Chapter Three Jo
Chapter Three
Jo
T he Greenhouse bar would be unbearable if we didn’t have a section partitioned off.
Just steps from the High Line, this particular Chelsea spot only opened in the last couple of years, but it quickly established itself as a place to see and be seen. This is largely thanks to its rooftop terrace, which overlooks the famous elevated park and its surrounding buildings and is decorated so heavily with plants and greenery, it almost feels like you’re in an urban treehouse. If nothing else, its décor and setting make for ample photo opportunities.
But as is the case for most New York bars with beautiful and weird interiors, this place is a madhouse on a weekend evening. It’s so full to the brim with people that, as I hover in the corner clutching my spicy margarita, I wonder if this is all one giant fire hazard.
I am a person who carries Band-Aids in my purse; this is how my brain operates.
Serena, however, loves this place, and so I am here. We lost control of the ship about an hour ago, when our original party of seven multiplied into twenty, maybe thirty. I don’t even know half of these people, so I’ve tried to stick close to my friends. To my right, Serena knocks back her second margarita and licks the remaining Tajín off the rim. Still her green eyes are bright and alert as she turns to face me. She must be toeing the line of tipsy at this point.
“So,” she says, placing her empty glass on one of the small tables we reserved, “did you ever talk to Z about your job?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Amber sidling around one of Serena’s old colleagues to make her way toward us. I wait until she’s within earshot—between the music and the people, this place is loud—to reply. “No, I haven’t seen her at all this week, actually. She’s been weirdly absent.”
“Is she on vacation, then?” Amber asks.
“No, I mean she’s here , but she’s been holed up in her office all week,” I say with a shrug. “I guess she had a bunch of meetings.”
Normally, my boss’s presence is obvious when she is at our New York location, which also houses the corporate offices on the top floor. She frequently pops into the staff lounge to eat lunch with whoever happens to be in there or does quick drive-bys of the hair and makeup studio. This week, however, she’s done nothing of the sort. I even went so far as to peer into her glass-encased office, hoping to bend her ear, but she was locked in conversation with three men in suits whom I didn’t recognize.
“Huh. Well, I’m sure you’ll get a chance to talk to her soon,” Amber says, her warm eyes reassuring as she smiles at me. “Are you still feeling the same way?”
Before I can tell them, Yes, everything is the same, and I’m actually kind of miserable , our attention is diverted. Amber’s fiancé, Derek, has arrived, his long legs clearing the velvet rope separating our group from the rest of the bar with ease. It takes me a minute to realize he’s not alone; a man I’ve never seen before follows closely behind him.
As usual, Derek beelines for Amber, his arms wrapping around her from behind as he kisses her on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “The hostess made us wait before she’d let us up here.”
“Who’s ‘us’?” Amber asks, leaning back into his embrace.
Derek untangles himself from his fiancée as he motions for the stranger to come closer. “Amber, everyone, this is Silas,” he replies. “He and I go way back to our BU days. We were roommates all four years.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Silas says, offering his hand to Amber for a quick shake. “And a very belated congratulations on your engagement.”
Amber smiles. “Oh, Silas! It’s great to finally put a face to all those BU stories.”
“None of them are true,” Silas replies, at which Amber laughs.
Derek rolls his eyes before turning to face the rest of the group. “Silas, this is Jo, Serena, and over there is…”
Derek’s words fade out as Silas’s gaze lingers on me a few seconds longer than necessary. Cool blue eyes rake over my face, a curious half-smile playing on his lips and forming two small dimples in lightly freckled cheeks. As often as this has happened to me over the years—strangers struggling to place how they know me—the scrutiny still makes my heart race. It’s only when Silas’s attention shifts to Serena that I allow myself to breathe.
I also use this opportunity to get a good look at him. He’s cute in an academic or artsy sort of way, with a messy head of curls that kiss his forehead and ears. His black T-shirt and jeans don’t speak much for a sense of style, but there’s a thoughtfulness to the way he carries himself. It’s the way he looks at the people in our group as they speak to him, his eyes narrowing slightly and his head bending forward, as if he’s really, truly listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk. I’d guess he’s the type of person who never forgets a name.
The server takes another round of drink orders, and our party falls back into the easy cadence of a warm summer night and excellent cocktails. When our server hands me my third margarita, I settle on a small couch next to Serena. Just as I’m tasting my first sip, Silas appears before us, close enough for me to notice the lean cut of his body and the way his dark-wash jeans hug his slim hips.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks, motioning to the sliver of couch left next to me.
I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “Be my guest.”
I scooch in closer to Serena, but I can still feel the rough texture of denim against my bare leg as Silas sits. The dress I wore tonight reveals a great deal of what I consider to be my other best assets, second only to my hair; I’m acutely aware of every millimeter where our bodies touch. He takes a sip of his own drink—something the color of burnished gold, with an orange slice wedged on the rim—before turning his attention to me.
“I’m sorry, but have we met before?” he asks. “You look really familiar.”
I don’t know if it’s his tone or the fact that I’m almost sitting in her lap, but his words snag Serena’s attention. She whips her head around, brows flattened dangerously in a look I like to call Active Bitch Face.
“You two know each other?” she asks, her voice calm and measured. Maybe even a little calculating.
“I don’t think so,” I reply, but the uncertainty in my voice is obvious. My job puts me in front of thousands of strangers every week, so I can’t say for sure.
I can feel Serena roll her eyes as Silas shakes his head and says, “Damn. I could have sworn we met somewhere.”
Serena shoots me a sidelong glance and purses her lips; I’ve known her long enough to understand that she’s asking me for permission to grill this man. Never one to take something at face value, she is extremely inquisitive—to the point that Amber and I joke that Serena missed her true calling when she didn’t become a private investigator.
In answer, I nod. Go for it.
“Really?” Serena asks, cocking her head to the side as she twists her finger in the chain of her necklace. “Maybe it’s because you’ve seen her on the side of a building or on a bus. In one of those streaming commercials, perhaps? Oh, or maybe from that time her face was in the middle of Times Square? Could that be it?”
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at Serena’s cool, underhanded tone. To throw the poor guy a bone, I add, “I’m a Haven instructor. I’ve been in some ads.”
Serena’s near condescension doesn’t even faze Silas. He snaps his fingers, and his face lights up in victory. A convincing performance if he’s faking it. “That’s it! I knew I’d seen you somewhere.”
“Yep. That’s me.” I shrug and offer a half-hearted smile.
A charged silence settles around the three of us, but Silas’s eyes don’t leave my face. His stare is studious, as if I am a test subject in a lab. My skin prickles where we touch, the sensation buzzing through my body like a low electric current.
But despite his discerning gaze, there’s something soft about Silas. I think it’s the freckles that dot his nose and cheeks. Maybe that messy head of hair too? The way those curls dangle over his forehead certainly softens the ice of his blue eyes. Somehow, all his physical features complement one another, including the surprisingly broad set of shoulders that bump into me as he takes another drink from his glass. He’s not a typical East Coast hipster-creative; he must be from the Midwest or one of the western states that force you to live half outside.
I can spot a transplant when I see one, being one myself.
“What do you do, Silas?” Serena asks. Her gaze is narrowed, her finger still twirling through the delicate gold chain of her necklace. There’s pink in her cheeks now, and her eyes are starting to go glassy; I have no doubt this will be the margarita that makes her officially drunk.
“I’m a writer,” he replies as he tears his eyes away from my face. “For Metropolitan. ”
“Write anything I might have read?” she asks. One eyebrow rises, a show of skepticism that is also a power move.
“I don’t know. Do you read much in the culture and lifestyle section?”
I don’t miss the way his eyes narrow as he takes in her Van Cleef I’m deflecting. “I mean, it has its moments where it’s not good, but usually…” I wave my free hand around to distract him from the fact that I just gave the dumbest answer ever.
With one last glare in his direction, Serena is pulled away from the couch by one of our friends, leaving Silas and me relatively alone. On instinct, I scoot away from him to give us both some space. My gaze dips to my margarita before I knock back a healthy gulp, relying on the tequila to burn away the awkwardness and subtle animosity left behind by Serena.
He sips his drink while he eyes me. “Just good and not good ? It’s got to be more interesting than that.”
“It is,” I reply with a sigh. “It’s hard to explain, I guess. It’s not exactly a common job, you know?”
“That’s fair. Not all of us are broadcast into thousands of people’s homes every day.”
“Streamed, not broadcast,” I correct. His lips curl into a genuine grin, exposing a set of perfect white teeth. When the smile reaches his eyes, they twinkle, and those dimples return, this time more generous and pronounced than before.
“Sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he means it even if a ghost of a smile lingers on his face. “I’m a writer. I should know the importance of semantics.”
After a quiet beat, in which the bar’s music pulses through the lack of conversation, Silas angles himself toward me again. “How long have you been a Haven instructor?”
“Ten years.”
He lets out a low whistle. “A whole decade? They must treat you well.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, defensiveness edging into my tone.
He takes another sip from his drink before settling his gaze on me again. “I just mean the perks must be nice if you’ve stuck around that long.”
Shrugging, I flip my long hair over my shoulders as I cross my legs. We’re still close enough that I can see his pupils dilate ever so slightly as I adjust the hem of my dress. “It’s not about the perks.”
“Oh?” His question comes out wryly. “What’s it all about, then? I mean, it’s just yelling at people to do stuff, right?”
My brows pinch together as I lean back on my free hand. “You really think that’s all we do?”
His lips are pursed together—like he’s fighting a smile—as he mirrors my body language, holding my stare. For a second, I consider leaving him mid-conversation, but that competitive side of me flickers to life. It’s been so long since I’ve felt it, that drive to do anything at all, that I latch onto it and hope it doesn’t disappear.
“I mean, I’ve never taken a class, but it seems fairly straightforward to me,” he replies.
There it is: the instinctive rush that comes with a challenge, one that just so happens to be about the job I’ve been doing for years. I savor the increased beating of my heart while my knee bounces.
In this moment, I feel like my old self again—the woman who was excited to tackle challenges head on instead of shying away from them.
An idea forms in my head.
I let the words tumble out before I can stop myself. “You should take my class and write about your experience. Isn’t that what you do for a living?”
What I don’t say is , If you do, I will make you work so hard you will eat your words.
He doesn’t miss my jab. He smirks as he sits up straight and angles his face toward me. “You want me to ride in your class and then interview you?”
My brain short-circuits at his warm voice stringing together the words you , me , and ride . A part of me readies to fire back with a comment about riding hard, but the jab dissolves on my tongue as I realize what I’ve done.
I just opened the door I’ve kept firmly shut for a very, very long time.
My breath catches in my chest. The ambient sounds of the bar—the chattering of patrons, the dings of glassware, the heavy bass of the music—feel amplified inside my head. His question spins through me, stirring up all the alcohol and food I’ve consumed today. I glance around me, hoping to find my friends, but Serena is taking a selfie with a former client, and Amber is wrapped up in Derek.
Anxious ghosts I’ve worked hard to settle are creeping out of the shadows of my mind.
“An interview?” I echo, hoping to buy some time. I’m fully aware that this challenge was my idea, but I hadn’t thought through what it might mean for me. “What’s the angle?”
He takes a deep breath as he studies my face. I don’t know what he sees; I’m working overtime to keep a calm mask in place.
“Not sure yet, but there could be a story there. Haven instructors are everywhere: in our homes, in studios, on buses, and on the sides of buildings.” His dimples pop as he smiles at me. “You’re a celebrity, but who is the person on the other side of the screen?”
I’m someone on the edge.
The words are half-formed on my tongue. I shake my head to clear them out. How could this stranger possibly understand what it’s like to do my job? To push yourself this hard for this long? To stumble your way through life while the public watches?
Instead, I reply, “I’m not a celebrity.”
“Not-celebrities don’t wind up on a billboard in Times Square.”
God damn it, Serena . “That ad ran for, like, a month, and it was six years ago.”
“Still,” he counters, “if you weren’t a celebrity”—I roll my eyes, so he pivots—“okay, fine, if you weren’t a known person , there would be no story potential here.”
“That makes me sound like I’m on some kind of FBI watch list.”
“If you are, then there is definitely a story here.”
I hate that his words make me laugh. I hate how his blue eyes glitter as he watches me toss my hair out of my face. I hate how my skin feels alive with sensation.
I hate that he’s not wrong.
The only reason Silas—or anyone, for that matter—would write a story about me is because my job puts me in contact with thousands of people who think they know me, but the person they know doesn’t exist. I know that.
It still hurts to hear someone say that to my face, then turn around and make me laugh.
But that deflated feeling in my chest is what tells me I should do this interview. Because if it bothers me that people don’t know who I really am, I can only blame myself. I’ve been hiding behind screens for years. What started as necessary self-preservation has become a prison of my own making. So how can I move on to the next chapter of my life when the world thinks I’m someone else entirely? When even I don’t know who I am anymore?
There’s a glimmer of an opportunity here. A chance to tell my own story.
“I’m game.” Those two words come out sounding a lot more confident than I feel. “ If you take my class first.”
His eyes widen. “Really? How do I get in? Aren’t your classes always booked up?”
“So you do know something about me.” I raise an eyebrow.
His cheeks flush as he fidgets in his seat. “My colleagues are Haven regulars. They were talking about it the other day.”
“ Suuure. ” I draw out the word with feigned skepticism. “We always hold one bike back in studio classes for VIPs, lucky wait-listers, whatever. I’ll book you for next Saturday at ten A.M. ”
“At the NoHo studio? And afterward, you’ll talk to me?” he asks. The hopefulness in his voice singes the frayed edges of my nerves.
“Deal.”
“Deal,” he agrees.
He extends his nearly empty glass to mine in a toast; our glasses clink together before he downs the remainder of his drink. As he rises to stand, I notice the sharp lines of his body, the way his slender torso gives way to muscled thighs tucked inside of slim cut jeans. I’ve been in the fitness industry long enough that I can spot a runner when I see one.
“It was good to meet you, Jo,” he says as his lips curl into a smile.
“You too, Silas.” I mean it.
He excuses himself—to go where, I don’t know, but I don’t really care. There’s a knot in my chest that I try to rub out with the heel of my hand, only to realize I’m turning my skin red. The tension just beneath my solar plexus persists even as I stand and straighten my back—a reminder, or perhaps a warning, that I’ve just signed up to do something totally out of the ordinary for me. Something I won’t have any control over.
But I can’t deny that there’s a tiny wave of relief too. Surrounded by friends and strangers, under a night sky aglow with thousands of bright white window lights looming over us, I cling to that excitement. Maybe this is exactly what I need to get over that restless, bored feeling that’s plagued me for months.
Then again, it could also be the biggest mistake of my life.