Chapter Nine Jo
Chapter Nine
Jo
I don’t know why I asked Silas to take a walk with me. I should have just excused myself and taken the long way back to my apartment. That would have bought me some time to clear my head and stop the spiral I’m currently drowning in.
As we step out onto the sidewalk, I realize it was his reaction: my boundaries respected, followed by a gentle reassurance. It’s been so long since I’ve had a true anxiety attack that I had braced myself for the worst possible outcome. I expected him to roll his eyes and chastise me for being weak. I expected judgment and quiet condescension. I expected to be pushed. Because really, if someone who looks as strong as I do on the outside is this weak on the inside, then I’m just a fucking phony, right?
Stop, Jo. You’re doing it again.
I practice the box breathing my therapist taught me while we walk. Silas steers us down the sidewalk under canopies of fresh blooms and fluttering green leaves. The air around us is fragrant with the smell of spring, a light and airy scent that holds the promise of life. It calms me as I breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four.
As we cross the street toward Washington Square Park, Silas hitches his backpack higher on his shoulders and says, “I’m sorry for being pushy earlier. I didn’t know this would be difficult for you.”
“You weren’t pushy, and you don’t owe me an apology,” I reply. It’s not his fault my brain works in a permanent state of overdrive, made worse by the fact that I know what my own personal rock bottom looks like. “When I saw the recording machine, I just… panicked, I guess.”
We fall into step with each other as we head into the territory of the park. Our pace slows to a meander, and I can practically feel Silas holding back. The hesitation makes my skin crawl. The most cynical part of me believes I deserve whatever scolding he has in store. “Whatever it is, just spit it out, Silas.”
“It’s not a statement,” he replies as he slows to a stop. I turn to face him, watching the golden sunlight filter through the trees to kiss the planes of his face. His russet hair looks almost blond in this light. “More of a question, really. Is it always like this for you? Is this why you have someone else run your social media?”
My pulse picks up again. My brain seems to vibrate in my skull. I manage a shrug and a hard swallow before saying, “It wasn’t always this bad.”
What I want to tell him is that I had a breakdown when the Haven Home bike launched. I want to tell him how it felt to have my social media feed—once a perfectly normal place for me to interact with clients, friends, and family—explode with strangers making demands on my time and attention. I want to tell him how I was steamrolled by the whole thing: my face in thousands of people’s homes, their reactions to everything I did and said, the Internet forums that popped up where people shared their unrelenting, even cruel, feedback about everything from my face to my body to my outfits.
How my then-normal relationship fell apart, and my boyfriend of three years walked out on me. How he didn’t understand why I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t have sex, couldn’t engage in a meaningful way with him when my mind was in such a dark, preoccupied place. I want to tell him how my anxiety and depression got so bad that I had to move in with Serena and start seeing a team of mental health professionals twice a week.
For months, that was my life: sleeping next to Serena, daily reminders to take my pills, appointment after appointment after appointment as I worked to untangle myself from a lifetime of repressed feelings. Movement was part of my medicine, along with my prescriptions, which I’ve since eased off. The only people at Haven who had any idea were Z and Mike. Tracey from PR came into the picture a short time later, when it was clear social media was a non-negotiable in my job.
Ever since, I haven’t been able to let anyone else in. Not in any real way.
“Listen, Jo. You can share whatever you want to.” He pauses a beat, then says, “None of this is being recorded.”
His hand reaches out toward me but stops short, as if there’s some invisible wall between us. I notice again that Silas’s first inclination is to comfort rather than run. “You’re not prying or anything,” I say on a sigh. “This whole thing was my idea.”
He cocks his head to the side. “That’s true, but I have to ask—why suggest doing an interview if it’s hard for you? Why raise your hand at all?”
I’m there again—my toes at the edge of a cliff again, my arms spread wide, the spark to do anything hovering just out of reach.
There’s no way for me to say any of that to him without sounding like I’m hallucinating, so I settle on, “Because it’s time.”
He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his curls. They fall back onto his forehead in a distinctly charming way. “I’m wondering if there’s a way to do this so it’s not as difficult for you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I don’t know.” He tucks his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Maybe if you didn’t have to look directly at me when we talked? That helps some people open up.”
A mental image of the two of us, separated by a screen but facing the same direction, forces me to giggle. “Confessional style? I don’t think so.”
He shakes his head and laughs. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
“Maybe the old therapy stereotype, then?” I offer with a mischievous smile. “I could lie on a couch and you could sit behind me taking notes?”
“That might qualify as some sort of healthcare fraud, and I have no interest in going to jail.” He smirks as he slides his phone out of his back pocket. Waving it around, he says, “I meant this, Jo. Remember the telephone?”
I blanch. I hate phone calls—unless I really want to talk to the other person. The only people who have ever been on the regular dial rotation are my parents—plus Serena now that she’s thousands of miles away—and that’s mostly out of necessity. But Silas has no way of knowing this, and since I don’t feel like sharing this personal fun fact, I opt for a vague non-response. “That feels so… cold.”
“That’s fair.” He slips his phone into his back pocket as he considers this. “What if we got to know each other a little better? That way it doesn’t feel like you’re spilling your guts to a stranger.” When I raise my eyebrows, he adds, “In a professional way, of course.”
“You mean, off the record? Just the two of us hanging out?” I drum my fingers along my leg. “Like exposure therapy.”
“This is the first time anyone has ever called spending time with me exposure therapy. I don’t know if I love that,” he replies with a rueful smile. “But if that’s what helps you feel more comfortable, then you call it whatever you want.”
He has a point: my circle of friends has remained tightly closed for the last few years. That carefully curated group consists of the only people I can be myself around. I bite my lower lip as I try to envision what my life would look like if I let Silas in even more.
But no matter what I do, I can’t picture anything because I don’t know him. Yes, I’ve seen some of the articles he’s written and, yes, I’m aware that he and Derek have been friends for years, yet that’s the extent of my knowledge. Seeing Silas as a real human—not just some journalist I challenged—may be risky, but this was my idea. This interview, this experience—it has the potential to change my life.
Maybe his suggestion is exactly what we need.
“That’s not a bad idea,” I finally say.
When his face lights up, I can’t help but return his smile. “Great! What are you doing now?”
“Now?” I echo, slightly off guard. “Nothing, I guess. I had planned to spend a couple of hours with you, but—”
“Good. I want to take you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Times Square Olive Garden.”
He is so deadpan when he grabs my hand, the invisible wall between us cracking, that I believe him—until we get there.
A few hours later, I crumple up the piece of parchment paper that once held a slice of pizza and toss it into a nearby garbage can.
From his place next to me on the bench, Silas groans in satisfaction and wipes the remaining grease off his face. “There is nothing better than a five-dollar slice of pizza from a nondescript Italian place on the corner.”
“Totally agree,” I reply. “Who needs Michelin stars?”
Silas slings his arm across the back of the bench and angles his body to face me. “You know, Jo, I would have put you in the category of Wolfgang Puck over Guy Fieri.”
“Excuse me? I’m the Mayor of Flavor Town,” I reply. This earns me another true laugh from Silas, the most recent of many we shared this afternoon.
We did not go to the Times Square Olive Garden.
Instead, Silas led me straight to a giant thrift store, where we spent the better part of three hours wandering aisles of people’s discarded junk. There were few things worth spending money on, among them a coffee mug bearing one of life’s essential questions: E VERYTHING I LIKE IS ILLEGAL, IMMORAL, OR FATTENING—WHICH ONE ARE YOU? I seriously considered spending ninety-nine cents on it, but when Silas rounded the corner of the aisle wearing an apron that proclaimed M R. G OOD L OOKIN’ I S C OOKIN’, I lost my train of thought.
He wore that apron the entire time we meandered through the store.
The best find of all was a hand-bedazzled picture frame, encasing a photo of a family at a theme park, clearly from sometime in the 1980s. Big hair, loud geometric patterns, and teenage grins full of braces stared back at us as we surveyed the lost relic, the picture so poorly lit and the definition so grainy it was impossible to tell where exactly it was taken.
I took the picture frame from Silas, held it close to my chest, and said to him, in my most serious voice, “When you’re here, you’re family.”
He bought the frame on our way out of the store.
The first signs of dusk signaled our mutual hunger. Neither of us could resist the siren song of red, white, and green neon signs in the purple twilight sky, so we grabbed a couple of slices of New York’s finest pizza. The bench across from a playground seemed like the perfect place to end our day.
But now that the night is drawing closer, I don’t want it to be over.
“This was fun,” I say. My pulse picks up in my ears as I realize just how true that statement is; I really did have a nice time with him, despite my initial misgivings. “You know, I teach a streaming class on Tuesday mornings. You could come see how the sausage is made if you want.”
A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “I love sausage.”
“So does Guy Fieri. I’ll hold a bike for you in the seven A.M. class.”
“I should tell you that I took a streaming class with another instructor,” he says. “For research purposes, of course.”
“Oh?” I straighten at his admission, surprised by how badly I want to hear his honest thoughts on his experience. “Who did you take?”
“I think her name was Jenna,” he replies.
There’s a shadow of guilt in his eyes as I ask, “What did you think?”
“Is it wrong if I say that I wished it was your class the whole time? Not that she wasn’t good, it just wasn’t you.”
A blush creeps into my cheeks. People have said this to me before—that my class is the best, that they only ride with me—but hearing it from Silas sends a surge of pride straight to my chest.
I lean fully back into the bench, a little smug from the compliment, and feel the warmth of his hand against my shoulder. A small bolt of electricity rushes through me at the contact, but I don’t run from it, and to my surprise, neither does Silas. He leaves his hand there, fingers grazing the bare skin of my shoulder, and I wonder if he feels that warm current passing between us too.
“I have a question,” he starts, and I find myself bracing for impact. “Why do you only teach spin classes? I noticed that Mike and other instructors teach a variety.”
Ignoring the sensation of his barely there touch, I shrug. “It’s a combination of things. My engagement with clients is the highest there. I taught some boot camp and strength classes a few years ago, but people want to see me on the bike. That suits me fine, because I prefer it. I feel more like myself when I’m riding and teaching than anywhere else.”
Instantly I regret those words, worrying I said too much. Because while it’s true that I’m at ease with myself when I’m clipped in, music blaring, it no longer fulfills me the way it used to… and it hasn’t for a while.
Silas doesn’t miss a beat. “This might be a little premature of me to say, but I think that’s what sets you apart from the others. You’re a natural in front of a group. You inspire others easily. Some people have to work for that, but you… you have it.”
I huff out an awkward laugh. “Usually, people just tell me I was born to be a Haven instructor.”
“I don’t buy that,” he says, more seriously than I expected. “We’re talking about the twenty-first century here. People make career moves all the time. There’s no divine path to a job.”
“All the monarchs in the world would disagree,” I counter.
His tone lightens. “I’m sure they would, but they’re a dying breed. All I’m saying is that I don’t think you were born to be this specific thing”—his free hand points to the little Haven-branded logo on my leggings—“and from what I’ve observed, you have a predilection to lead others. There’s a big difference. Semantics, remember?”
I bite my bottom lip as I consider his words. I’ve never picked apart the separate pieces of my job, never examined the different skills I use to perform. Then again, no one’s ever phrased it the way Silas just did.
But I don’t share any of this with him. Instead, I rise to stand on sore legs, and say, “You still owe me a trip to Olive Garden.”
Monday afternoon is spent inside a bridal boutique in Brooklyn. Amber stands before me on a pedestal, an assistant pinning and tucking in the white fabric around her. Her gown is big, dramatic, and beautiful, with a cathedral train that shimmers when she moves and a sweetheart neckline that makes her boobs look fabulous.
It’s fit for a queen, which is exactly what Amber is in her own right.
Holding my phone up so that the front-facing camera angles out, I peer at a bleary-eyed Serena. She’s lying in her bed in Tokyo, hair splayed out across the pillow behind her, watching Amber’s first dress fitting over FaceTime.
“You look absolutely radiant,” Serena says, her voice thick with sleep. Despite the time difference between New York and Japan, she insisted on being present for all major wedding-related activities.
“Do you think the train is too much?” Amber asks.
“No,” Serena and I say in unison.
I continue, “You said you wanted to go a little glam for the wedding. Plus it won’t be so big once we bustle it for the reception. I say go all in for the ceremony.”
Amber narrows her eyes at the wall of mirrors in front of her. She wiggles her hips from side to side, the ivory tulle sparkling as the skirt swishes. As a woman who prefers working in bohemian-esque blouses and comfortable jeans—a perk of being in the tech world—Amber really surprised us when she decided to go for a grand and romantic wedding dress.
“I really do like it,” Amber says as the boutique’s assistant places the final pin in the front hemline.
“Amber, that dress was literally made for you,” Serena calls out from my phone. “If you try to remove the train, I’m going to pay someone to sew it back on when you’re not looking.”
“Uh oh,” I say with mock caution. “You’ve got Serena in bullying mode.”
“That just means she loves me,” Amber replies.
Serena is fighting back a yawn as she says, “That’s true. Bullying is my love language.”
Maybe it’s Serena’s unyielding confidence, but the concern finally dissipates from Amber’s face as she looks at her dress again.
“Okay, you’re right,” she says, admiring her reflection. “I’m keeping the train.”
While Amber undresses behind a screen with the help of another employee, we talk wedding details: hair and makeup decisions, minor family dramas, and the Vegas bachelorette party in August, which Serena is still promising to attend. The conversation pivots to Serena long enough for her to give us an update on her life in Tokyo, until she realizes she has to get ready for work and hangs up. Amber goes to make her next fitting appointment while I check my phone for any missed texts.
Finally, with the sun beginning to dip, Amber and I step out of the bridal salon together, right into the heart of rush hour.
Tote bags slung over our respective shoulders—hers a vibrant mustard shade, mine the standard black leather—we round the corner toward our next stop, a double pedicure appointment. My feet are in desperate need of attention now that it’s getting warmer out.
A little treat , Amber had texted a few days ago, to which I’d replied, We always deserve a treat.
The second we walk into the salon, I’m hit with the familiar scent of acetone and assorted chemicals, unpleasantly mixed with some sort of floral wall plug-ins. I would have rather gone to our usual place—the one over on West 12th, which never tried covering the inherently acrid fragrance—but the trek didn’t make sense when the boutique was so far away.
Amber and I are greeted by a pair of friendly nail techs, who let us loose in front of the color wall. I’m used to my nail tech, a lovely gal named Mariya, always having her station stocked with my preferred colors (lilac-y purple in the spring and summer, and hunter green in the winter), but now that I’m faced with dozens and dozens of nail polishes in varying shades, the options threaten to overwhelm me.
“I think I’m going to go with some funky,” Amber says before plucking a vibrant green off the shelf.
My eyes are naturally drawn to the cluster of light purples on the top shelf. I start to reach for one almost on instinct—this is my summer shade range, after all—but I stop myself from pulling the bottle off the shelf.
Is this what I want?
The second I ask myself that, I know the answer. I’ve been defaulting to the same OPI nail color because… well, I didn’t want to put in the effort to change it. I like lilac well enough, but I like not having to make decisions even more. Purple’s not even my favorite color. I chose it once to match a dress for a wedding years ago, then just stuck with it.
I inch back down the wall until there, in the center of the nail color polish rainbow, is the most shocking, violent shade of hot pink I’ve ever seen. I grab it before I can second-guess myself and take the pedicure chair next to Amber’s.
There. I’ve made a decision. A part of my brain worries that I might hate the color once it’s on, but I comfort myself with the reminder that nail polish is temporary by design.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” Amber says while our feet soak in the warm, sudsy water. “I really didn’t want to do my first dress fitting alone.”
“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” I reply in earnest. Of the three of us, Amber is the first to get married, so each wedding-related task feels extra special. That, and I know how hard it is for Amber to do this after losing her mom a few years ago.
I turn my upper body to her while our nail techs start working their magic. There’s a tinge of sadness in Amber’s eyes, so I reach across the small space separating our chairs to grab her hand. “It’s weird without Serena here, isn’t it?”
When Amber nods, I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat. I’d hoped that coming to a different nail salon would make her absence less noticeable, but I still feel like I’m missing a limb. The only difference is this place smells worse than the other one.
“So weird.”
We shift focus to catching up on the usual day-to-day stuff. Amber tells me about the latest office drama and her upcoming work trip to Chicago for a team offsite. When she points out that I have not yet gotten bangs, I laugh and run my hands through my hair.
“No, no bangs, but do you remember Derek’s friend, Silas?” She nods, so I continue, “Well, we were talking the night of Serena’s party, and he told me he’s a writer for Metropolitan. Long story short—he’s interviewing me for the magazine.”
Her mouth drops open as she stares at me. A beat of silence passes. Warmth blooms on my cheeks.
“Are you serious?” she finally asks. When I nod and smile, she blows out a breath. “Well, first of all, that’s cool as hell. But I think you know I’m going to ask you this—are you sure? Is this what you want?”
This time, she reaches for me, her hand warm as our fingers twine together. I don’t fault her for asking these questions. She was there when I fell apart seven years ago. Both Amber and Serena have always been there —whether it was a cold hospital room, moving me out of the old apartment I shared with my ex, or huddled up on Serena’s couch.
“It was my idea, actually,” I reply. “I think it’s time I put myself out there, you know? Face some fears and all that.”
“You were just talking about needing a change.”
“Exactly.”
There’s so much I can’t tell her now. With Haven’s pending acquisition, I can’t tell anyone that I’m looking to leave the company. I promised Z that I would hold down the fort while she gets through the chaos of the next however many weeks. The only thing I can really do is make Amber and Serena proud.
“Well, I think it’s amazing. It’s about time the world gets to know how great you are.” Amber beams at me. “For what it’s worth, I think Derek is a good judge of character. That’s why I agreed to invite Silas to the party. Those two go way back.”
“Thank you. It’s hard to open up to him, but I’m trying.”
She squeezes my hand one last time before letting go. “You’ll get there, babe. All in due time.”
Our nail techs seize the pause in conversation to tell us that we need to stay seated for at least ten minutes so our nails can dry. While Amber and I survey their work, a little wisp of pleasure unfurls in my chest.
“Fun color,” Amber says brightly.
“You too,” I reply.
I love my Barbie-colored toes. And I can’t help but think—if it’s this easy to try a new nail polish, what’s stopping me from doing other things differently?
The answer, of course, is myself—but fortunately, I have an idea of how to change that.