Page 38 of Ticket to You

21

OPHELIA

The only thingthat can push Adam from my mind is Jane Sommerland. While Adam showers, I send off my latest drafts and notes to her assistant. When Adam finishes his shower, we do an awkward shuffle as he moves his bag out of the bathroom and I move mine in.

My reflection stares back at me, crisp and clear. My makeup is a bit smeared from crying with Serena and Anja, and uneasiness distorts my expression. After a moment, I realize how strange is that the mirror is clear of fog. There’s no condensation from steam anywhere.

Cold shower, Abrams?Apparently, I’m not the only one who feels a wave of heat pulsing through the air.

The more I think about it, the more a cold shower seems like a decent idea. I washed my hair this morning, but maybe the shower can act as both an excuse to get some distance from Adam and, now, to cool off. But even when pelted with icy water, my body still feels warm all over. So I turn the water scorching hot, fighting fire with fire.

I’m not sure how long I stand under the stream of water, but it’s at least long enough to turn my fingertips into prunes. After I hop out of the shower, moisturize from head to toe, and brush my hair out, I dress in a fresh pair of silk pajama shorts and a matching tank top and tiptoe back into the dark room.

Adam is already on the far side of the bed, rolled away from the bathroom door. All I see of him is the line of his body under the duvet. He seems to be asleep already, thankfully. But as soon as I get close to the bed, his voice rings out in the darkness, frightening me so bad I let out a whispered curse.

“Nice pj’s,” he says.

I snap my head up to see him now lying on his back with an arm tucked behind his head. I hate that even in the near-darkness I can make out the definition in his biceps and the sharp cut of his cheekbones.

“I assumed we would be in separate rooms,” I huff, climbing into the bed as far opposite from Adam as I can get.

Quiet minutes pass. We’re both still, impossibly still. I try to keep my thoughts at bay, but in my head, I’m replaying every interaction I’ve had with Adam, from the holiday party eavesdropping to the fashion museum in Paris to our silent drives. His presence under the duvet makes me feel like I’m in a preheating oven, but I can’t lie on top of the duvet in my skimpy floral pajamas.

I hear Adam turning, and I look over to see him facing me, though still far on his side of the bed. Even with only the moonlight illuminating him, I can make out his features. Seeing them in this context, in a dark and cozy bedroom, makes heat climb up my legs.

“What’s your family like?” Adam asks, his voice nearly a whisper.

I say nothing.Sorry, off limits, Abrams.

“This whole ‘question’ thing was your idea, remember?” he prods. “And you already know about my family.”

“My grandparents raised me.” I disconnect the words from my emotions.Keep it vague. Keep it simple.

Adam stays quiet, but in my periphery, I can see him staring at me, unsatisfied by my answer.

“I’ve never met my parents. They were addicts.” I sigh and look up at the ceiling, pretending that I’m talking to my therapist. “My mom got mixed into a rough crowd when she was growing up. After she miraculously graduated high school, my grandparents didn’t see her for twelve years. She came by just long enough to drop me off…I was three days old. I was still in the onesie the hospital gave me. She hadn’t even bothered to buy me an outfit. Or a car seat. She told them she stayed clean through the pregnancy, but couldn’t be a mom. She said I would be the daughter they never got to enjoy.”

The wind howls outside the balcony door.

“I’m sorry,” Adam murmurs.

“It’s not something to be sorry about. My grandparents were very loving.”

“Do you see them often?”

Please, let’s just drop this.

“I’m sorry,” Adam says again after he interprets my silence, his voice now a whisper. It’s his third ‘I’m sorry’ of the night, but who’s counting? “When did they pass?”

I almost tell Adam that he’s already asked his question for the day, but for some reason, I continue talking. The words fall from my mouth before I think them through. “It’s been almost eight years now. They passed within a week of each other. Grandma on a Monday, Grandpa that Thursday. It rained that whole week.”

“Is that why you moved to the city?”

“Kind of. I somehow got accepted to Columbia for college—a shock for you to hear, I’m sure. But my grandma got sick my senior year of high school, right before graduation. When my grandpa focused on watching over her, his own health slipped. I went to the University of Oklahoma and did hybrid classes so I could live at home and drive to campus for classes a couple of days a week. My grandparentshatedthat I gave up my dream of New York to take care of them. They made me promise I would get there, no matter what it took.”

Adam shuffles under the covers, angling his body even more toward me, but says nothing.

“So after they passed, a month before I got my bachelor’s degree, I had a huge estate sale. I sold the house, plus most of the stuff in it, and our beat-up VW Golf. It took all that money to get my life restarted in New York. I worked as a server on the nights and weekends to make ends meet when I was interning atAtelier Today. A year later, I got hired full time and worked my way up. And now…here we are.”

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