Chapter Twenty-One Jo
Chapter Twenty-One
Jo
S taring at the platter of cake slices in front of me, my mouth starts to water.
“Thanks so much for coming with me to this,” Amber says, once her wedding planner leaves us alone in the tasting room. “I really need a second opinion here.”
I scoff at her gratitude and wave my fork in dismissal. “Are you kidding me? Derek’s forgetfulness has turned into my own personal heaven.”
When Amber texted me earlier in the day, frantic and upset, I was thrilled to answer the Friendship Call of Duty. I know how hard she’d worked to secure a spot on the schedule of one of the city’s most sought after boutique bakeries. The tasting is one of the last pieces of the wedding puzzle she needs to solve. The deposit has been paid; the services booked. All she and Derek have to do is pick a flavor, and they will have the wedding cake of their dreams.
In terms of the wedding timeline, I understand she’s getting down to the wire with her late summer wedding date, even with my limited knowledge. So when Derek forgot about a mandatory professional development meeting for some committee he chairs at his school, Amber begged me to come in his place. Would I ever say no to several slices of the best cake in New York City?
No. No, I would not.
“Let’s try the raspberry cream first,” I suggest as I move the plate in question between us. “It would be a fun tie-in with the pink in your bouquet.”
As we dig into the delicate vanilla cake, the juicy raspberry filling spills out onto the plate. We each take a bite, pausing to savor the play of the sweet sugar and tart berries on our tongues.
“It’s good, but it also looks like we murdered it,” Amber says thoughtfully. She pushes her fork through the mess of raspberries pooling on the plate.
“Major stain potential.”
“Oh, god. What if Derek smashes cake in my face? I’ll look like I got punched in the mouth.”
Laughing, I push aside the raspberry and reach for the marble chocolate and vanilla. It’s classic and delicious, but a little boring. We each take a sip of the black coffee offered as a palate cleanser and try our hand at the lavender and green tea flavor for which this bakery is famous.
“Immediately no,” Amber says as soon as she’s swallowed her bite of the soft purple sponge. “I will never hear the end of it if I serve this to my dad.”
“Your dad isn’t one for daring cakes?” I ask as I take a second bite. So far, this one is my favorite, even if Amber isn’t going to choose it.
“No. He thinks I should serve everyone Duncan Hines yellow cake with chocolate frosting and be done with it,” she replies with a sigh. “Part of me agrees with him. I can’t believe how much a wedding cake costs in this city.”
I saw the catering menu when we first arrived. I can’t believe it either.
I nudge her with my arm and offer her a hopeful smile. “Don’t give up yet. We still have six more slices to go.”
Slowly we work our way through classic vanilla, double chocolate, confetti, carrot, and red velvet, all of which are vetoed for various reasons. The red velvet is the closest contender, but when we both notice the tinge of pink on each other’s teeth from the food dye, I have to keep Amber from throwing the whole plate in the trash out of frustration.
As Amber grabs the last slice off the tray, I hear her mutter, “This better be fucking good.” It’s an unassuming slice, the sponge a pale yellow, topped with a whipped white icing that looks as light as a feather.
As soon as the cake touches our lips, we both let out a moan.
“Oh my god,” I say around a mouthful. “Lemon? Who knew lemon could taste this good?”
“Why do I feel like I’ve been cheated? I’ve lived my whole life without this lemon cake.”
“It has to be illegal to withhold this cake from people.”
Amber nods as she licks her lips. “A misdemeanor at the very least.”
“If you don’t serve this at your wedding, I will be so disappointed in you.”
When we both go back for second and third bites, obliterating the tasting slice until it’s nothing but measly crumbs, we both know she’s found the winner.
While Amber settles up with her wedding planner, I meander through the bakery’s small lobby, eyeing all the confections on display. The overload of sugar offset by only a minuscule amount of caffeine has made me sweatier and shakier than normal. When she’s finished, we both practically vibrate onto the street, where we are immediately assaulted by hot gusts of traffic wind.
“You teach tonight, right?” Amber asks once we fall into step on the sidewalk. “How’s work going?”
“It’s fine.” I shove the thought of the acquisition deep into the corners of my mind, where it must stay until the news goes public or the deal falls through. Based on how little I’ve seen of Z, I think the outcome will be the former. Every glimpse I’ve gotten of my boss in the last few weeks has been little more than a harried but genuine smile. “How about you?” I ask in return.
“Oh, you know, my boss is starting to panic because he’s finally realizing that I am, in fact, taking two weeks off this summer, plus a long weekend for the bachelorette party.” She rolls her eyes and fiddles with the honker of an engagement ring on her finger. “It’s, like, you knew about this. I’ve been planning this for over a year. My team will be fine without me.”
Not only is Amber a talented, brilliant software engineer—her educational and professional accolades are evidence of this—but she is also great at working with people, which I understand to be a somewhat rare quality among engineers. Her natural empathy, listening skills, and trusting nature were “clear markers of the servant leader mentality needed to manage a team,” or so said the promotion letter she read to Serena and me over a celebratory dinner last fall. Not that I know what most of those technical terms mean, but I do know that Amber deserved that director promotion.
“Didn’t your boss get married a couple of years ago?” I ask. “Shouldn’t he know how this works?”
“Yeah, but he’s also a stereotypical man, and that was his second wedding.” She hits me with a look that says no further explanation required. As we cross Ninth Avenue, she asks, “How are things going with the interview?”
Hesitating, I run my fingers through my hair. I want to tell her everything about Silas, like the tenderness he showed me when I hurt my back. About how the air seemed to shift when we locked eyes at the photo shoot. About the electricity that jolted through me when he ran his fingers through my hair, or how, for a moment, it felt like he was going to kiss me.
I want to tell her that I’m attracted to him. That I might even like him.
But in the end, nothing has really happened with Silas in that way—at least, not yet. To my anxious brain, to speak it into the universe is to jinx it. And I want so badly for this article to go over well. For the first time in years, I want. I want to start a new chapter, one that may or may not include a dimpled journalist from the Midwest who has great taste in bagels. I want to be the woman beyond the bike.
“Jo?”
I blink several times in quick succession, realizing I’ve left Amber hanging while my mind drifted. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s going well, I guess. It’s just turning into kind of a big deal, you know? I’m going to be on the cover for the September issue. You know how hard it is for me to open up. This is a big step for me.”
“Hold up—you’re going to be on the cover ?”
“Yeah,” I reply sheepishly. “I did the shoot for it last week.”
Amber smacks my arm, startling a laugh out of me. “When were you going to tell me this?!”
“It happened really fast!” Amber rolls her eyes at my mock-defensive tone. “Seriously, it did. The photographer’s schedule was jammed, so the process was rushed.”
“Okay, whatever. How did it go? What was it like?”
I recount the whole experience the best that I can, choosing to omit the fact that Silas and I went out after. Opting to save the best for last, I finish with, “I got to keep the dress. The Tom Ford looks a little out of place hanging next to twenty Haven hoodies in my closet, but it’s mine. ”
“The whole experience is worth it for the dress alone,” she says.
“It better be,” I reply, mostly to myself, before taking a deep breath. “I’m going to tell him about what happened back when Haven Home launched. On the record.”
I decided this while rereading the journal entries I wrote after Silas stayed the night at my apartment. Sharing that experience after keeping it locked away for so long—as informal as the situation was, curled up with him in my bed—alleviated so many of my fears about how people might react. He was so kind and understanding. Even though he’d only been a test audience of one, I believe he’ll do right by me. Because I trust him.
I can feel Amber’s energy shift at my words. She sucks in a quick breath before steadying herself. “Really?” she asks. “Are you sure?”
I nod, even though my stomach is flipping like I’m at the edge of that cliff. “I already told him the gist of it when he came over with Derek the other night. He stayed with me, you know.”
“I know.” Amber wiggles her brows. “Derek told me Silas insisted on staying to take care of you.”
I try—and fail—to stop myself from smiling. “Yeah, well, when a man offers to pick you up off your bathroom floor because you can’t walk, it’s usually a good idea to let him.” I change my voice from light-hearted to serious as I add, “But it helped me realize I want that part of my life included in this interview. It wouldn’t be the truth, you know? If I pretended everything has been fine and dandy for the last ten years, this whole experience would be pointless. Everything has made me into who I am today, including the not-so-fun times in my life.”
If she hears the subtext of what I’m saying—that the whole point of this article is to get out of my professional rut—she doesn’t acknowledge it.
Instead, her arm sneaks around me, pulling me into a side embrace. Her signature scent of jasmine floats all around me, cutting through the smell of exhaust and garbage. It’s soothing in its familiarity. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I sling my arm around her waist in return. “I’m so fucking proud of you too.”
“You’re going to let me borrow that dress, right?”
“After I wear it,” I reply.
We walk like this—a human friendship pretzel—all the way to the subway.
Friday evening rolls around. I am doing my best not to be a mess.
In reality, I’m pacing the length of my apartment, waiting for Silas to arrive. This is the one time we’re both free this week. He’s going to the Hamptons for the next two weekends for two different parties—one engagement, one birthday. That means no more long brunches at the diner. At least not until next month.
That fact shouldn’t make me as sad as it does. I have no claim on his time; I’m not a priority in his life outside of an article he has to finish. This doesn’t stop longing from filling me up when I think about how long we’ll be apart, almost painful in the way it steals my breath.
Back and forth, I walk the short length of my kitchen/dining/living space. When the buzzer rings, I make myself wait a minute before answering so I don’t look so pathetic.
Letting out a heavy exhale, I push the black button on my kitchen wall. “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Even the crackly, static-crusted sound of his voice lightens my anxiety.
I buzz him up and immediately second-guess my outfit. Smoothing the front of my favorite summer dress—a sale find in a vibrant shade of pink that reminds me of the desert flowers back home—I wonder if he’ll see right through it. This ploy to impress him could not be more obvious. I shouldn’t have shaved my legs or curled my hair. The mascara around my eyes suddenly seems too conspicuous.
I’m half a second away from running to the bathroom to wash the makeup off my face when there’s a knock at my door.
Honestly, who wears a sundress for an interview?
I open the door and force the breath from my lungs. Gone is Silas’s staple outfit of a black T-shirt and well-loved jeans. Instead he’s wearing a short-sleeved button-down with a pattern of tiny stitched lines paired with jeans I’ve never seen on him before. They hug his slim hips in a new way, one that makes me appreciate his dedication to running.
I don’t know why the simple outfit change does so much for me. It’s not a particularly formal or groundbreaking look. But the pressed collar combined with the thought that he also put extra effort into his appearance tonight makes my pulse hammer in my ears.
“Wow,” he says, eyes raking over my body. “You look great.”
“So do you.”
He steps inside, and we hug for just a few seconds longer than necessary. After locking the door, I motion for him to take a seat on the small couch near the window. “I figured the couch is probably the best bet. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want something to drink?”
“LaCroix or something similar would be great, if you have it,” he says over his shoulder.
“I’m a millennial. Of course I have seltzer.”
I snag two cans out of the fridge while Silas pulls his recorder, notebook, and pen out of his backpack. I set one can in front of him and pop open my own before plopping down on the opposite side of the couch. Fiddling with the pull-tab of my drink keeps me from curling into myself, my usual anxiety-induced form of self-defense.
His blue eyes fix on me once he’s done. They’re clear and bright, with just a hint of that playfulness I’ve come to find comforting. “Good call on meeting at your apartment,” he says. “Anywhere else would be too loud to record on a Friday night.”
I shrug. “That’s what I figured.” I don’t tell him that I prefer to cry in the privacy of my own home. There’s a chance that will happen tonight, hence the waterproof mascara.
“Anything in particular you want to talk about?” he asks. “I have some questions we can start with, if you want.”
A quick glance at the notebook in his lap reveals that he does, indeed, have notes scribbled down in tight handwriting. But I’ve been steeling myself for this interview all week, journaling with frantic speed in the mornings and practicing my box breathing. I even dug out the handwritten mantras I saved from my years spent in therapy. The little notes of affirmation—mainly, reiterations that I am worthy, even when I’m not okay—remind me of why I want to do this.
Tossing my hair over my shoulders, I straighten my spine, take a drink, and say, “No. I know what I want to say.”
He nods, turns the recording device on, and leans back into his seat.
“Last time, we talked about the launch of the home bike. There’s more to that story, at least for me,” I start. “Everyone at Haven had braced for a big wave of press and orders and all that, but I don’t think anyone expected just how wild it would get.”
Our eyes meet, and a silent current of understanding passes between us. Silas knows the story I’m about to tell. He puts a comforting hand on my bare knee, sending warm waves rippling across my skin.
And so I tell my story—I speak about Haven Home’s immense success and the toll it took on me emotionally, physically, and mentally. I share the same things I did when he lay next to me in bed, not as a journalist but as a friend. I finally go on record about my mysterious absences seven years ago, and how my social media feeds are rarely ever me .
To my surprise, I don’t end up ugly crying. There are only a few stray tears, quickly wiped away with the tissue Silas hands me. And although my heart is rapidly beating in my chest and I can’t stop the nervous wriggling of my toes, I don’t try to run. I let myself feel everything, including the soft skin of Silas’s hands as he squeezes my leg in reassurance.
I describe, in painful detail, the months spent in twice-weekly talk therapy sessions, accompanied by periodic psychiatric visits to manage my medications. I recount living with Serena while disentangling myself from the relationship that failed in the aftermath. I talk about how much work itself helped me then, how I was able to channel my feelings into my movements.
By the time I’m telling him about the boundaries I developed with my therapist, how the Haven team rallied to build my brand while I stepped away from social media, and how that allowed me to wean off the meds, my voice is hoarse and I’m so, so tired.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice so soft I don’t think the recording device can pick it up.
“Yeah,” I whisper, and I mean it. “I’m good. I promise.”
His blue eyes scan my face. Whatever he sees there must convince him that it’s okay to keep going. He clears his throat and asks, loud enough for the recorder to catch, “Why tell your story now?”
“I want people to know the real me.” My response is clear and direct despite how exhausted I am. “For a while, being cautious about sharing my life was necessary for me, but that came with a price. I forgot how to take risks and let people in. It’s time for me to change that.”
It’s as much as I can say without telling the entire world I want to quit my job—the same job that happens to be the reason anyone would even want to hear my story to begin with.
“And now you get to do it on your own terms,” he adds before jotting something down in his notebook.
“Exactly. In my own words.”
He shuts off the recording device and drops his notebook on the coffee table. Without a word, he reaches for me, pulling me toward him until I’m enveloped in a full, two-armed hug.
Strong arms hold me steady as I burrow my face into his neck. I inhale the fresh scent of him—of classic soap and that woodsy cologne he wears—as his fingers stroke my neck and back. There’s no need for words now, not when I’ve just spent hours baring my soul to him and his little recording machine. But as I slip into a state of true catharsis, I relish the heat of his body, the touch of his hands, the soft, rhythmic beating of his heart against my own.
The monsters aren’t invisible anymore. They’re out in the open because I made the choice to release them. For the first time, I can see a glimmer of a future—one without Haven, one that excites me and gives me a new purpose.
I hope Silas will be around to see it.