Page 29 of Ticket to You

“You don’t get it. There is no ‘situation.’ He’s—”

I cut my sentence short at the sound of a door opening. Henri walks back into the room. Adam stands tall, folds his arms across his chest, and peers down at him. Henri is short compared to me, let alone compared to Adam’s six-and-a-half-foot frame, but Henri isn’t fazed.

“I apologize, my husband was calling to confirm our dinner plans,” Henri says, sending a stony smile Adam’s way. In my periphery, I see Adam shrink in realization. “Shall we continue with the interview, Ophelia?”

Henri and I talk for hours. He tells me about his Chanel internship, his debut, and his upcoming lines. After that, we gush about our favorite runway looks before I take my turn photographing Henri and his studio. I know Adam is talented, but that doesn’t mean I completely trust him to get all the photos I need. As I photograph, neither Henri nor Adam make an effort to talk with each other.

Henri kisses my cheek once more before Adam and I leave, and he shoves another garment bag my way as a thank you for allowing him to style me all morning. Just when I think he will let Adam go without so much as an “au revoir,” he shouts down the stairs to him. “Adam? Rappelles toi…les murs ont des oreilles.”

Adam’s face is unchanging as he nods up to Henri, but as soon as we are in the car, he turns to me and asks for a translation. By his expression, it’s clear he knows it’s nothing good.

“He said the walls have ears. In other words, he heard every word you said about him,” I say, laughing at Adam’s wince. “At least he and his husband have something interesting to talk about at dinner.”

16

ADAM

The drivefrom Paris to Chamonix is six hours, and I offer to drive so Ophelia can go through the photos and notes from Henri’s interview. My body still buzzes with lingering adrenaline from worrying about Ophelia. But as soon as we got out of the city, I had a bit of relief. And now that trees and mountains hug the road, I’m nearly feeling like myself again. This is where I belong: outside, not in some fashion studio.

“Are you ready for my question?” I ask Ophelia.

I keep my eyes on the winding road, but from the corner of my eye, I see Ophelia close her laptop slowly. “Ask away.”

Though I try to fight it, my eyes flick to her. After the interview with Henri, Ophelia changed into a matching loungewear set. She tied her curls up in a big, messy bun, and her lips still carry remnants of her red lipstick.

“What was your first impression of me at the holiday party?” I ask.

Ophelia busts into a quick, sharp laugh. “Are you sure you want that to be your question for today?”

“That bad?”

Ophelia inhales deeply. I imagine she’s wondering how honest she can be without ruining the trip and thus risking her job.

“When I first saw you I thought, ‘Wow, that is one tall dude.’” she says flatly.

“Very perceptive.” I roll my eyes. “Be serious.”

“Isn’t being serious your thing, not mine?” Ophelia leans forward in her seat so she can see more of my face. She stares for a few long moments. “Fine…I thought I would meet you, for Gemma’s sake. Play nice, laugh at your dumb jokes, pretend to enjoy the party, that sort of thing. But that went out the window quickly.”

“Why exactly is that?”

“Les murs ont des oreilles.” Ophelia smiles, but it doesn’t seem genuine. “Besides having my dress ruined in a tangle with you, I overheard you when you called me vapid and conceited, not to mention unattractive.”

“I didnotcall you unattractive.” My knuckles go white as I grip the steering wheel.

Ophelia tucks a stray hair behind her ear casually. “I guess I inferred that from your ‘not my type’ comment.”

If only Ophelia knew that, despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to shake the image of her from my mind for the past three months. She’s the furthest thing from unattractive.

Ophelia turns her attention out her window, turning away from me slightly. “No denying the ‘vapid and conceited’ comment?”

Sharp mountain peaks trimmed in white tower over the thick forests of evergreens that coat the hills. Along the road, vibrant wildflowers have bloomed. I’ve been to Chamonix a few times before, but my overwhelming sense of regret stifles the excitement I expected to feel.

“Can you blame me for assuming that anAtelier Todaywriter wouldn’t be my type?” I ask after a few tense minutes.

“As long as you can’t blame me for wondering what would ever make Gemma think we would make a good match,” Ophelia responds bristly, opening her laptop again.

17

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