Page 10 of Ticket to You

The first presenter is one of Hoffman’s board members, but I can’t focus on a word he says. Ophelia’s shoulder is inches from mine, electricity sparking between us, and I can feel her glare. It’s like someone turned the thermostat ten degrees hotter.

Ophelia is the second-to-last nominee announced, and I finally get a reprise from the warmth that accompanies her nearness. Ophelia joins the others on the stage, and Jane Sommerland praises her from behind the podium.

“I’m not one for speeches, so I will keep my comments brief. Ophelia Brooks has been working atAtelier Todayfor over six years. She is our strongest writer and is always looking to improve our magazine. Most recently, she convinced me thatAteliershould start an ongoing travel section, both online and in print.”Well done, Brooks.“I was apprehensive about Ophelia’s idea, but she has proven herself. Her international stories have taken off, and our travel section is already one of the most viewed on our website. She is a smart, talented visionary, and we are happy to have her in our ranks.”

The first editor I worked under atOutdoorsytakes the stage next, dressed in a bright orange puffy vest. He sees me from across the room, and a smile spreads under his unruly white beard.

“I don’t come to the New York office often. Hell, can you blame me? Look at all of you with your skinny ties and gelled hair,” he says with a booming laugh. “But honoringOutdoorsy’s Journalist in Excellence nominee is well worth the trip. Our journalist is a trailblazer, not only here at Hoffman’s, but out there in the world. His directorial debut is rumored to be an Oscar contender.”

I try to keep my gaze glued on my old editor, but my eyes betray me, drifting to Ophelia. Her eyes are already on me, still narrowed slightly, still flickering with intensity, even from across the room.

“Nobody can weave a story like he does,” he continues.

Ophelia raises her eyebrows at me, exaggerating an impressed expression. I tighten my lips to keep from laughing in the middle of the speech.

“His words are his tools, and his articles his art.”

Ophelia clasps her hands in front of her and pulls them apart enough to give a few minuscule claps, subtle enough for only me to notice.

“To know him is to know courage, dedication, and raw talent.”

Wooow,Ophelia mouths at me. She had a cold front when I first saw her tonight, but now a grin lifts the edges of her lips. Her playfulness is intoxicating.

I knooow,I mouth back, tilting my head to the side and laying a hand on my chest in pseudo-pride.

“Ladies and gentlemen…Adam Abrams.”

I duck my head and hold a hand up in gratitude for the applause directed at me. Being at another bustling event is bad enough. Being the center of attention at one is my nightmare. There are too many eyes on me, so I keep mine focused on Ophelia as I approach the line of nominees.

Hoffman’s president takes the podium next. She’s droning on about the importance of strong, ethical writers. But my focus is still on Ophelia, analyzing her.

Ophelia stands rigid and straight with her shoulders back. Goosebumps raise on her arms, which is funny considering I feel like I’m about to sweat through my button-down. She refuses to meet my gaze.

She really must hate me. I can’t blame her.

Ophelia finally looks at me when the room erupts into another round of applause. She raises her eyebrows. “What are you waiting for?”

I mirror Ophelia’s questioning look back at her, and she nods to the podium. Our president is standing with a trophy of arched glass, her eyes trained on me.

“Go,” Ophelia urges. Her voice is flat and even, but I notice the heavy swallow she takes and the way her shoulders sag a touch. I wish Ophelia had won the award. Partially because then I wouldn’t have the spotlight on me, partially because then she might smile.

I do as Ophelia says and walk to the podium.

Hoffman’s president hands me the award. “Do you want to give a speech?”

“Hell, no,” I reply, spinning back to take my place beside Ophelia again.

“Group photo,” a photographer instructs. “Get in closer,” she says from behind her viewfinder.

I step halfway behind Ophelia.

“Closer,” the photographer says.

I take another half-step toward Ophelia. My chest presses against her shoulder blade. Again, her perfume fills my nose, and a fire burns in my stomach.What is wrong with me?

We both plaster on smiles as the camera’s shutter flies, and I’m certain mine is unconvincing. Despite years of working behind a camera, I’m still unsure what to do in front of one.

Once the photographer drops her camera, Ophelia hurries off the stage and I follow her lead, walking along her side. I seem to always say the wrong thing around Ophelia, but I have to at least try to hold a half-decent conversation with her.

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