Chapter Sixteen Silas
Chapter Sixteen
Silas
J o sends me to voicemail.
I end the call without leaving a message. Glancing up from my phone, I see Derek emerge from his apartment bathroom. His eyes go straight to the TV, where the Yankees and White Sox are neck and neck at the top of the ninth. Setting my phone on the pink coffee table—Amber’s décor choices are prevalent throughout their shared apartment—I sigh and run my hands through my hair.
To Derek’s credit, he catches on to my mood shift right away despite the great game we’re supposed to be watching. “What’s going on, man? Everything okay?”
I don’t know how to answer him. Jo’s text is burned into my brain. What does injury mean in this context? Is she seriously hurt? Did she break something? Is she on the way to the hospital?
And why am I so worked up about this?
Despite the fact that this will open me up to questions I’m not prepared to answer, I hedge my bets on the truth. “Jo just texted me that she’s injured, so she’s not teaching tomorrow. I tried to call her to see if she’s okay, but she sent me to voicemail.”
“Ah,” Derek says simply. “Jo never answers the phone.”
“Really?” I know all too well that few people answer unscheduled calls these days. But I didn’t know that Jo more than dislikes the phone—she has a reputation for never picking up the phone. “Why?”
Derek grabs his pint glass off the ceramic coaster and swirls the remaining beer in the bottom. He’s stalling. I wait, somewhat impatiently, for him to find his words.
“Jo is… an anxious person,” he says finally. “Phone calls stress her out.”
A little flare of warmth sparks in my stomach. I’m glad I didn’t try to call her the other night about her cover shoot, but she did call me. Which should mean that she—
No. We’re barely even friends.
“I’ll text her, then,” I say.
I hammer out a response at rapid speed:
Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need anything?
At the same time, Derek picks up his phone. “Just texted Amber,” he says. “She just landed in Chicago, but maybe Jo said something to her.”
I nod at Derek in gratitude for understanding my sense of urgency without making a big deal about it. I have no desire to contemplate why I’m so invested in Jo’s well-being; the anxiety rippling through my bloodstream goes beyond the professional boundary of journalist and subject.
When neither of us gets a response, we both reluctantly turn our attention back to the TV—just in time to see the White Sox score a grand slam. Derek groans. I should fuck with him about this—even though I was never as dedicated to the game as my brothers and dad, the Sox were still our family team growing up—but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when I keep glancing down at my phone, willing it to do—
My phone dings just as Derek’s phone rings with an incoming call. Derek, his lovely Chelsea apartment, the entire world ceases to exist as I read Jo’s response:
I’m fine at home. Thanks though.
I text back immediately:
Is anyone with you?
The response bubble appears right away. It vacillates as she types, only to disappear a few seconds later. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my body forces out a disappointed exhale.
Dimly I register Derek’s conversation as he wanders back to the couch. “… yeah, we’re at home. Are her keys still in the junk drawer? Okay, I’ll go check on her. For sure. Love you too.”
He ends the call, drains his beer, and turns to face me. “Amber says she hasn’t heard anything. Jo lives near here, so I told her I’d go check on her.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Derek raises both brows in confusion, but I level him with a look. This should be the end of our night considering the Yankees just lost, but he doesn’t protest as he digs through a drawer in their kitchen. We head outside, where the threat of rain is imminent. The sky is darker than usual, and the air smells of water, damp and musky, as I follow Derek down the street.
“I’m warning Jo that we’re coming,” I tell Derek.
My previous question remains unanswered as I type out:
I’m with Derek. We’re coming to check on you.
Jo doesn’t respond for the whole twenty-minute walk. I work hard to keep my own nerves in check as I trail after Derek through Greenwich Village. I’ve lived in various parts of downtown for the better part of a decade, so by the time we slow to a stop, I have a general sense of where we are. This stretch of the city is mostly populated by successful professionals or their offspring—people who can afford vintage apartments in beautiful, rehabbed brownstones.
“Okay, I know it’s one of these,” Derek says, his gaze sweeping down the row of nearly identical apartment buildings. “I just can’t remember which one is hers. But I know she lives on the second floor.”
“You don’t know her address?”
He shrugs. “I’ve only been over here once or twice. This is Amber’s territory.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and types out a quick text. “Amber just got to a work thing, but maybe she’ll respond fast.”
Stifling a groan, I reach for the small set of keys in Derek’s hand. There’s no marker or address, only two keys and a fluffy purple keychain that’s been battered by time. I check my phone again and see that Jo still hasn’t responded. A few raindrops hit my head and pepper the sidewalk as I consider calling her again, but I know now she won’t answer.
“We’ll have to check the stoops,” I say. “I’ll take the right side of the street. You take the left.”
Not for the first time tonight, I’m eternally grateful when Derek doesn’t so much as blink at my frenetic urgency. I dart across the street just as he heads up his first stoop. For fifteen minutes, this is all we do: march up a handful of stairs to inspect the names on the buzzers, only to turn around and do it again at the next building. Around the third set of stairs, I realize that Jo may not have put her last name anywhere on her building, whether out of laziness or the desire for privacy. I keep my phone clutched in my hand just in case.
The rain starts to fall in earnest just as Derek shouts, “Found it!”
I breathe a sigh of relief as I jog across the street again. Sure enough, there’s #4 DE LA CRUZ printed on a label taped next to a white buzzer. “You’re sure this is hers?”
“Yep. I recognize the hallway.”
He points to the small pane of glass in the door that offers a peek into a hallway with yellow walls. It takes me a minute to figure out which key is for the exterior door, but then we’re inside and up the well-worn stairs. We pass a door marked 3 before we reach the end of another yellow hallway, where door 4 is located.
It’s silent back here. The key seems unnaturally loud as I fit it into the lock and knock softly. I push the door open a few inches and call out, “Jo?”
Derek and I wait a few seconds. No response.
“Hey, Jo?” Derek calls out this time, a little louder, inching his way across the threshold. “It’s Derek and Silas.”
This time, a small voice responds from somewhere deep in the apartment. “In here.”
Derek and I share a sideways glance as I push past him and into a place I’d never thought I’d be: Jo’s home.
Once again, I’m surprised by what I find when it comes to her. I would have guessed that she lives in one of those new construction high-rises near Hudson Yards, in a building chock full of luxury amenities and highly polished surfaces. Certainly a place with a doorman and a dedicated package room.
But her little one-bedroom is the exact opposite. It’s cozy, with shiny hardwood floors dotted with patterned rugs, lit by a couple of lamps perched on top of tables cluttered with books and magazines. It opens right into a combined kitchen/dining/living area, where a small table is shoved against one wall and a squashy two-seater sofa is tucked in the corner. Behind said couch, an enormous, framed art print of a Texas Longhorn dominates the wall. There’s a coffee table with fresh flowers and a bookshelf littered with more books, along with pictures, knickknacks, and several half-burnt candles along the top shelf. Of course a Haven Home bike takes up the entire space in front of the window.
Yet the woman in question is nowhere to be found.
“Jo?” I call out again.
“Bathroom,” she responds quietly from the bedroom.
I slink in behind Derek, who seems to know his way around, and follow him into a small bedroom, in which Jo has managed to fit a queen-size bed, a dresser, and a full-length mirror. I try to shake off the tightness in my chest that warns I’m invading her privacy.
If Jo didn’t want us here, she would have told us to leave.
He stops at a closed door, where light spills out from the crack above the floor. He knocks softly a few times. “It’s me, Derek. You okay in there?”
“It’s just a muscle spasm,” Jo replies from the other side. “It’s really not a big deal. You guys didn’t have to come all the way here.”
Relief surges through me—now this is familiar territory, one that I have vast experience in. I seize the opportunity to be helpful as I say, “Jo, it’s Silas. Do you need anything?”
I rack my brain for all the things I remember about my dad’s muscle spasms. How they used to vary from mild to severe, sometimes taking him down for days at a time. How I used to rub out the affected area while he focused on breathing, alternating between heating pads and ice packs. If Jo is hiding in her bathroom and has secured subs for her classes tomorrow, I’d wager that this spasm is pretty intense.
“No. It’ll pass. I just need time,” she says.
Derek looks at me. He shrugs, as if to say, I’m not going to force her to open that door. I’ve seen Jo defiant enough times to know that she will come out only when she’s ready or able. We can’t rush her just to ease our own consciences.
“Well, you have my number,” Derek says. “Will you call me if you need anything?”
“Yep.” Jo’s tone is curt.
Derek turns to face me, clearly waiting for me to move so we can both leave. But I have no intention of going anywhere, so I whisper, “I’m going to stay here for a bit, just to make sure she’s okay.”
His eyebrows rise at my statement. It’s clear that he can’t quite work out why I’m so invested or how my relationship to Jo has developed. The truth is, not even I have answers here. All I know is that I feel compelled to stay, to make sure she doesn’t have to face this alone.
I know I’m putting him in a weird situation. It’s not that he doesn’t trust me—this isn’t about me. It’s about her .
Determined to alleviate his concerns, I tap the bathroom door lightly and clear my throat. “Hey, Jo? Would it be okay if I hang here for a while in case you need anything?”
“Yes, Silas.” God, she sounds so tired. “You can stay.”
“All right,” Derek says softly as his brows return to their normal position. “I’ll lock the door behind me. Just leave the keys here when you’re done, okay?”
“No problem,” I reply. Then I remember to add, “Thanks, man. Appreciate your help tonight.”
He makes me promise to text him later to let him know how it goes. Once Derek’s footsteps disappear into the hall and the front lock clicks into place, I settle into the floor. With my back pressed to the bathroom door, I fiddle with a worn patch on my jeans. “Can I get you anything?”
I hear her groan. “You really don’t have to stay. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”
“I know. I saw the picture of the cow in your living room.” I swear I can hear faint laughter from her side of the door before I add, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. If you really want me to go, just say the word and I’ll leave.”
When she doesn’t respond, I cross my legs to get more comfortable. With curious eyes, I survey her bedroom more closely, wholly aware that this is equal parts intimate and invasive. There’s a big, leafy houseplant on the windowsill, bracketed by gauzy white curtains that look a little bit romantic against the rain-streaked windows. A black-and-white photo of Jo and two people who must be her parents sits prominently on her dresser next to another unlit candle. Her parents are shorter than her by several inches; it’s funny they produced a daughter so tall, but she looks just like them in all the ways that count. Same high cheekbones as her dad, same wide smile as her mom, same dark hair as them both. I notice she has at least five pillows on her bed, and I wonder if there’s someone who usually sleeps beside her at night.
I think of the flowers on the coffee table, of some faceless person giving them to her after a Sunday stroll through the farmer’s market, or maybe before a nice dinner out. I think of someone holding her hand and brushing her hair out of her face when she laughs. My heart rate spikes with jealousy.
Yet that topic feels off limits. Friends—still becoming friends, I remind myself again.
Time extends in unknown stretches while I wait for some kind of signal. Aside from the gentle hammering of rain outside, Jo’s home is quiet; it’d feel peaceful if it weren’t for the fact that she might be half paralyzed on the other side of this door. Eventually, I pull out my phone and start scrolling until I find myself confronted by a new post from Jo.
It’s strange to see a colorful, smiling picture of her—time stamped only twenty minutes ago—knowing that she’s been locked away in her bathroom the entire time. She’s wearing a vibrant yellow workout set, the NoHo HQ building behind her, while the caption beneath it reads: S HOW PEOPLE HOW MUCH YOU CARE ABOUT THEM .
It’s followed by a row of yellow heart emojis. I stifle a snort. Tracey from PR has funny timing.
That phrase, however generic, does carry some weight, though. I can prove myself helpful in this situation, but Jo has no idea that I have relevant experience here. I have yet to tell her anything about my own family or history.
Only that’s what friends do, isn’t it? They unveil bits and pieces of themselves and help each other when in need?
“You know, I’m somewhat of an expert on muscle spasms,” I start. “When my dad was first diagnosed with MS, he used to get these terrible spasms, mostly in his legs and hands. I’m the oldest of five, so it kind of fell on me to take care of him when my mom was busy raising the other four.”
A beat of silence.
“I didn’t know that about you,” she replies. Her words are barely audible with the door between us.
“Of course you didn’t. I never told you.” For some reason, I find myself smiling as I toy with the laces of my shoes. “I used to massage my dad’s muscles when they got really bad. That seemed to help more than anything else.”
“Is your dad okay?”
My smile fades as I consider the question. My father was a lot of things when he was still around. At times, he was my best friend, a source of quiet but immeasurable strength who taught me patience and the value of hard work; in other moments, he was a frustrating, emotionally stunted man-child who couldn’t understand that I wanted something different from the life he’d built for himself and his family.
I loved him more than anything—and will continue to do so until my last breath.
All of that would be a TMI dump by anyone’s standards, so I settle on saying, “Depends on your definition of ‘okay.’ He died right before my senior year of high school.”
Silence unfurls once again. Everything is so muted that I’m startled by the sound of the handle turning behind me. I scooch back immediately just as the door swings open. Turning on my hands and knees, I see what Jo has kept hidden for the last couple of hours: she’s curled up on the bathroom floor, an arm’s length away from the door handle. Damp hair is splayed out on the tile, her body encased in a fluffy blue bathrobe. Her eyes hold mine, full of pain and regret.
That pressure in my chest swells to its highest point yet, splintering parts of my heart in the process.
“I’m sorry, Silas,” Jo says quietly.
“Don’t be,” I protest as I begin picking my way around her as carefully as I can. “Happened a long time ago. I love my dad and always will. Now, where does it hurt?” Crouching in front of her, I study the way she’s carefully folded herself up into a twisty fetal position.
“My whole back is fucked up, but it started in my right lat. About halfway down my spine,” she grinds out.
“What do you say we move you from the floor to someplace more comfortable, like the bed?” I ask. The hesitation in her eyes is clear as day, those gold flecks in her irises practically glittering in the bright bathroom light, so I continue on. “When my dad lost his mobility, the occupational therapist taught me how to move him safely. I still remember most of it. You think you can trust me? Just a little bit?”
Those eyes flutter closed, big fans of lashes sweeping down over her cheeks. Her face is drained of color; I know she must be in pain, and it guts me. When she manages a simple nod, I position myself as best I can and take hold of her forearms.
“I’m going to lift you and let you grab onto the sink,” I say as I assess the tiny space we’re both occupying. “I’m right behind you if you feel like you’re going to fall.”
Her voice is small when she says, “Okay.”
I’m shocked by the strength in her arms when I lift her. Muscles bulge and tighten beneath my fingers as I hoist her to stand. Once she’s upright, I slide out from her grip and let her lean into the sink, keeping one hand on her elbow and one hand on her lower back.
“That wasn’t so bad, right?” I ask in the most uplifting voice I can manage.
The pinched look on her face, eyes screwed shut, is enough of an answer.
“I’m going to hold your shoulder with one arm like this,” I begin. “And when you’re ready, just lean back into me. I’ll sweep your feet up with the momentum. If it gets to be too much, just say stop.”
“What happens if I ask you to stop?” she asks. “I eat shit on the tile floor?”
“If you go down, I go down with you. Consider me your landing pad.”
She snorts, then nods. It’s as much of a yes as I’m going to get.
When I have my arm slung across her shoulders and a good grip on one arm, Jo starts to lean. Her breathing becomes labored as she works through the pain, but she’s fierce and strong and trusts me just enough to try this, and I don’t want to betray that. Once her white-knuckled grip leaves the sink basin, I bend to catch her legs, scooping her up into my arms.
Holy shit. This woman is solid. She’s heavier than I expected, but I manage a firm grasp on her limbs.
Inching sideways with caution, I sidle out of the bathroom with Jo in my arms. Thank god for tiny New York real estate; we manage to make it to the edge of the bed without incident. She grips my neck as I lower her to the mattress, releasing her only when I feel her body settle into the soft duvet.
“Good?” I ask.
Her eyes flutter open as she releases a strained breath. “Good. Better, actually. Thank you.”
Emotions swell through me. I struggle to put a damper on them fast. Me being here, helping Jo through this, is already crossing a professional line, pushing us way past that gray area of Just Friends. If I so much as acknowledge any one of the thoughts racing through my brain right now…
“Will you stay?” she asks. Her hand reaches up to mine, and her fingers weave between my own. “I want to hear more about your family.”
As I stare down at her, at those wide eyes, finally open and searching, I realize this is my own fault. Coming here to check on her was my decision—one that has the potential to change everything.
Because what I want to say is yes. I want to make sure that she’s okay.
And saying no, leaving her here alone, would probably put an end to our story right as we’re finding our beginning.
The smart thing to do would be to get her a glass of water, some painkillers, and walk away. I know that, at some point, I’ll have no choice but to confront this mess of feelings culminating in my center, breaking off in jagged pieces as they tear through me.
I should walk home, think all of this through, and get a good night’s sleep.
But instead, I release her hand with a gentle squeeze, and ask, “First, do you have anything to help with the pain?”
When she tells me where to find the little bottle of ibuprofen on her bathroom counter, I grab two pills, along with her water bottle from the nightstand.
And then I cross over to the other side of the bed, kick my shoes off, and climb in next to her.