Chapter Ten Silas
Chapter Ten
Silas
A gust of warm air hits me square in the face as we emerge from the cocoon of the movie theater’s icy air conditioning. Derek tosses his mostly empty popcorn bag into the trash while I glance down at my phone. My palms dampen with sweat when I realize how late it is—plus how long the commute home will be. I have Jo’s seven A.M. class tomorrow morning, and something tells me it’s going to be more challenging than usual now that I’ve eaten a metric ton of popcorn and Sour Patch Kids, plus knocked back two beers.
All through the movie, I tried not to think about said impending early ride. I tried not to think about the lovely afternoon we spent wandering around the city. I tried not to think about how Jo was—and is—nothing like I expected.
I was not successful.
“Still an incredible film,” Derek says, effectively pulling me out of my thoughts.
“We had great tastes as eighteen-year-olds,” I reply.
Tonight’s screening was of the 2003 cult classic The Room. Derek and I first saw it together when we shared a dorm at BU. When we’d heard there was a movie that was so bizarrely terrible, it was actually incredible, we’d gotten high as kites, jammed our pockets full of candy from the grocery store down the block, and had the time of our lives.
To this day, we still send each other the occasional quote from the movie whenever one of us is feeling nostalgic.
“You want to grab another beer?” Derek motions toward the neighborhood dive on the corner.
I look at my phone again, contemplating. I’m already going to be slow and tired in tomorrow’s class, and Derek is clearly in his freedom-induced summertime fun phase. Besides, time with him means less time in my head. What’s one more beer?
“Sure,” I reply, leading the way to the corner.
Once we’re settled at the bar with two fresh, cheap bottles, I stare at the label while Derek types on his phone. In the back of my mind, that red flag I’ve been trying to ignore flutters on a healthy breeze. With it comes guilt from deep in my stomach over the way I used Derek to get to Jo, and the fact that Jo may not be the fraud I thought she was.
For a second, I consider telling him the truth, but then I remind myself that we haven’t recorded any interviews. Technically, nothing has happened. There’s nothing to explain if I have nothing to show for it, right?
That soothes my shame enough for now. I turn to Derek, settling for something complimentary as I say, “It was great meeting Amber the other night. She seems really cool.”
At least this is true. After meeting Jo, I’d made a point to spend some time with Amber, sipping beverages while leaning against the rooftop bar railing. She told me about her job in tech, her hobby making earrings (that she never has time for now thanks to wedding planning); I told her a few stories about Derek from our undergrad days, like how I visited him in Buffalo during his stint with Teach for America our first year after graduating.
She’d been so open and easy to talk to that I fully understood why Derek fell in love after practically one meeting at a comic con.
But Derek is more interested in the TV above the bar that’s showing highlights from tonight’s Yankees game. He’s only half paying attention when he says, “Yeah, she liked you too.”
“What’s she up to tonight?”
“Dress fitting,” he replies. Once he sees the Yankees have lost, he sighs and turns his full attention to me. “Did you know they have to do that three separate times before the wedding?”
I shake my head. “Why? Does the dress morph into a new shape or something?”
“Beats me,” he says before taking a sip of his beer. “By the way, I’m doing my birthday in the city this year. Just a dinner with some friends, maybe karaoke or a bar afterward. You should come.”
“No grand trip planned?”
As a summer baby, Derek has always taken his birthday as an opportunity to travel, especially since he rarely gets to during the school year. I always send him the customary “happy birthday” text, to which he usually responds with a picture of wherever he’s visiting. Last year, I got a blurry photo of his outstretched hand holding a Bloody Mary in front of what I assumed was a beachfront bar. At ten A.M.
“Too much wedding stuff this summer,” he replies. “It’s so fucking expensive to get married these days.”
I nod stoically. Two years ago, Mia did an article on alternative weddings in NYC in which she interviewed couples trying to save costs by getting creative with wedding traditions. But even getting married in a park in Bed-Stuy can cost a fortune.
“If I’m in town, I’ll be there,” I say. “Send me the details.”
It occurs to me then that if Derek and Amber are hosting said birthday party, Jo will likely be there. New emotions roll through me: guilt, for the way I finagled my way into her life, anxiety at the lack of progress we’ve made on my article, excitement at spending more time with her. They all culminate in a dull throb in my forehead. I rub my hand across my brow on instinct.
If my original angle is the true story, I may end up losing my friendship with Derek. In any other situation, I’d turn to him for advice. We’ve counseled each other on endless problems—from dating woes to issues at work—but this one is off limits. All because of my actions.
“You good, man?” Derek asks, eyeing me cautiously.
“Too much junk food,” I say quickly. “We’re getting old, remember?”
He snorts before taking another sip of his beer. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Thirty-two is the new twenty-two.”
If Derek was right about us still being young, then I wouldn’t be feeling ready to puke right now.
Holding a spin class this early in the morning should be illegal. I’ve never been a morning person; back when I ran cross-country, I preferred suffering in the midday sun versus starting early enough to beat the heat. And all the professional races I’ve done required a call time so comically early that I was still half asleep by the time my group got moving.
Yet there is Jo, looking as fresh as can be at 7:05 A.M. , her curtain of dark hair trailing down her back and shoulders. Today’s room is the same as where I took a streaming class with a different instructor, so it’s jarring to have such a clear view of Jo in her bubblegum pink spandex set. She’s all sweat and smiles as her attention bounces from camera to camera expertly.
There is, however, a noticeable difference in this version of Jo. She’s more rehearsed in here, less free-spirited. She’s still teaching the classic Haven Spin class, but Camera Jo versus No Camera Jo are like two sides of the same coin: the Cautious Jo I encountered when I put the recording device in front of her versus Carefree Jo who sat on a park bench with me, eating pizza and talking freely.
Time seems to pass both slowly and impossibly fast in these classes. One minute, I’m wiping sweat from my eyes and contemplating unclipping from this stupid bike to walk out mid-song, and in the next, the final song fades out and everyone is clapping. My feet slow, the fog in my head clears. Endorphins course through my veins now that I’ve exercised—or perhaps exorcised the demons from my body.
Unlike my first experience with Jo, everything’s moving at a fast clip this morning; all the clients seem to be racing around the building to get ready for work. We didn’t get to talk before class started—my fault, for not arriving earlier—so I try to catch up with her in the hall, but she’s moving too fast, the throngs of people too dense. I lose her when she disappears through a door marked STAFF ONLY .
That’s probably for the best, because I didn’t include time for an after-class interview, and so I’m one of those clients who needs to hurry up and get to work. The men’s room is crowded, but I manage to snag a shower without having to fight too hard. Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to leave, clean and fully dressed in my staple black T-shirt and Levi’s. However, my heart skips a beat when I see a text from Jo come in.
If you’re still here, I’m in the front lobby.
I move so fast I’m honestly impressed with myself.
I see her there, hair swept up into a ponytail, wearing a fresh sports bra and leggings set in navy blue. She’s leaning against the desk, talking animatedly with clients as they check in with the staff. I do my best to sidle into her periphery without interrupting.
When she does see me, a new kind of smile breaks across her face. This one is a little devious, her brows rising as she nods to me. “You survived,” she says as she makes her way over.
“Barely,” I groan. “I take it you noticed me struggling?”
“I mean, I always watch the clients in class, but I did notice you were…”
“On the verge of walking out?” I say, to which she laughs. “It was the one-two punch of not enough sleep, too much sugar last night, and I’m not much of a morning person to begin with.”
There’s genuine concern in her eyes as she asks, “Do you feel better now?”
I dutifully ignore the swooping sensation in my stomach. “I do, yeah.”
“Do you have a minute?” The juice bar blender screeches in the background, so Jo has to yell as she asks, “Maybe a quick walk outside?”
Despite knowing this will inevitably make me late to work—which means Mia will never stop giving me shit after I hassled her for the same thing—I say yes and follow Jo into the fresh summer morning.
I want to ask how she is and what’s up, anything to hear what’s on her mind, but I don’t. Resisting that urge takes all my willpower, and instead I let the silence between us do the work for me. I find myself bracing for whatever it is she’s about to share—thoughts of her changing her mind, of canceling the article altogether, float through my head—as I follow her sandal-clad feet.
“I had an epiphany last night when I was getting a pedicure,” she finally says.
Surprised, I stop in my tracks. After a beat, she realizes I’m not following and stops too, turning to face me as we both step out of the flow of foot traffic.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I reply. “That’s not what I was expecting you to say. That’s all.”
One eyebrow raises as she looks at me. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, but it definitely didn’t involve enlightenment at the nail salon.” Before I can stop myself, I glance down at her feet.
Only they look… like normal feet? With magenta toenails?
I know some people are really into that kind of thing, but I doubt she’s fishing for my personal fetish preferences. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to spell this out for me.”
She sighs and bites her bottom lip. Something sparks in my brain at this movement—the concern she’s about to jam up like she did at the coffee shop, but something else too. Something electric, primal. Warmth that has nothing to do with the weather spreads through me.
“It’s hard to explain,” she starts, then stops. When she hesitates, I wait. “What I’m trying to say is—I know how to be ready to go on the record. I just have some things I need to do first.”
I blink. “That’s great. Anything I can help with?”
She smiles, but not in that big, expressive way she does when she finds something funny. This one is soft, almost tender, as she nudges me with her shoulder. Her skin is so warm that I can feel the heat beneath my T-shirt.
“No. There are some things I need to do on my own,” she replies, and if it weren’t for the upbeat tone of her voice, I would be more concerned. “It’s not that I didn’t like spending time with you. I still think that was a good idea. I just realized that my problem is more about me and less about you.”
I’m still not sure I follow, but I nod along anyway. “And that was your nail salon ‘aha’ moment?”
“Basically,” she says with a shrug. “I’ll text you, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
She spins on her heel and leaves me there. Somewhat dazed, I watch her walk down the street, ponytail swinging as she retraces our previous steps. How fascinating that she feels so comfortable and confident in her body—she’s not wearing a shirt and doesn’t seem to think anything of it—but struggles to share what’s on her mind. It’s not at all what I anticipated, but I certainly don’t mind the view of her backside as she walks away from me.