Chapter Two Silas
Chapter Two
Silas
T he news feed blurs as I scroll through without reading more than the headlines. When I start seeing articles from yesterday, I check the time at the top of my phone screen. We are now starting this meeting at least eight minutes past, which is late enough for my patience to grow thin. I hate meetings as it is, but when they’re not on time? There’s nothing worse.
After placing my phone face down on the glass tabletop, I begin drumming my fingers. My colleagues know to ignore my impatient fidgeting, focusing on the blue glow of their laptop screens. As the small but mighty culture and lifestyle staff, we’ve worked together long enough that they’ve grown to accept my stupid little idiosyncrasies.
To my left, Colin types with fevered fingers. To my right, Helen’s eyes are scanning what looks like a long-form article.
Just as I’m opening my mouth to complain, our last attendee comes barreling down the hall, wet hair flying behind her as she rounds the corner and wrenches the door to the conference room open. Mia is breathless and red-faced when she sits down, throwing her tote bag into the empty chair next to her.
“Nice of you to join us,” I say. She rolls her eyes without even meeting my stare.
“Sorry,” she says, her voice winded. Did she run across Manhattan to get here? “Opportunity of a lifetime this morning. Had to take it.”
This piques Colin’s interest. He glances up from his computer screen to watch Mia gulp down several mouthfuls of water from her green reusable bottle. “Oh? Was it the chance to race Usain Bolt?”
Colin’s teasing doesn’t even faze her. Mia pulls her laptop from her bag and sets it on the conference table before she answers. “No, actually. I finally got off the waitlist at the Haven studio.”
“No shit?” Helen looks up this time, her eyes wide behind her red-framed glasses.
“No shit,” Mia says, a wide grin spreading across her face.
“Who did you take?” Helen asks.
“Jo!” Mia practically squeals. I would recoil if I weren’t so confused.
Both Colin and Helen are looking at Mia with… is that awe? My eyes flit back and forth between the three of them, because, frankly, I don’t understand what they’re talking about. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory tugs at me: a hazy twinge of recognition. I’ve heard of Haven.
But who is Jo?
Colin’s chair whines as he leans forward to place his hands on the table. The only time I’ve seen him this focused on anything other than work, we were down to the eight ball in a game of pool in which the prize was $100 and endless bragging rights. “How was it?” he asks, eyes wide.
“Uh- mazing ,” Mia replies, drawing out the last syllable several seconds. “You know how they say it’s different when they’re not recording? Well, it’s true. She is even better in person. The shit she makes you do… I don’t know how she does it. She’s like some kind of spin god.”
Comprehension dawns, and I recoil into my chair. Right, Haven—the fitness empire with a cult following. As if a regular gym membership wasn’t enough to begin with, this company had the audacity to sell people $3,000 bikes that go nowhere just so that you could never escape the crushing guilt of not working out.
I groan as I rub my hands over my face. Going to a spin class is an acceptable reason to be late for work now?
“I see Silas is in his usual mood today,” Mia mutters from across the table.
“I’m sorry,” I say tartly as I push myself forward in my chair. “Do I not have a reason to be annoyed that you were late to our monthly pitch meeting because of some culty workout class that probably cost you, what, fifty dollars? Don’t tell me you have one of those bikes at home too.”
Mia straightens her shoulders and tosses a damp strand of black hair out of her face. “It was forty-five dollars, and yes, I do have a bike at home. I wouldn’t have been late if the showers weren’t backed up after class. Besides, riding with Jo in person is a completely different experience.”
Helen pouts. “I’m jealous.”
“Me too,” Colin says.
My brows furrow as I stare at my colleagues, who all seem to have lost their damn minds. “What is so special about Jo? Does he blow cocaine in your face before you start or something? Is that why you’re all addicted to him?”
“ She is a founding instructor,” Helen replies. “And she’s the best.”
Mia shrugs. “If you know, you know.”
“Show me who this person is,” I say, a little more demanding than I intended. But Mia is eager to prove me wrong, to show me how amazing this Jo is. She has her phone in one hand and the remote to the conference room TV in the other. Within seconds, her Instagram is cast to the screen in front of us. Once she finds Jo’s account, the TV is filled with colorful tiles of images.
Images of a woman. A beautiful woman, with a head of dark, wild hair that seems to bounce even in still frames.
A woman wearing a lot of spandex.
There are toothy grins set against varying backdrops, with just enough Photoshop to eliminate any semblance of a physical flaw. There are endless pictures of innocuous actions—like holding a water bottle or showcasing a crewneck sweatshirt—that are too poised to be candid. There’s so much joy and positivity radiating from this Instagram feed that my lips curl in disgust.
“Ugh,” I mutter. “How obnoxious.”
“I think eight hundred thousand people would disagree with you,” Helen chides.
“Almost nine hundred thousand,” Mia says.
At this, I glance at the top right corner of the screen—sure enough, Jo is inching toward a million followers.
“Hold on a second,” Colin says as he cocks his head to look at me. “Silas may be on to something here.”
My eyebrows raise as I return his stare. Colin and I have been working together for the better part of ten years, off and on, at various magazines and publications in New York’s tight-knit journalism circle. We complement each other well; whereas I lean toward the dutifully critical angle, Colin is more open-minded. Our personalities pulled us into our respective career paths. I made a name for myself as a culture writer who dabbles in art and politics while Colin rose through the managerial ranks to become an editorial director of Metropolitan magazine and, ultimately, my boss.
“Why do people gravitate toward certain Haven instructors? Or any fitness coach, for that matter?” he asks.
“For me, it’s the music,” Helen replies.
Mia nods. “And the message. What they say to me matters.”
My fingers thrum on the glass tabletop. This is not how I imagined the pitch meeting going.
“It’s harder for us to answer that question with any real depth,” Colin picks up after a long beat. “We’re already in Jo’s Squad. But you, Silas… you could dig into that question.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say Jo’s Squad ?” I ask, my eyes wide.
Colin waves his hand. “It’s what Jo’s regular riders call themselves, but that’s not the point. What I want to know is this: Why do some of these personalities stand out in a crowded market? Health and wellness is a multi-million-dollar industry. Why do certain people, like Jo, rise to the top?”
My focus returns to the Instagram feed on the TV. Despite her toned physique, I don’t see anything special about the woman we’re discussing. I’ve been online for most of my life; I’m well aware of social media influencers and the strange pseudo-celebrity culture that has been built around them. For every Jo, there are thousands of other conventionally attractive people vying for the spotlight.
So why do seemingly rational people—like my adult colleagues—worship her?
I run a hand through my hair as I struggle to resist the root of a story taking place in my mind. This morning, I walked into Metropolitan ’s offices planning to pitch a deep dive on the history of a small but mighty theater in the city, one that’s often overlooked outside the arts circles of New York. Metropolitan always has a New York focus to it, but our national print reach—plus our global online readership—means I don’t always get to write about the underdogs of the city. Sometimes, I get assigned subjects that I’m not particularly interested in for the sake of the magazine.
Like right now.
“I’ll explore it,” I say with a sigh. “But I don’t think you’re going to like where this story goes.”
All around me, my colleagues stifle their laughter. Before I can ask why, Mia clears her throat and says, “You’ve built a career around being a contrarian, Silas. Colin is expecting you to find fault in these people.”
“That’s not even remotely true.”
Helen looks at me over her glasses. “Remember your article about that members-only club in Cobble Hill last summer? You tore that place to shreds even though they’d gotten a rave write-up in the Times .”
“First of all, that was an opinion piece in the Times —not an official review—and the writer went to grad school with the owner of the club,” I counter. “And second, the club had a social ranking system where you could get kicked out if you weren’t popular enough. They deserved it. Besides, the founder got arrested for securities fraud a few months ago. The whole place shut down.”
“Okay, then what about that museum thing that opened in Tribeca?” Mia asks with a smirk. “You chose to write about it, and you still hated it.”
“It isn’t a museum ,” I grit out. “There are no exhibits, or anything of any historical interest or value. It’s literally just a place to take pictures for social media, but they charge you seventy dollars to do it.”
“That place is a rip-off,” Helen concedes.
“You’re conveniently forgetting all the profiles I’ve done and my glowing write-ups on really important pieces of New York’s cultural landscape,” I add as I fold my arms across my chest.
Colin doesn’t miss the defensive edge to my tone. “Calm down, everyone. Silas is a part-time hater, but he’s also full-time curious, all right? We need someone who is going to look at this from all directions.”
I fall silent, a tiny bit smug that Colin came to my defense even if he included a backhanded compliment. Part-time hater is a title I can accept; after all, it’s a writer’s job to look critically and carefully at the world around them. While Helen launches into a mini-thesis about food trucks and immigrant identity for autumn story ideas, I scribble two words into my leather-bound notebook:
Find Jo.
A week later, I’ve decided that this is the worst story I’ve ever been assigned. I’ve spent the last few days poring over Google results for Johanna De La Cruz—better known as Jo. I’ve found a few dozen articles covering the success of Haven, its dominance in the fitness market, the launch of the Haven Home Studio, and the evolution of the brand. Within these articles, there are mentions of Jo and her history with the company, but it’s the same story repeated ad nauseam: how Haven’s Founder and CEO, Zoe “Z” Friedman, a former venture capitalist who went rogue, found Jo teaching cardio classes at some no-name studio in Chelsea and convinced her to join Z’s “revolutionary” new fitness studio with nothing but a promise. How, in the span of just a few months, Z, Jo, and another founding instructor named Mike built a loyal legion of clients based solely on word-of-mouth recommendations within New York’s gossipy upper crust. How Haven’s grip on the home fitness market is relentless, despite the entrance of several worthy competitors in the last few years.
What’s missing from this sea of Google results is a hot take: a prominent voice disliking what Haven offers. On a gray Tuesday afternoon, I wonder if I could be that naysayer. It’s what I’m good at, after all.
Jo has appeared in a few ad campaigns for wellness-adjacent brands on Haven’s social media feeds: athleisure clothing, water bottle companies, even a haircare line. I’ve pored over her Instagram with its little certified blue checkmark, studying thousands of comments from her followers. Begrudgingly, I follow her. Sifting through Jo’s responses proves difficult; there’s little of her personality to be found, any meaningful interaction replaced by lots of heart and smiley emojis. I can’t help but memorize her face in my research, one-dimensional as it is.
Jo is everywhere in this corner of the Internet, yet she’s little more than a pretty face attached to a bottomless corporate purse.
When I tap over to her tagged photos, I’m surprised to find a different variation of her. Most pictures aren’t taken with a professional camera, nor are they edited into oblivion like the ad campaigns. There are hundreds—if not thousands—of images of her posing with people who I assume are Haven clients. In these, she’s flushed and sweaty, eyes bright as she drapes her arms around equally sweaty strangers, a big smile showcasing a set of straight, white teeth. I assume they’ve been taken inside a Haven studio right after her class, as they all have some iteration of the same background: gray walls with block lettering I can’t quite read or tall glass windows that overlook the street outside.
These raw, imperfect photos of Jo and a bunch of strangers are grounding, a reminder that she is a real person—no matter how much she resembles a puppet created by a boardroom full of people who needed a face so inoffensive and generic that everyone would like her.
Many weeks back is a photo of Jo in regular street clothing. It’s strange to see her in a big black coat and pink lipstick inside what I can only assume is a bar, based on the low-lit backdrop. But what catches my attention—aside from seeing Jo not at Haven—is that she’s leaning against a person I know. The man to her left, sandwiched between Jo and another woman I vaguely recognize, is Derek Miller, my college roommate from Boston University and one of my oldest friends.
My first thought is jackpot .
My second thought is how the hell does he know her?
I’m surprised to find I liked the photo, probably back when Derek first posted it. Now that I’m in familiar territory, my palms dampen as I tap and scroll through Derek’s grid; accidentally liking something from weeks ago would be an embarrassing faux pas I’m determined not to commit.
Derek doesn’t post much, but his photos and followers help me put together the connection. The other woman in the photo is Amber, his fiancée I have yet to meet. Her profile is set to private, but I learn what I can: Amber has 498 followers, she follows 292 people, and one of our mutual follows is none other than @johannahaven.
After an ungodly amount of time spent tapping and scrolling across various social media profiles, I conclude that Derek knows Jo by way of Amber, who appears in pictures with Jo as far back as ten years ago. There seems to be a third girlfriend in this mix, a blond woman named Serena who always looks a little angry, but her account is also set to private. Most of what I can deduce comes from haunting the page of a former Haven instructor turned full-time influencer, who left the company in a sappy albeit heartfelt post a few years ago.
I set my phone on my desk and spin around in my chair, my vision blurry after hours of scrolling on a small screen with a tiny font. The office quietly buzzes around me as I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. A few feet away, I hear Helen’s voice over the clicks of constant typing. “Hi, this is Helen Pappas from Metropolitan magazine, calling to follow up—”
I place my noise-canceling headphones over my ears to drown out the rest of the conversation. With a sigh, I spin back around to face my laptop, where I’ve left the Haven corporate website up. There’s an email for press inquiries, which would be the normal way to kick off this conversation with Jo…
I tap back into my phone and pull up my messages. Derek is near the top of the screen. When we lived together at BU, we were inseparable, but our lives have gotten busier over the years. We text somewhat frequently—primarily movie quotes and inside jokes, but occasionally life updates and whatnot—but with his teaching schedule and relationship status, I’ve primarily been relegated to school breaks. Our last conversation had been plans for drinks now that school is almost out for the summer.
In my considerable experience, it takes a while to hear back from big companies—if you ever hear from them at all. So I could email Haven’s press team… or I could text Derek and see where that takes me. An organic connection to a subject usually produces more fruitful conversations. Besides, this story isn’t about Haven as a company; it’s about a specific person.
I casually type out, Hey man, we still on for drinks Thursday?
As I hit send, a small part of my brain raises up a red flag in warning, and my chest warms. Maybe it’s a little deceptive to use my connection to Derek in this way, but I have a job to do.
Unfortunately, that job right now is Jo.