Chapter Four Silas
Chapter Four
Silas
I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little bit guilty.
The whole thing started out innocuous enough. Derek and I met for drinks at the little bar in the Village we’ve claimed as our usual spot. We talked about sports (rather, Derek talked about the Yankees’ current season, which I only follow half-heartedly as a rebellion against my baseball-heavy upbringing), then work, then summer plans and all the things we wanted to do but probably wouldn’t due to lack of time. When the topic shifted to his upcoming nuptials—a deliberate ploy on my part—I lamented the fact that I’d never even met his affianced.
Wouldn’t it be tragic if the first time I met her was at the wedding?
Derek rose to the occasion beautifully. He mentioned a party that weekend; he’d check with Amber and let me know if that worked for her. Always dutiful with his follow-through, he texted me the next morning with the details, even going so far as to warn me that it would mostly be friends of friends, but that we’d get more time to hang out with Amber this summer now that he was on break.
Only now I can’t help but feel a red flag is hanging over my head. I got what I wanted and more—I went into that party hoping to at least meet Jo, but for her to suggest an article on her own? I’d underestimated her competitive streak when I goaded her, but it all worked out in the end. I hung out with one of my oldest friends, met his fiancée and genuinely liked her, and set the stage for my assignment. If it required a little manipulation on my part? The ends justified the means.
Friday morning, while pouring myself a coffee in the Metropolitan office kitchen, I’m still thinking positively about how everything seemed to work out.
Positive enough to risk my colleague’s wrath and ask the question I’ve been dreading. “What does one wear to a Haven class?”
I hate hearing those words come out of my mouth. Even more, I hate the way Mia eyes me with unabashed disdain. She’s made her jealousy over my recent developments well known; it took her a year to get into Jo’s class, and I’m going tomorrow as a VIP.
“I don’t know, regular workout clothes?” Her tone is pure ice. “Do you even own any, or do you simply rotate an endless cycle of skinny jeans and black T-shirts that you no doubt buy in bulk from the Levi’s outlet in Jersey?”
“These are classic Levi’s, not skinny, and I buy my clothes online or at thrift stores,” I say in mock offense. She’s not altogether wrong. I do mostly buy staple items in increments of five, opting to replace things quarterly or when they reach the cusp of socially unacceptable.
Mia sips her iced coffee through a cardboard straw before she deigns to respond. “You run all the time, right? Just wear something you can sweat in. You can rent the shoes there. Don’t overthink this like everything else you do.”
That comment wounds me a little, so I mumble my thanks before wandering back to my own desk. I’ve worked with Mia long enough that she’s become acquainted with my special brand of neurosis, which of course is not special at all; like all writers, I am destined to be neurotic to some degree.
When I round the corner to my workspace, I drop into my chair, open my laptop, and take a deep breath. I have exactly one pre-writing ritual, which is to sit up straight, weave my fingers together, and lift my arms straight above my head. This simple stretch helps me focus enough so that when I put my fingers back on the keyboard, I’m ready.
It’s easy enough to recall meeting Jo. The interaction is burned into my brain like a core memory, most of all her quick, casual wit. I figured she’d be charming considering the work she does, but I hadn’t expected to have so much fun talking with her.
It makes sense, I remind myself; Jo’s whole job is to be so appealing that people are willing to fork over their time and money to just to sweat with her.
I start writing:
Given our collective obsession with the glitterati, it’s no surprise that Haven has risen to the top of a crowded fitness market. When the industry itself exists on the assumption that you are not good enough simply as you are, who better to motivate you than someone wholly out of touch? Take away the expensive exercise equipment—the home bikes and treadmills and weight benches tucked away in some corner of your home—and what you have left are conventionally beautiful people reminding you of your own insecurities. The microphones attached to their faces lend some air of authority, but it’s the pretty faces and the dazzling smiles that have conned millions into believing the same thing.
Haven is a cult. But it’s one led not by altruistic men with grimy hair; instead, it’s led by modeling agency rejects who want you to believe that you, too, can look like them. If only you can pedal harder, lift heavier, run faster.
“If you ignore the luck of the genetic draw for these instructors, it’s easy to see that none of these people have any real credentials for the work they do—”
My fingers stop the second I hear Colin reading my words out loud. I spin in my chair to find him hovering behind me, eyes squinting behind his black frame glasses as he frowns.
“Stop it,” I protest, my heart sinking into my stomach. I half turn back to shut my laptop, but he’s quicker than I am. He slides it off my desk as he sidesteps out of my reach.
“Jesus Christ, Silas, are you for real with this one?” he asks incredulously.
“Come on, Colin, you know how I work,” I groan. “This is just a rambling zero draft.”
“Did you really get all that from meeting Jo for what, like, five minutes?” he asks as he starts to scroll through the remaining hundred or so words I was in the process of spitting out when he interrupted me.
I’m surprised to see my hands are shaking when I push out of my chair. “No. I mean—yes. Not really.” Sighing, I lean against the frame of my desk and fold my arms over my chest to hide my nerves. “I haven’t made up my mind about her yet.”
It’s not exactly a lie.
When I first saw Jo on that rooftop, clad in a flattering black dress that skimmed her toned thighs, I’d been momentarily stunned by how beautiful she was in person. I’d stolen as many glances as I dared while mingling with the other guests, studying the way her eyes and hair were the same color—dark, with subtle golden hues that seemed to shimmer in the evening light. When I sat next to her, I’d noticed the high cheekbones that sloped down to a full set of lips shining with some sort of gloss.
Conventionally beautiful —that part is true.
But decades of well-trained resistance to peer pressure had risen up in me in protest. I’m the contrarian, as my colleagues will often point out, a man intent on looking beyond the surface before making a judgment. Sometimes, that means finding fault in what others have deemed popular.
So I resisted Jo’s sparkle, I resisted the waft of something light and tropical drifting from her skin, and I resisted the urge to press closer to the feel of her thigh against mine as we sat together on the couch. I reserve the right to make an impartial judgment of her character—and I will maintain that right until this article is finished.
“Sure seems like you have,” he says as he hands me my computer. Colin removes his glasses and shakes his head. “What’s the deal? Why do you have such a beef with her?”
“It’s not just her,” I reply, and that much is true. I’ve interviewed so many so-called influencers, only to discover they were little more than grifters making a fortune selling cure-all remedies like vitamins and lifestyle services—all of which are conveniently unregulated and decidedly predatory. “It’s what she represents. The whole fitness industry has commodified the concept of ‘health’ to the point that you’ve got people shelling out thousands of dollars a year just to listen to someone whose primary qualification is being hot.”
Colin sighs. “Listen, you can think whatever you want about Haven, or Jo, or anything, really. You’re talented enough to pull off a hit piece if that’s what you want to do. Just do me a favor and don’t get us sued for slander, okay?”
I raise one eyebrow and pretend to twist a nonexistent handlebar mustache with one hand. “We’ll see.”
“You know Gary heard about this, right?” he asks. “He wants to stay in the loop on this one.”
Gary, our editor-in-chief, takes a fairly hands-off approach to individual articles, preferring to trust his writing staff to follow the story wherever it needs to go. When he does have feedback, it’s usually funneled through Colin. My eyes widen in skepticism. “Really? Why is Gary interested?”
Colin shrugs. “He didn’t say exactly, but when I told him I had you digging into Haven instructors, he got that look on his face.”
“Don’t tell me he’s a member of the J.Crew or whatever the hell you guys call yourselves.”
Colin rolls his eyes before saying, “No, he’s not in Jo’s Squad, but I do think he’s interested to see where this goes. Your last few features were kind of—and I say this with love, Silas—off the wall. Artists that work with garbage and rare book dealers are interesting, but they’re kind of niche. This Haven article has the potential for mass market appeal.”
“You mean it’s clickbait worthy.” I don’t bother to hide the derision in my tone. “Website conversion and social media hits are our bread and butter, right?”
“How else do you think we keep this ship afloat, smart-ass? You think advertisers choose to spend their budgets on us because we’re high art? This isn’t The New Yorker. ”
After a beat, I reply, “Touché.”
With a nod, Colin turns on his heel to leave, only to stop before rounding the corner fully. He keeps one hand on the wall as he turns back around, his expression concerned as he watches me settle into my chair.
“Listen, Silas,” he starts, his voice quiet enough to not carry, “I want you to really think this one through, okay? I meant it when I said you can write a hit piece if you want, but with a company as big as Haven, there will be some blowback. No matter what angle you take, this could generate a lot of commentary. Just keep that in mind.”
“I got it, Colin.” I wave him off. “Don’t worry about me.”
Colin says nothing as he gives me one final, pointed look before disappearing down the hall. In my mind’s eye, that small red flag unfurls again. Pressing a hand to my forehead, I try to smooth away the pressure simmering underneath the surface.