Chapter Thirty-Two Silas
Chapter Thirty-Two
Silas
I ’m sorry.”
The second I see Derek seated in a booth of a pizza restaurant, the words fall out of my mouth. Now that he’s finally deigned to answer my texts and calls after weeks of the silent treatment, I’m tripping over myself to make amends. It doesn’t help that I amped myself up the entire walk here, going over and over every wrong move I’ve made this summer so that I don’t miss a single opportunity for self-flagellation.
By the time I slide into the booth opposite him, my heart is pounding. “Jesus Christ, man, I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice as desperate as I feel inside.
To my surprise, Derek laughs.
“So we’re just blowing past hellos and gunning straight for the dramatics?” he asks as he shakes his head.
“I don’t know,” I reply as I rub my hands over my face. “I guess I just need to get this out right away.”
Our server picks the most awkward time possible to stop by our table, but she seems completely unfazed by the despair on my face and the bemusement on Derek’s. She is as casual and unassuming as the establishment itself; both the laminate of our booth top and the skin on her face are covered in fine lines that lead me to believe she—Darla, based on her name tag—has been working at this restaurant since it opened many years ago.
“You two want anything?” Darla asks.
Derek looks at me as he flips the stained paper menu over in his hands. “You hungry?”
I shrug. “I could eat.”
“Then we’ll have a large banana pepper and bacon pizza,” he says to Darla. “And two cold ones, if you serve them.”
“Bud Light okay for you?” she asks as she jots down Derek’s order on her little notepad.
Personally, I love a place that tells you this is what we serve, take it or leave it.
“Perfect,” Derek replies.
Darla leaves us, and I can’t help but smile at Derek’s choice of pizza. It’s the combination we came up with our freshman year of college when we discovered the shitty little Italian joint across from campus. Rizzo’s had arguably the worst pizza in town, but a large two topping pizza was only ten dollars, and it could feed two hungry, broke guys who didn’t care that every single Rizzo’s employee was always stoned out of their minds so much that no two pizzas were ever made the same way. Through a series of trial and error, we discovered that the salt of cured meat and the tang of banana peppers hid the flavorless sauce and stringy cheese enough that the pizza was almost respectable.
“I know this place doesn’t look like much,” Derek says as he waves toward the weathered black-and-white-checkered tile floors and busted fluorescent light above us. “But the pizza is legit. Amber and I have been ordering takeout from here for years.”
“You know I’m not very picky when it comes to pizza.”
“I know.” Derek’s eyes twinkle; there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s reminiscing about some of the truly horrific pizza concoctions we tried at Rizzo’s over the four years we lived together in Boston. I’ve always hated to waste food, so I would suffer through each weird flavor combination to the end. Just as Derek’s eyes shift from lighthearted to serious, he says, “Listen, man, I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts or calls. Amber told me the gist of what went down with Jo, and I needed to see how this whole thing would play out before I responded.”
Darla drops off two bottles of beer without a word. Leaning forward, I clutch that cold bottle between my hands like my life depends on it. “Seriously, Derek, you have nothing to apologize for. I’ve been a real dumb piece of shit this summer. I would have iced me out too—”
He waves a hand to stop me as he takes a swig from his drink. “Hold on a second, man. I’m not done yet. I had a feeling that article wouldn’t be what Jo saw, or thought she saw, or whatever. I don’t know what all happened between you two, but I know you. You can be a dumb shit when you want to be, but I also know you’re not a bad person, Silas. I’ve known you since we were eighteen years old, which is arguably the dumbest the two of us ever were. Do you remember the stupid shit we used to do? The lies we’d tell girls or our professors to get each other out of shit?”
I shake my head for lack of anything else to do. The emotions are coursing through me so quickly that I have no choice but to move to expend some of this energy. “Derek, it’s different now. We’re grown men. I lied to you and Jo, and I’m really, really sorry.”
“So you said.” For a moment, Derek thumbs the label on his beer bottle, and I’m struck by how much he is still the same kid I met all those years ago. Yes, he’s older and, yes, he’s wiser, but it’s still Derek—from the dark hair cropped close, to the light eyes that default to an inviting expression. He’s always been this smart, curious, kind person. “I can only speak for myself,” he says finally, his gaze holding mine. “But it’s okay, Silas. I forgive you.”
“Seriously?” I ask, my eyebrows raising in surprise. “Why?”
Derek gives me a deprecating huff. “Jesus, are you always this skeptical?”
“Yes.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “I guess that’s true. I’m forgiving you because I believe that you mean it when you say you’re sorry. Clearly you know it was wrong. People make mistakes. I’m certainly not perfect. Life’s too short to stay mad when people are trying to do better.”
The pizza arrives not a moment too soon, because I’m on the verge of tears.
As Derek and I load up our plates with slices, I swallow hard to clear the lump in my throat. Confident my voice won’t crack, I say, “Thanks, man. I swear I will never do anything like that to you ever again.”
With a mouthful of pizza, he replies, “If you ever want to interview another one of my friends, just ask me next time.”
“I promise,” I reply, and I mean it.
A cool breeze blows off the river, providing a well-earned reprieve from the heat wave that has held Manhattan in a punishing grip for the last few weeks. It ruffles my hair and lifts the hem of my shirt as I walk. Overhead, the amber glow of streetlights vies for dominance with the neon signs of storefronts. The sidewalk is a canvas of orange, blue, white, and red.
For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe. Derek forgave me; he even promised I was still invited to his wedding once I paid for the meal. The Haven article is out, and the reception has been favorable. Peers from all corners of New York’s journalism world have reached out to express how much they loved it and how they wished they’d gotten there first. Both Metropolitan and I have gained a few thousand new social media followers, thanks to a few celebrities sharing the article on their own pages.
The public interest is real. People want to talk about mental health.
And yet, no word from Jo.
She did, however, post a photo on her Instagram. It’s the one place she hasn’t blocked me and the only lifeline I have to her, aside from the bike that has turned my kitchen into a gym. The picture in question is of her, Amber, Serena, and two other women I don’t know, looking vibrant and happy in the Las Vegas sun. Judging by the brIDE sash draped over Amber’s bikini, they were all gathered for the bachelorette party.
When I saw that photo on Sunday, my heart dropped into my stomach. It’s one thing to ride with Jo, but it’s another to glimpse into her private life when I was abruptly shut out of it. It hurt—really, truly, physically hurt to know that I’d once been there, in her inner circle. But at the same time, I felt a sense of pride, because I knew that picture didn’t come from a pre-planned photo shoot. Tracey didn’t post that. Jo did, of her own volition.
That caption—“my people”—told me what I needed to know: that Jo was done with me. She’s chosen her found family. I’m just not a part of it.
I take the long way home to walk off the five slices of pizza I consumed, so by the time I’m rounding the corner to my block, I’m so tired that I almost don’t notice the shadowy outline of a person leaning against my building. The back of my neck prickles—that spidey sense warning me not to get mugged—so I pull myself out of my mental fog.
That’s when I realize it’s her .
Jo emerges from the shadows, and I freeze, my heart thumping wildly as I take in the sad expression on her face. Her full lips are bare, pulled into a pout, her eyes tinged with pink, as if she’s been crying. Her skin bears the signs of her days at the pool; she’s several shades darker than I’ve ever seen her, her usual radiance turned up a notch against her plain black tank top and jeans.
In her hands is a mangled copy of Metropolitan.
“You look tan,” I manage to say over the lump lodged in my throat.
“I was in Vegas,” she replies.
“I know.” The group got back yesterday; Derek told me as much over dinner. Apparently, Amber is still nursing a hangover.
I can hardly believe Jo is here, that I somehow did not hallucinate her in the flesh, that I only just now understand what this could possibly mean. “How… how long have you been out here?”
“An hour,” she replies quietly. “Maybe two.”
For a long while, we say nothing to each other. I cannot allow myself to speculate on what this could mean—the fact that she’s been waiting for me—nor can I find the words to articulate everything I feel. All those times I fantasized about this exact moment eddy in my mind, too fast to catch, each of my nerves a live wire, frayed and exposed to all the elements.
And so we stare and stare and stare in the windy New York night. My brain is on overdrive, scrambling for what to say, what I can possibly do to show her just how sorry I am. The awkwardness between us is so unbearable I can’t stand it. I’m on the cusp of falling to my knees on the dirty sidewalk when she throws her long hair over her shoulder and unfurls the magazine.
Her movement spurs me into action. My heart rate spikes at the thought that she might run from me again. “Jo,” I say, my voice cracking on her name. “I’m so sorry—”
As the magazine falls open to a dog-eared page, she clears her throat and begins to read out loud: “ It would be easy to categorize Haven instructors as nothing more than social media stars hyped up on pre-workout supplements. That’s certainly what I expected when I entered the Haven HQ studio in NoHo for the first time this summer. But what I found there was not the vapid, self-obsessed pseudo-coach I expected. No, after my first class with Jo, I was a convert, smitten by the way she coached and motivated seventy diverse strangers to meet their appropriate edge. All with a smile on her face and Phantogram blaring all around us. ”
“Please,” I say. “I know what it says—”
“Wait.” She holds out her hand while her eyes skim over the article, then continues. “It’s easy to forget that the stars of the fitness Goliath are, in fact, real people. Beneath Jo’s tough exterior—really, her classes are widely regarded as being the most difficult—there’s a sensitive woman wading through unexpected fame. Blah blah blah, my own quotes about my mental breakdown, and then: Though Jo has kept this battle private until now, she’s not alone. The National Alliance on Mental Illness estimates that roughly 20 percent of American adults live with an anxiety disorder. One glance at the right hashtag on social media will show you hundreds, if not thousands, of people bemoaning the way their anxiety affects their day-to-day lives. For many, exercise is an accessible, effective way to combat this mental health issue. Who better to lead those of us who suffer quietly than someone who is intimately familiar with the struggle? ”
Hot tears tickle my eyes, pooling in the corners.
She jumps ahead now, reading from the conclusion of the article. “While I was fully prepared to hate this experience, I came away from it a better man. As Jo herself warns: just because something is popular doesn’t mean it lacks value. While I’m a far cry from the Haven devotees who ride upward of seven times per week, they have found a loyal client in me. Not because of the bike, or the music, but because of Jo, who faced her own fears to show us the woman beyond the bike. ”
Silence falls between us as Jo closes the magazine. Even the traffic seems muted, as if we’re trapped in our own little bubble of despair. I shut my eyes against the tears threatening to fall.
When she speaks again, her voice is charged with feeling. “This isn’t the article I saw on your computer.”
“No.” I force myself to take a steadying breath. “That was an early draft. I wrote that right after I met you.”
“Silas, will you look at me?” Her voice sounds nearer, and when I open my eyes, she’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I can smell the vacation scent of her conditioner. “Did you mean it? What you wrote in the finished article?”
God, I could scream with how much I want to touch her. Instead, I will my voice to remain steady as I reply, “Every last word. God, Jo, I’m so fucking sorry. About everything. Lying to you, assuming you were all those things you so clearly aren’t… I was so wrong. I know that now. Please believe me. Please. ”
Her eyes close, but not quickly enough to capture the tears that stream down her flushed cheeks. She leans her face against my chest as she grabs a handful of my T-shirt. “ I’m sorry, Silas. I saw that document on your computer and panicked. I completely misjudged you. I didn’t even give you a chance to explain. You didn’t— don’t deserve the way I treated you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I’m crying now too. Openly and freely. My arms wind around her, holding her close, while weeks of pent-up longing sends shivers across my body. “Jo, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who should be begging for your forgiveness—and I am. I’m so fucking sorry. I misjudged you. I should have just gone through the proper channels to request an interview with you. I was trying to cut corners to reach you faster because corporate PR teams can be such a pain in the ass to deal with, and it… well, it blew up in my face.”
“If you’d gone through Haven’s PR team, I never would have seen the request,” she says. “Tracey auto declines everything on my behalf unless it’s a Haven-sanctioned brand partnership. That’s how we’ve done it ever since my breakdown.”
The thought of never meeting Jo, of never going through this, no matter how it ended, makes my stomach drop. “Maybe that’s what I deserve,” I say. “I certainly don’t deserve you, but I fell in love with you anyway.”
She stills in my arms. “You… you love me?” The question is so quiet, I can barely hear it, even in our cocoon on my stoop.
“How could I not?” I ask. “Of course I love you, Jo. When I walked into this assignment, I was so determined to hate you that I manipulated you. I lied to you. I had no skin in the game, so I didn’t care. But you made me work for it. You made me see things differently than I ever thought I would. And those moments, where you would let me in a little bit? God, I felt like the king of the fucking world, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”
“I wanted to hate you too,” she admits, more to my chest than anything else. “I wanted to prove you wrong about me and my job. But you know what’s funny? The whole reason I agreed to the interviews is because I want to quit my job.”
This revelation stuns me enough that I pull back to see her face, but I keep my arms around her. She’s a wet mess of tears, like me, her long lashes speckled with moisture as she blinks up at me. “You’re leaving Haven?” I ask.
“Eventually. No one knows. I couldn’t say anything to anyone, not with the big acquisition secret looming over my head. But now that’s out, and yes, Z will need some time to get her shit together, but then I’m leaving. I’m done, Silas. I don’t want it anymore. That’s the whole reason I wanted to do this article. I wanted a way out of it. All of it.”
The fact that she’s trusting me with such a huge secret makes that bud of hope deep in my chest start to bloom. She’s letting me in again after shoving me out. “What are you going to do next?”
“I don’t know, and I finally don’t care that I don’t know,” she says with a shaky laugh. “My inbox is blowing up with outreach from brands and media outlets all wanting to talk to me about this article. I’m seeing my therapist again. She’s helping me to manage all of this. Something will come, I can feel it. And you know what? It’s all because of you. You’re the reason I pushed myself to face my fears.
“I love you, Silas. Even when I was pissed at you, I still loved you, and I regretted not telling you before I stormed out of your apartment like a judgmental asshole. I was scared then, but I’m not anymore. I’m still a mess and I have a lot of shit to figure out, but I’m getting better. Can you forgive me?”
In all those quiet moments where I envisioned her reaction to the real article, I never let myself imagine Jo loving me back. Yes, I’d hoped she would read it and forgive me—maybe even unblock me to tell me that—but I wouldn’t let myself picture a world where Jo said those three little words back to me. Hoping for that hurt too much.
Hearing those words now— I love you, Silas —changes everything. My life will never be the same.
She’s crying again, so I move my hands to cup her face, where I wipe away her tears with my thumbs. “Yes, I forgive you. Can you forgive me? If I prove every day that you can trust me? That I would do just about anything in this world so you never cry like this again? Because I would, Jo.” Her face is screwed up, her nose wrinkled and her lips a tight line, so all she can manage is a nod. I pull her close to me again and bury my face in her hair. For a minute, I let myself get lost in her smell, in the curve of her body against mine, in the heave of our chests as we breathe in tandem.
“I love you,” I say again, just because I can. “I love you, invisible monsters and all.”
“They’re not so invisible anymore,” she replies, but the words aren’t hesitant like the night of our interview. She’s certain now. Confident.
Not for the first time, my heart surges with pride.
She pulls back and tips her face toward mine, her palms wide and warm on my back. “I love you,” she says, and then she kisses me.
It’s sweet and tender like a promise, her lips soft and sure against mine. In the future, I’ll call this our second first kiss. Because this is the moment when everything is laid bare—all of our jagged edges and frayed wires on full display—and it’s all the more beautiful for it.
We have a lot to figure out. But despite all the uncertainty, there’s one thing I know: in the beginning, I was mistaken about Jo, and I’ve never been so happy to be wrong in my life.