Chapter Fourteen Silas
Chapter Fourteen
Silas
A n actual long-form article begins to take shape. Thank god, too, because I was really starting to sweat it.
Between my experience in Mike’s class and the first recorded interview with Jo, I have enough material to start forming something coherent. Something interesting, even. With my usual thirty-five tabs and programs open, I toggle between the Haven website, my newest outline, my Reddit feed, YouTube videos of eighties exercise classes, and a Mayo Clinic page on anxiety disorders. In the background, the original draft of my Haven article hovers like a menacing ghost. I’ve kept it open mainly to remind myself of how far I’ve come.
I also plan to use it to prove my growth to Colin as soon as I submit the finished article.
Still, there are more loose threads that I need to follow before I can fully flesh this thing out. I still can’t shake the feeling that Jo’s hiding something. There are moments where I consider going back to that Haven forum to dig, but I only make it as far as the home page before that kernel of guilt forces me to abandon ship. Everything in there is just hearsay or idle gossip; I need the real, concrete truth from the source for this assignment.
Only time will tell if I’m right, or if she’s willing to be honest. She says she wants to tell her story—but how much does she consider fair game when it comes to public consumption? There are parts of my own life I wouldn’t want to share with thousands of strangers, especially considering how judgmental and harsh people can be. Hell, I’ve been one of those hypercritical individuals.
Rolling my stool away from my home desk, I run my hands through my hair. Part of this restless feeling is frustration—because the longer I sit here and think about Jo, the more I’m forced to accept that I’m attracted to her. Worse, it’s not just that ridiculous body, that expressive face, and famously good hair that have my stomach tied up in knots.
Though I would be lying if I said those things didn’t help.
It’s everything else about her that I’m struggling to compartmentalize. It’s the surprising similarities between us and how they remind me of her whenever they pop up in my day-to-day life. It’s the way that she looks at people when they talk to her, like she cares about what they’re saying. It’s her always good-natured humor, and the way she carries herself with confidence through a world that is eager to pick her apart.
I try to remind myself that this is how you think about someone you care about. Jo is becoming a friend. That’s all there is to it.
When I start wondering what it would be like to be more than her friend, I have no choice but to get up and pace.
Back and forth, I wander around my tiny studio apartment. It’s silly—stupid, even—to let my brain go down this rabbit hole. I don’t even know the type of person she normally goes for. There isn’t a trace of a partner on her social media feed, neither past nor present, and she’s never mentioned anything about her romantic life.
But the way my entire body lit up from the inside out when we drew closer at the diner, heads bending together as we talked…
My phone dings from where I left it on my desk, scaring me enough that I jump at the sound. Irritated with myself, I snatch it up to find a text from Colin. I barrel through the disappointment that it’s not a text from Jo.
Colin’s message reads:
Any chance Jo can do a photoshoot for the article on Weds next week? Lucas Russo wants to photograph her for the magazine.
Momentarily stunned, my fingers hover over the keyboard. Lucas Russo? The famous photographer known for his editorial spreads in the biggest fashion magazines, circulated by the largest media companies in the business? Metropolitan magazine isn’t some piddly little nothing publication, but it’s not at the level of someone like Lucas Russo…
Seriously? How?
… is my response to Colin.
I don’t even have time to scrub my free hand over my unshaved face before Colin’s response appears.
I told some friends from R I’m well aware that penning the center feature, snagging the cover, and working with one of the most sought-after photographers in a generation is a big fucking deal. But as advantageous all of this is to my own career, I can’t stop thinking about Jo—what she wants, how she feels about this.
In the end, that’s her choice to make—not mine.
I fire back a simple message before throwing myself onto my bed.
Let me check with Jo and get back to you.
The minutes tick by as I volley between options on how to present this to her: Do I emphasize how big of a deal it is? Or do I play it cool and assume she doesn’t care about someone like Lucas Russo and designer clothes? My phone remains a cold brick in my hand.
I want to just call her. I want to hear her voice, its inflections, the little pauses and “ums” and “ahs” that give away so much of our real meaning. I want to know if I can detect the smile in her voice. I wonder if it will feel the same as seeing it in person.
But cold calling—on a weeknight, no less—is a cardinal sin to our generation. She outright rejected my idea of interviewing over telephone before. Chances are, I reason, she wouldn’t answer anyway. So I settle for a text, and hammer out a message that I hope strikes the balance between hopeful and excited, yet also it’s-not-a-big-deal-if-not.
Hey! Got word that a photographer wants to shoot you for the magazine (with a camera, not a gun). His name is Lucas Russo. Any chance you’re free next Wednesday afternoon?
Peeling myself off the duvet, I distract myself with heating up leftovers while I wait for her response. When the microwave dings, I jump. It’s impossible to ignore the way my hands shake out of nervousness while I shovel down mouthfuls of chow mein.
The hours pass. My apartment darkens as much as it can; even in the dead of night, the streetlight from the small alley behind my building casts an orangey glow into my home. It’s not until I’m curled up in bed, doom scrolling the news, that Jo’s name lights up my phone.
It takes me a minute to realize she’s calling , not texting. A shot of pure, unadulterated dopamine goes straight to my heart. I straighten and run my hands through my hair before answering.
“Hello?” I sound like I’ve never used a phone before in my life.
“Hey, Silas.”
All the feelings rushing around in my chest reach a boiling point, warming me to an uncomfortable degree. Biting back a groan, I close my eyes and ask, “How are you, Jo? Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m good. Did I call you too late? I’m sorry, I know it’s after ten—”
“No, not at all,” I interject, eyes flying open. “What’s going on?”
“I got your text about the photographer.” A long pause stretches out between us, in which I can hear the softest hint of her breathing on the other end of the phone. This is exactly what I needed to hear: her most authentic reaction. “I’m glad to hear Lucas Russo doesn’t want to shoot me with a gun, but why does he want to shoot me at all?”
Here is that bridge I didn’t want to cross the other night. “Well, the magazine wants to do a big feature on you. Russo got involved because he’s a friend of a friend of my editor—and a big fan of yours, by the way.” She snorts, but I can’t tell if she’s entertained or annoyed. “Does that bother you?”
“No, it’s not that,” she replies. “It’s just weird. Sometimes I forget that I’m literally in people’s homes. It’s not until someone brings it up that I remember… oh, yeah. You see my face and listen to me talk three times a week or whatever, and I’ve never met you. You think I’d be used to this after seven years, but… no.”
I make a mental note to bring this up during our next recorded interview. Then I underline that mental note with a permanent marker and highlight it in the brightest shade I can imagine.
“Do you want to do it? Be photographed for the cover, I mean?” I ask.
Her breath hitches. “You want to put me on the cover of the magazine?”
Well, I’m fucking this up. I just keep dropping surprises on her.
Backpedaling, I say, “Listen, Jo. It’s totally up to you. This is moving fast because Russo’s got a tight schedule. If you don’t feel comfortable, then it’s all good. We scrap the photo shoot and continue on as normal. The article can go somewhere else in the magazine.”
I don’t know if that’s true, but I don’t care. It’s not even my call to make. But more than anything, I want Jo to be comfortable with what we’re doing. I don’t want her to second-guess this at all.
A long stretch of silence, then a heavy sigh precedes, “No, let’s do it.” I can almost hear the gears in her head moving when she pauses again. “Wednesday afternoon, right? What time? Where? What do I need to bring?”
Relief rolls through me as I reply, “I’ll get the details from my editor and text you everything.”
“Will you be there?”
It’s my turn to hesitate. In normal circumstances, attending the photo shoot is outside of my job description. But I can’t ignore her hopeful tone, nor can I ignore the mental image of her fiddling with her hair or a stray thread. My heart skips several beats as I put the ball in her court. “Do you want me there?”
“Yes.”
Her response is so quick, so sure, that my body lights up again, my legs restless beneath my bed covers. “Then I’ll be there.”
After we hang up, I lie in bed replaying the conversation over and over. Being the recipient of a Jo phone call feels like winning an award I didn’t know existed but desperately wanted. That she would ask my opinion and invite me to the shoot… it means more to me than I’m willing to admit.
It takes me hours to fall asleep.
Telling Colin sets into motion a chain of events so chaotic that I have no choice but to step aside and watch.
We’ve photographed people for the magazine every month for years, but Lucas Russo being involved elevates the whole event to a new level, one that involves a wild dash of phone calls, scheduling, and favors.
Thankfully, most people are thrilled to help. Our two teams secure a makeup artist, a hair stylist, a clothing stylist, a location, and wardrobe options from designers including Tom Ford and Givenchy. Every phone call and email seem to spark three more. When we can’t get the people we need, Russo’s team steps in. It’s amazing how much clout he carries and how quickly his group works. By the end of the week, we have all the right people and products, a confirmed venue, plus the funding approved from finance.
It puts my mind at ease, knowing Jo will have the best of the best.
I keep her informed via text every step of the way, hoping this will lift some of the anxiety from her shoulders. She’s quick to respond, and the questions taper off, replaced by emojis and memes that make me smile. By the Friday before, she seems almost excited.
At the usual Friday evening happy hour, I’m seated in the corner of the bar, surrounded by my colleagues. We’ve been here for two hours, and the place has filled up, hundreds of voices bouncing off the wood floors and low ceilings. The sound system pipes in music in an attempt to drown out the crowd. When a song comes on that I recognize from Jo’s class, I throw a jalapeno popper into my mouth to fight the urge to smile.
Beside me, Mia slams her phone onto the table, rattling the last of my second and final beer. “Fuck,” she grinds out. “Fuck shit dammit.”
“What’s wrong?”
Her face is flushed as she turns to look at me, her dark hair swinging around her cheeks. “I got off the wait-list for Jo’s class tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyebrows in confusion. Now that I’ve been to some of Jo’s classes and spend a great deal of time haunting the Haven app and website, I understand it’s a big deal to get a bike when the class is sold out. Even I was excited to get off Mike’s wait-list.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask.
“Yes, buuut ,” she says, dragging out the word as if to emphasize my stupidity, “I have a hair appointment across town fifteen minutes after her class ends. There’s no way I’ll be able to do both.”
“Why would you put yourself on the wait-list for her class when you have a hair appointment?”
She shrugs as her fingers trace the rim of her empty cocktail glass. “I wait-list myself for basically every class. This hair appointment has been booked for, like, three months, so I forgot about it.”
“Can’t you just reschedule your hair appointment, then?” I ask.
She levels with me with a look that tells me just how stupid she thinks this question is.
“Oh, right,” I say. “I forget that a woman’s relationship with her hair person is sacrosanct.”
“Correct,” she replies. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone you trust with your hair? And in Manhattan, no less? You don’t just cancel a hair appointment unless you have a damn good reason. I won’t be able to get in for months if I cancel. Plus, they charge you.”
“Brutal,” I say. As I finish the last of my beer, an idea strikes me fast and hot. Eyes bright, I turn back to Mia, who is staring at the Haven notification on her phone with a tortured look. “Hey, can you accept that class and transfer it to me? I’ll pay you for it.”
She quirks an eyebrow at me. “What? Why? Don’t you get to take Jo’s class for free whenever you want?”
The rapid fire of questions makes me smirk. “Yes, but I’d like to take her class when she doesn’t know I’m going to be there. See if there’s a difference, et cetera.” While this is true, what I don’t tell Mia is that I don’t want to wait until Wednesday to see Jo. My colleague doesn’t need to know about my inner turmoil around her and that foreign sense of longing I feel whenever I catch myself slipping.
“Sure,” she replies sarcastically. “Is Mr. Part-Time Hater just waiting for Jo to make a mistake so you can ridicule her for it?”
I roll my eyes. “No. Actually, I’ve had fun in her classes, thank you very much.”
“Whatever.” I don’t miss the biting edge to the word. “You owe me forty-five dollars.”
I feel like a teenager trying to sneak back into my parents’ house after an unapproved night out when I enter the Haven HQ studio the next morning. My heartbeat is quick and my palms sweaty as I check in at the front desk and pick my way through the Saturday morning crowds. I select a locker tucked away in a corner, hoping that I can avoid seeing Jo before class.
I went back and forth on whether I should tell Jo that I would be here this morning. There were several texts typed, then promptly deleted. Part of me feels guilty for not warning her, but my journalism instincts won—I want to see what her newfound openness looks like.
When I catch a glimpse of her outside of the studio doors—one of the same studios I rode in previously, where no cameras are allowed—I attribute the phantom sucker punch in my gut to that very same guilt. Anything else would be admitting that I’m floored by how much I’m drawn to her, to how badly I want to get to know her.
As a friend , I remind myself. I spent forty-five dollars of my own money to see my friend.
I slink into the dark room just before the staff closes the door for good.
This time, my bike is in the middle of the pack, the late cancellation working in my favor. I set up on my own, keeping one eye on Jo the entire time. She goes through the usual pre-class instructions without noticing me.
I, however, notice the way the spotlight catches in her black spandex set, the lacquered texture shiny and glossy against her skin. It almost looks painted on.
The lights drop, the music starts, and seventy sets of eyes hone in on Jo’s every movement, every word. I can’t help but feel a little envious over the way her body moves; each pedal stroke is second nature, assured and confident. The muscles in her legs pull and strain hypnotically, and I appreciate their strength with fresh eyes now that I know how much work she puts in to maintain this. When the music hits a punchy point, she whips her hair—left down this time, wavy and wild—and I finally see why there are a few thousand people who think it is worthy of its own Instagram page.
This looks effortless because of her hard work and dedication—how can I not admire that?
All the while, she yells out for us to push further, try harder, believe more. It’s the usual Jo Special that always ignites something unique in a group of relative strangers. I’m less shitty now that I’ve been to a few classes, and I find myself working harder than I ever have before. Sweat drips down my face, back, arms—literally every part of my body.
But then she deviates, her eyes sweeping over the dark room, and I find myself totally enraptured.
“Listen,” she says into the mic, her voice breathy from exertion. “I’m only an expert at one thing in this life, and that’s riding a fucking bike that goes nowhere. This is your chance to clear out that clutter from your mind. I want you to let everything else in your life shut the fuck up for fifty minutes so that you get this moment of peace. You deserve that.”
The room bursts into a cacophony of hollers and woo-hoos. Jo adjusts the lighting at a dramatic crescendo in the song, and for a moment, the glow of can lights bathes the room. It’s just long enough for the two of us to lock eyes. They widen in shock as she registers my face—only to be quickly eclipsed by the biggest, most heartfelt grin I’ve ever seen. It’s the kind of smile that showcases her pearly teeth, reaching those eyes that feel like unending warmth on a winter day. She is truly lit up from the inside out.
In that moment, I realize I’m in very big trouble.