Page 70 of Ticket to You

Ophelia bites her lip. “I’ll go grab my things.”

As soon as Ophelia disappears inside, the familiar lights of Mom’s Aston Martin shine up the driveway. Instead of heading around to the garage on the side of the house, Mom parks directly in front of the porch steps, just a few feet in front of me. I push my hands into my pockets, trying to keep my composure.

Mom steps out of the car, illuminated by the lights on either side of the front door. She tips her chin up. “What are you doing all alone out here?”

Keep your voice steady. Stay cool.Another fight won’t do us any good. “You’ve been gone all day.”

“I had to work. I told you that.” Mom’s voice is so much like my own, rough and, currently, bridled.

“Until eight-thirty in the evening on a Saturday?”

Mom sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “Adam, I—”

“All packed!” Ophelia’s voice comes from inside, quick steps accompanying it. “And I grabbed your—Oh. Hi, Naomi.”

“We’re going back to the city. Tonight,” I tell Mom. I take three slow breaths before turning to Ophelia, forcing a smile and reaching for the bags. “I’ll take those.”

Ophelia walks at my side, down the steps and toward my car, but she pauses when she’s about to pass by Mom.

“Thank you for allowing me to stay in your home this weekend.” She smiles as if Mom hasn’t treated her horribly for the past two days. “I’m happy to have met you.”

Mom opens her mouth, closes it, and repeats that twice, like a fish out of water. Then she clears her throat and tries to smile, though it’s half-assed at best. “Likewise.”

I keep my eyes trained on Ophelia while we finish the walk to the car. Her face is still and unreadable. She looks like she’s holding her breath. I open the passenger door for her. Once she’s in, I jog the three steps to the trunk, throw our bags in, and finally get to the driver’s side. I move quickly to get our departure over with.

Ophelia sits still in the seat beside me for three minutes, staring straight ahead as we drive off. Her hands lay limp in her lap. I reach over slowly, taking one of her hands in mine. That pulls Ophelia from her trance, and she looks up at me, her round, hazel eyes shining.

“I’m very sorry about my mom,” I whisper, flicking my eyes between her and the road. It’s a lot harder to drive when there’s someone next to me I can hardly look away from. “Are you okay?”

Ophelia’s mouth tips up at the corners. She scoffs, and it rolls into a breathless laugh. I stare at her incredulously, but that only drives her into a deeper fit of laughter. “I just… I can’t believe we did that. I mean, she’s yourmom. I don’t know what to think right now.”

“Sure, she’s my mom. But she was also being incredibly rude. And you didn’t deserve to put up with that for another day.”

“You’re talking to the woman who pays reverse child support to her mother that she’s never even met.” Ophelia laughs again, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s equal parts exhaustion of the trip and exhaustion from my overwhelming family. “I cling to anything I can of my mom,” she says. “Even though that’s just texts and calls asking for money.”

“Then the last thing you need to worry about is another person who doesn’t appreciate you.”

It’s a miracle we make it back to my apartment safely, considering the fact that I spend a good portion of the drive watching Ophelia’s fingers on my thigh.

37

OPHELIA

If our careersweren’t on the line, Adam and I would probably spend all of Sunday wrapped up lazily in the blankets of his bed. But tomorrow I have an early meeting with Jane Sommerland and Adam will leave for another continent .

Ugh.Tomorrow.

My meeting and his trip are delicate strings that hold both of our careers afloat. One wrong move and those strings could snap, so I spend the day curled on Adam’s leather couch, culling photos and finalizing drafts for each of my articles. Meanwhile, Adam buzzes around the apartment, packing furiously for his trip.

Adam will be gone for ninety-eight days, visiting at least six countries with two ex-Outdoorsy Magazinephotojournalists who were laid off earlier this year. He leaves his bags open on the living room floor, slowly filling them with everything he needs to get his publication started. Cameras and lenses, notebooks and pens, laptop and chargers, outdoor gear and gear and more gear. My chest tightens with each item he packs, like a screw is slowly twisting into my ribcage.

No article ever feels good enough for Jane Sommerland, but eventually, my mind spins out hopelessly, orbiting around the thought of Adam’s imminentdeparture. There’s no use in attempting to write anymore. I send my drafts to Jane and slam my laptop shut.

Usually, my entire body seems to radiate heat when I’m with Adam. My fingertips buzz and my chest pounds. Now, with his impending absence drawing nearer, my body feels dull and my hands feel heavy.

I go to the bathroom, purely out of curiosity, and slump down on the edge of the old bathtub. Adam’s bathroom shelves look like they were professionally staged. His deodorant, cologne, face wash, and moisturizer stand in a neat line, labels facing out, and his bamboo toothbrush sits in anOutdoorsy-branded mug. It’s a far cry from my bathroom, where gifted products fill every surface, haphazardly stacked and shoved with no rhyme or reason.

I take Adam’s cologne bottle in my hands gingerly, smelling its earthy, full scent. I’ll have to remember the name of it so I can not-so-shamelessly look for it the next time I’m shopping just to remember what Adam smells like while he’s gone.

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