just enough to see Timothee hovering above me. He’s close enough that the gold curls atop his head hang down a bit.

“I’m just…jet-lagged,” I say, my voice hoarser than usual.

I sit up, and Timothee puts a steadying hand on my elbow. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the light again, but when they do, I see Adam standing a few feet back. He flares his fingers at his sides.

“You don’t have to do this,” Adam says to me after Timothee helps me stand. His eyes follow the line of my arm down to my hands, which are still in Timothee’s.

Great. I’m acting like a child who needs her hand held—literally.I jerk my arms back to my sides.

Adam already thinks I’m incapable of assisting hisOutdoorsyshoots, and I’ll hate it if I prove him right.

“It’s the jet-lag,” I repeat and stomp over to Marc, securing my camera harness as I go. “Allons-y, Alonso,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. Sure, Adam can paraglide without nearly wetting himself from fear, but at leastIcan speak French.

While Marc straps me in front of him, the glider’s canopy billows along the ground below us.

“After I count down, we will run a few steps down the hill. The wind will catch us and then it’s just us and the clouds, baby.”

Marc’s voice is barely audible through the pounding in my ears. I reach my hand for my opposite wrist but touch only my skin, forgetting that my watch is back in New York. Too bad. I could have used its good luck today.

“Ready, Ophelia?” Marc asks once we’re bound together and he’s double-checked every strap and carabiner.

“Don’t I look ready?” I say sarcastically, not willing to give him the honest answer of “Absolutely not.”

I slide on my sunglasses to hide my face from Adam and Timothee. I can only imagine the fear that will be in my eyes once we’re up in the air.

“D'acc…un…” I hear the rustling of the canopy above us. “Deux…” I take in one more deep breath. “Trois!”

I don’t run as much as I fall down the mountain, catapulted by Marc’s forward force.

No, no, no, this was a mistake.

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