Page 39 of Ticket to You

My story is met with a stretch of silence so long I wonder if Adam fell asleep. But he eventually speaks up, the edge of his voice tinged with gentleness. “They would be proud of you, Ophelia”

I look at Adam finally. Even in the dark, his pale blue eyes are shining. It’s a rare look from him, and one I’ve never seen directed at me.

“I know they would be,” I whisper.

One tear falls from my lashes, running down my cheek. Adam reaches over, hesitating with his hand in the air for a moment before wiping it away with his thumb, his other fingers grazing my cheek so gently I think I could be imagining it.

“Have you ever met your parents?” he asks slowly, dropping his hand, though he leaves it halfway between us. I hate that I’m already craving more of his touch.

I roll onto my side so our bodies are facing each other. “I’ve only talked to my mom. A few years after I moved to New York, she heard about my move and my ‘fancy’ writing job. What she didn’t know was that I was living with four other people and snuck catered lunches and break room snacks home to help my groceries stretch. Anyway, the people who bought my grandparents’ house gave her my number, and my mom called me.”

“What did she say?” Adam asks with a small, hopeful smile.

“She wanted money. And once she saw that I’d sold the house, she insisted that money should have been hers. I spent years paying her back for the house in installments.”

Adam’s face drops. He probably can’t imagine the feeling of being unwanted.

I shrug. “She needed the money more than I did.”

His hand near me balls into a fist. “That’s unbelievable. Have you heard from her since?”

“Every year or so she calls again and asks for more money.”

In the dim lighting, I can just barely see Adam’s jaw flex and eyes widen a touch.

“Now you know why I was so interested in hearing about your family—even the mundane things. Gemma is the closest thing I have to family now, and I forgot what it feels like to have anactualfamily.”

Adam’s lips part and he exhales sharply through them. I can see him trying to find the words.

“You’re way past one question for the day,” I say.

“I just have one more.”

I cringe in anticipation, already feeling too exposed from what I’ve shared. I’d shed my armor and, in doing so, opened myself up to be hurt. But Adam’s smile digs into his cheek and eases my nerves.

“How could you make fun of me for being nonchalant about Cornell when you just talked about Columbia like it’s no big deal?”

“I like to keep you on your toes,” I say and roll onto my opposite side. I’m not tired, but the longer I stare at Adam, the more at risk I am of getting distracted by his husky voice or statuesque features. Already, I can tell it’ll be a sleepless night.

* * *

I wakeup with pressure on my back and leg and struggle to make sense of it in my grogginess. I squint against the light until my eyes adjust and see a framed vintage ski photo in sepia on the stone wall in front of me. Connections click in my head, and I realize what the pressure is.

Turning my head to the other side, I see Adam’s face a few feet away—if that. His eyes are still closed, and I marvel for a moment at the thickness of his lashes. He’s never looked so calm.

Adam, like me, is lying on his stomach, but, unlike me, his limbs are tossed over the bed. He has one leg over my ankle and an arm draped over my upper back. My bare skin tingles where it meets his. His opposite arm falls off the other side of the bed. It’s as if there’s simply too much of Adam for the bed to hold.

Adam’s features look softer when he’s sleeping. The crease between his eyebrows is gone, and his lips pout. His skin is warm and flushed with pink. He’s wearing anOutdoorsyshort-sleeve shirt. My eyes dance down the sleeve and over his arms, studying the curves of his muscles and the blue veins under his tan skin.

I trail my gaze along the line of Adam’s body to where the leg over mine sticks out from under the duvet. In his shorts, I can see the definition of his muscles and the scars from his many adventures. His shirt has lifted a few inches above his waistband, exposing his jutting hip bone and toned stomach. Looking at Adam in this light, carelessly strung and effortlessly beautiful, I can imagine his pose being carved from marble.

Heat under the pressure of Adam’s arm and leg is what woke me up in the first place, and now the heat radiates through my body, burning against my thighs and chest. I nearly shove Adam off to get relief from my straying thoughts. But instead, I hold still, telling myself that it’s just so I can spare him from waking up too early.

I lie and listen to Adam’s steady, warm breaths and study his subconscious movements. At one point, he tenses in his sleep. His leg hooks around my ankle, his arm tightens against my side, and he pulls me a touch closer to him. Adam’s fingers gently press into my skin for a few too-short seconds before he relaxes again, falling back into a deeper sleep.

This close to Adam, I can see the tiniest of details. The top of his hair has lighter strands from endless hours outside, exposed to the sun. He has two freckles on his cheek, right below his eye. He smells like pine, as if he’s spent so much time in the outdoors that he’s become a part of it.

As the dawn light brightens, it illuminates Adam from behind, outlining him in a soft, golden glow and making him look outright ethereal. He rustles in his sleep, and I shut my eyes. Adam’s arm and leg move against me, and he grunts softly. I keep my eyes shut, but after a few seconds, I know he has awoken. He curses and slowly lifts his arm and leg off me, pulling them back to his side of the mattress.

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