Page 8 of Ticket to You

“The usual.”

“The usual? Sexy yet evil?”

“Something like that,” Gemma says, eyes still on her screen. I try to hold back, but my eyes defy me. She and Adam are texting about his upcoming work trip, so I pull out my phone and open Instagram. Every couple of weeks, I hate-check Adam’s profile, careful to never like a photo or do anything that would clue him in on my social media lurking.

Adam has one new post. In it, he stands on the Sundance Film Festival carpet. He recently tried his hand at directing. WithOutdoorsy’s financial support, he created a documentary about a one-armed rock climber that premiered last month.

In the photo he posted, Adam towers over the others, wearing a black suit with a Patagonia logo on the chest. Well, it might be tongue in cheek, but at least he finally got a custom suit that fits him. What really takes me off guard, though, is his smile—something I’ve never seen in person and have rarely seen in pictures. It transforms him into a new person, someone who looks jovial and lighthearted. Looks reallycanbe deceiving.

When we reach our stop, I realize that Adam’s photo distracted me for half the ride, and I shove my phone back into my purse in shame.

“Just tell me whoOutdoorsynominated for the award,” I beg.

Gemma has known who their nominee is for weeks, but refuses to let the secret out. She purses her lips, biting back a smile.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. It’s not hard to guess,” I grumble with an eye roll.

Adam Abrams is a household name in journalism, someone whose network spans the globe. He’s a shoo-in for the main award. Thankfully, Sundance will run through Sunday, meaning Adam should be on the opposite end of the country tonight. It would be bad enough to see him, and it would be even worse to lose to him while he’s in attendance.

“Are you ready to hear about your next potential soulmate?” Gemma asks.

The calamitous not-so-meet-cute with Adam hasn’t slowed Gemma’s matchmaking attempts. Every week since, she’s begged me to go out with another one of her friends or industry connections. And every once in a while, I give in, willing to satiate her efforts for another night and to make her happy.

“I’m impressed that you’ve been able to set me up with guys who arehardlyany better than Adam,” I joke.

Gemma stifles a laugh. “They’re not so bad.”

I groan. “Last month there was Hat Man, who just wanted to talk about the new fedora he was wearing and the eight others he had back at his apartment. Then I went out with the one who had that weird obsession with Margot Robbie and insisted I should get highlights to look more like her—”

“Youwouldlook good as a blonde,” Gemma says.

“So not the point,” I say, chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all. “And don’t forget the guy who snuck his pet turtle into the restaurant in his jacket pocket. I spent anhourtrying to figure out why he kept stuffing lettuce in there.”

“You know, studies show that men with pets are more attractive.”

“Maybe I'm just not meant to find someone right now, Gem.” I purse my lips. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you are just trying to make Adam look better by comparison.”

Gemma’s shrug is all the confirmation I need. But her efforts are in vain. Adam still takes the cake as the worst set-up.

I glimpse our reflection as Gemma and I walk the last steps to our building. I’m dressed in a short tweed dress that shows off my legs. It and its matching jacket both have pink, blue, and green woven together in the fabric in a way that only Chanel could pull off. My blown-out curls bounce halfway down my back. Beside me, Gemma is in a black Patagonia vest withOutdoorsy’s logo embroidered on the chest.

“Wild, right?” Gemma asks before we enter the doors to our towering glass building. She nods to a newsstand by the entrance where nearly every heading is about the plummeting stock market.

“I’m trying—and failing—to not worry about it. Most of my savings are tied up in the market.”

Gemma follows me to the elevators. “Hoffman’s is worrying about it, too. That’s the word on the street, anyway. It’s a good thing you got your travel section approved before all this hit the fan.”

I bite my lip. It took over a month for Jane to meet with me after the holiday party. Thankfully, she gave in to my idea. I’ve been on four trips since then, but it still feels like the rug is about to be ripped out from under me. It’s all too good to be true.

* * *

The day passes in a blink.A flurry of articles, notes, and photographs clutter my desk as I work on ironing out the details of my big spring Europe trip withAtelier.I don’t even notice that it’s nearly six until a voice rings out behind me.

“Working late again?” Gemma is standing behind me. Even in her more subdued, casualOutdoorsywear, she looks so natural standing here atAtelierwith her perfect posture and measured composure.

“Force of habit,” I say, straightening my jacket as I stand to meet her. “How’s my hair? If I’m going to be up there representingAtelier Today, I better look the part.”

“You certainly look the part of a Journalist in Excellence. And beyond looking the part, youarethe part.” Nobody else is in the room, so Gemma lets her professional front down enough, sighing softly and linking her arm with mine. She leads me to the elevators. “Atelierwouldn’t be what it is without you.” She pats my hand before smoothing her silver and black bob.

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