Up Close & Personal

Chapter Seven Jo

Chapter Seven

Jo

S afe in the confines of the staff lounge, I down a bottle of Pedialyte like my life depends on it. I’m drenched in sweat, thanks to having just finished teaching one of the most advanced classes of my career. Why did I think it was a good idea to finish out a triple class day with such a hard set?

Because of Silas.

As I planned out the class, I became even more frustrated by his type: permanently skeptical and eager to prove the assumption that people like me are little more than overpaid, overpraised cheerleaders. Never mind the fact that some of my colleagues are former competitive cheerleaders, and some of the toughest and most driven athletes I’ve ever met. He needed to see just how hard everyone at Haven works, both instructor and client alike. But in my quest to prove my own athleticism, I pushed myself harder than I probably should have.

The entirety of my body is soaked, save for my eyeballs. I’m dehydrated, there’s no question about it.

As I begin untangling the knotted, slimy bun from the top of my head, Mike bursts into the room. His face is lit up, eyes bright, arm muscles flexed so tight even the tendons in his neck are pulling. I know that look well; I’ve seen it on myself before. He’s got that post-class euphoria, when things went so well and the vibe was just right, and your entire body is just vibrating from endorphin overload.

I haven’t felt that in months.

Mike doesn’t say a word as he slams the door and crosses the lounge to the sink while pulling off his shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he wrings out nearly a gallon of sweat from the tank clutched in his hands, stifling a laugh.

Half a can of dry shampoo, a change of clothes, and a few minutes later, I make my way down to the lobby. Silas is busy rifling through the retail hanging from the display in the window. He checks the price tag on a Haven branded hoodie and frowns.

“Not finding anything you like?” I taunt as I sidle up next to him.

He jumps a little at my entrance. “Do people really pay two hundred fifty dollars for a sweatshirt?”

“All the time.”

He shakes his head as he turns to face me. There’s color in his skin that wasn’t there at our first meeting, a charming splash of pink covering his fair and freckled skin. He changed clothes too; I can smell the fresh scent of laundry detergent mingling with the salt and spice of his sweat. “Shall we?” he asks.

“As long as we eat and you promise not to judge me,” I reply.

“Why would I judge you?” he asks, eyebrows raising.

“Because I just taught three classes back-to-back and I intend to eat like the brick shithouse that I am.”

My response elicits a laugh from him—a real one, from deep in his belly, and my heart skips a beat at the sound. “No judgment here,” he says. “There’s a diner just down the Bowery that I like. You down with some grease?”

“Almost always.”

We make it a few steps before I feel a light tap on my shoulder, followed by someone saying my name. Both Silas and I stop and turn to find a group of three young women waiting for my attention with nervous looks on their faces and sweat-slicked hair. Clutched in the hands of a redhead—I’d put her somewhere in her early twenties—is a phone.

“Sorry to bother you,” the redhead starts. “But we were wondering if we could take a picture with you?”

Public-facing Jo: engage. “Of course! You’re not bothering me at all!”

Even though it makes me nervous to take pictures with strangers, it really doesn’t bother me, at least not in a way that would keep me from doing it. The best part of the job is connecting with the people who take the classes, and from Haven’s inception, it’s been sort of a rite of passage for clients to snap their post-workout selfie in our aesthetically pleasing lobby. But then there’s the reality that these photos are untouched by the professionals who usually edit out my perceived flaws. I’ll never forget the time that I took a picture with clients while wearing sandals, and some stranger on the Internet said, Okay, hobbit queen! —all because I wear size nine shoes and hadn’t had the time to get a pedicure.

As the group and I fall into place in front of the wall, Silas hangs back a few feet away, observing the whole ordeal with one eyebrow raised and his arms folded across his chest. “Silas, do you mind…?” I motion to the redhead, and he jumps into action, taking her phone and stepping back to snap a few shots.

When we’re done smiling and posing, I turn to the group and ask, “Was this your first studio ride?”

“Yes,” the one with curly blond hair responds. “We planned our weekend in the city around this class.”

“We’re from upstate,” the dark-haired one adds.

“But we all have Haven Home bikes and ride with you all the time,” the redhead continues. “We always ride in your Tuesday morning class and compare stats.”

“I love that,” I say earnestly—because I really, truly do. The community… that’s what’s kept me going all this time.

We exchange names briefly—I learn that Hannah, Emma, and Lindsay have all known one another since middle school—before we say our goodbyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Silas watching with an unreadable expression on his face.

I lead Silas out of the crowded lobby and into the dazzling early summer sunlight. The neighborhood is bustling now that it’s near afternoon; pedestrians, cars, and bikes vie for dominance in the crowded NoHo streets as the sweet scent of zinnias wafts through on a gentle breeze. We fall into step beside each other as Silas leads me in the direction of the diner, away from the hustle and bustle near the studio.

“Does that happen to you often?” he asks. “People wanting a picture with you?”

It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts, to answer this in a way that doesn’t make me seem too self-important or too dismissive. “Sort of. Mostly after my weekend classes. It’s basically just another version of a gym selfie.”

I can feel his eyes on me as we keep pace with each other, but I refuse to meet his gaze. “I guess so,” he says thoughtfully. “You know, there were two guys in the bathroom after class who said they traveled all the way from LA to take classes with you and Mike.”

Finally turning to face him, I ask, “Is there something wrong with that?”

His expression is curious as we lock eyes; his brows are raised, as if in response to my defensiveness, but then his lips curve up.

“Not really, no. I’m just trying to wrap my head around it all. Why people would come all this way to take a workout class when they can take it on the bike at home. Or go to a local studio.”

I sigh in irritation. I know that part of this feeling is because he’s coming dangerously close to talking shit about my clients—people he doesn’t even know—but his attitude is just one part of a bigger problem. It’s easy for people to pass judgment on how they think other people should live their lives. It requires more effort to remove yourself from the center of your own thoughts.

And I’m not about to let him forget that.

“Does it really matter what people choose to spend their money on?” I ask. “You know, there are worse ways to live your life. If this is how people want to spend their free time and money, then good for them.”

He’s quick to argue. “I think it matters. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t.”

To this, I say nothing. Of course, he wouldn’t be here if Haven weren’t so popular—if I weren’t so popular. Even still, that premeditated judgment irritates me enough that I let the silence bloom around us, until the air between us is thick with tension.

“I will say that your class surprised me,” he says several minutes later as we weave through a line in front of a Starbucks.

I take the bait and lighten my tone. “Oh yeah?”

“It was a lot harder than I expected,” he says. I can feel his gaze on me again, but I’m back to keeping my eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front me. “I’ll be honest: I sat in the saddle and tried not to zone out for most of it.”

A little bolt of pride shoots through me. Good—I beat him, just as I had intended. “That’s normal for your first class. You get the hang of it eventually. Did you at least have fun?”

He’s quiet for so long that I’m forced to look over to make sure he’s still walking next to me. What I find is Silas, a little lost in thought, his hands jammed into the pockets of his shorts.

“I did have fun. More than I thought I would. Some of those songs are absolute bangers on the bike,” he says finally. Before I can respond, he points to a small sign hanging off the side of the building ahead with the word DINER written in faded cursive lettering. “This is the place.”

Silas opens the door for me—an unexpected gesture, considering this is supposed to be a professional encounter—and a hostess with gray hair and a cheerful, wrinkly face greets us. She seems to recognize Silas by the smile she gives him before leading us to a red vinyl booth against the window. The entire establishment smells like coffee, bacon, and butter. My stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“How did you find this place?” I ask as the vinyl squeaks beneath my thighs. “I feel like I just stepped onto the set of Goodfellas. ”

This is objectively true; if the booth itself weren’t enough, with its matching red curtains blocking out most of the sunlight, then the abundance of non-ironic neon signs is a dead giveaway for a time long before the one I’m living in.

A waitress drops off a carafe of coffee, two mugs, and two waters. I immediately down most of my water as Silas takes his time preparing his coffee.

“When I first moved to New York, I lived in the shittiest little apartment on the Lower East Side. It was a classic New York hellhole: four dudes living in a one-bedroom, the bathtub never drained completely, the radiators howled like demons, the whole place smelled like cigarettes even though none of us smoked. It was awful and perfect all at the same time.”

I can’t help but laugh at the imagery.

“Anyway,” he continues after taking a sip of his coffee, “I used to go for long walks just to get out of that place and explore the neighborhood. I found this diner within a month or so of moving here, and I just kept coming back. It’s cheap, the food is good, and they would let me sit here for hours and write or read.”

“There’s something charming about it,” I say as my eyes wander over the backs of fellow diners and the dusty black-and-white photos of people I’ve never seen before. Regulars, I’m assuming.

He lets out a little sigh. “Yeah, there is. I recommend Combo Breakfast Number One, by the way. It’s an ungodly amount of food. And I say that as someone who was raised on Golden Corral buffets.”

“Done,” I reply, slapping my plastic menu shut. I love it when I don’t have to make a decision. “So, Silas. How’s this work, exactly?”

I’m equal parts nervous and embarrassed that I have no idea how this normally goes. Internet searches for “what to expect in an interview” turned up dozens of pages on “how to land a job” instead of “how to prepare for a one-on-one with a media professional.” Now that we’re outside of the familiar halls of Haven HQ, I feel out of whack, my body buzzing with restless energy that has nowhere to go.

“Well, since this is our first meeting for magazine business, I figured we’d start by getting to know each other a little,” he replies. “Let me ask you this—did you Google me at all? See anything I’ve written?”

“Yeah. I liked the profile you did on that Brooklyn artist. And I loved the hate piece you did on cauliflower rice.”

Silas groans and runs his hands through his hair.

“What?” I ask in confusion. “I thought it was hilarious! And I agree, by the way. I think cauliflower rice is a pathetic excuse for food. You said something about how it was a mushy—”

“ A mushy, stomach-rolling attempt to up the ante on foods that have no business existing in new forms ,” he finishes for me, quoting his own article. “Yeah, a lot of people agreed with me, and I stand by my opinion. I just hate that it’s the first article that comes up when you Google me.”

I raise an eyebrow as I sip my water, so he continues. “I wrote that piece years ago, right after I’d had it at some avant-garde restaurant. It wasn’t even an assignment. It was just an opinion piece that Colin liked enough to put in our online issue, but then it went viral, and now people know me as The Guy Who Hates Cauliflower. Or worse, The Guy Who Hates Everything.”

For a long beat, I feel my heart stop. When it starts up again, my heart rate is in overdrive. Of all the journalists in New York, I just had to goad this one, didn’t I? If this isn’t a textbook case of Fuck Around and Find Out, I don’t what is.

I swallow hard, willing my voice to come out even as I ask, “So, you don’t hate everything, then?”

“Not at all,” he replies, hands stretching outward in a sort of desperate plea. “Cauliflower rice? Yes. It’s disgusting. But with everything else, I look at it seriously, from as many perspectives as I can, before forming an opinion.”

An uncomfortable silence falls between us while I let his words sink in. The ambient chatter of the restaurant fills the emptiness in the air as I grip my empty coffee mug for no reason other than to do something with my hands. Having someone like Silas write about me is a huge risk; I can only hope that he’ll present me in a positive light if I lay myself bare to him. I would have to trust him and trust myself.

Two things that have not gone well for me in the past.

The waitress appears, buying me some time. After ordering, Silas leans back into the vinyl of the booth, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug while surveying me. “I have to say, I don’t normally take interview requests from strangers. Usually, I’m the one asking people if they want to be featured in the magazine. Why did you suggest this, Jo?”

“I… want to tell my story,” I say. These are the words that have been on repeat in my head since I first met Silas a week ago. What I don’t say is how much that absolutely terrifies me.

“So the articles you’ve been mentioned in, your social media feeds… those aren’t reflective of who you are?” he asks.

“No,” I scoff immediately.

And then I regret it.

Silas perks up and learns forward so that his elbows rest on the tabletop. It takes concerted effort not to lean away from him when he closes the space between us. “What do you mean?”

“Is this off the record?” I ask with narrowed eyes.

His eyebrows raise. “Why? Do you want it to be?”

“Yes. I mean—no.” My mind and mouth are disconnected entirely as I struggle to form a coherent sentence. Silas watches me with shrewd eyes as I tap my water cup with my fingernails. After a torturous few seconds, I manage to pull myself together enough to continue. “This is just, like, a consultation, right?”

His face falls briefly—a quick, subtle pass of what looks like disappointment—before he gives a nonchalant wave of a hand. “How about this—we’re off the record unless the recording device is on. So this is just a brunch meeting, as far as I’m concerned.”

“In that case—I don’t run my own social media feeds or answer reporter questions. None of that is me.” As soon as the words leave me, I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders. This has been a secret for the last several years, one that only a close circle of people know—mainly Serena, Amber, Z, Mike, and select members of Haven’s PR team.

“Wait,” Silas says slowly. I can practically see the wheels in his head turning. “The woman on your Instagram page is definitely you. You mean you don’t post any of that stuff? You’re not the one responding to comments?”

I shake my head while our server refills our water glasses. “That would be Tracey, head of Haven PR.”

“Why?” he breathes.

His question is less accusatory and more curious, which I appreciate. “It’s a long story. I only check social media once a week, if at all. Tracey lets me know if there are certain DMs I should respond to, but that’s it.”

The weight that previously lifted from my shoulders returns again when I realize how strange this must sound to him. There’s an earnest confusion in his eyes that almost convinces me that I did the right thing by suggesting this interview, that this is the opportunity I’ve been searching for. But little warning bells go off in my head as I inch closer to the edge of that cliff, wondering if I’m brave enough to jump.

“There was a… situation,” I continue. It’s an oversimplification, but there’s still a swooping feeling in my stomach, as if I misstepped and nearly went tumbling down the mountainside. “A few years ago, I mean. I had to take a break. Tracey took over all of that stuff for me back then, and we’ve kept it that way ever since.”

Something like recognition flashes in Silas’s blue eyes as he surveys me. He’s quiet for so long that I wish I could take it back, wish I could erase the last twenty seconds from existence, until he says, “I guess most celebrities have people who manage their social media feeds for them.”

“I’m not a celebrity,” I interject. It doesn’t escape me that we’ve had this conversation before.

“Yes, you are,” Silas argues. “You’re a new type of celebrity, one we haven’t defined yet as a society. Somewhere between an influencer and an athlete. Like a socialite, with a purpose. No, wait. That’s not quite right.” I open my mouth to disagree, but he waves me off. “I’ll think of the right wording. But you are a public figure. Why would I be here if you weren’t?”

There it is again, that feeling that a balloon is rapidly deflating in my chest. Like he reached inside of me and popped that bubble of confidence, ego, and vanity that’s gotten all tangled up inside of me in this weird life I never learned how to navigate.

I must have been wearing my emotions on my face, because his eyes soften as he leans in even closer. One of his hands reaches for mine, but I pull back before he can make contact. “Listen, Jo, what I mean is that—”

“I got it, Silas. No need to explain.”

It’s no small mercy that our food arrives, putting an end to the awkward exchange. I’m lost to the pile of fluffy, golden pancakes, eggs, hash browns, bacon, and toast in front of me. For a while, we eat in silence, with only the sounds of cutlery on plates as our soundtrack. The food soothes my roiling emotions and nerves enough that I’m relaxing within a few minutes.

“So, you’ve been doing this for ten years?” Silas asks once he’s about halfway through his omelet. “I know the story of how Z found you, but what I don’t know is why you wanted to be a fitness instructor to begin with.”

Hesitating, I swallow hard and curl my napkin in my fists. Here it is: the chance to tell someone the truth, my story on my terms. But honesty comes with a price, and I don’t know how steep it is. This is what makes my heart skip a beat and my skin uncomfortably warm.

It’s Silas’s face—open and curious—plus the knowledge that we are not yet on the record that allows me to open up. “You know those old eighties exercise videos? The ones you could buy on VHS?”

“The dance-y ones with the big hair and leotards?” he asks.

“Yep, those,” I reply. “My neighbor gave my mom a whole set of those when I was a kid. I must have been around six or seven when I saw her doing them in the living room one summer. I joined her once and… I guess I kind of fell in love with it.” I pause to take a deep breath. “I was an anxious kid. I lived in my head most of the time. Dancing around the living room with my mom, trying to get the moves right, feeling my heart and lungs work hard to keep up… it was the first time I didn’t feel permanently nervous.”

“Like an escape from your own brain,” Silas says, his voice soft.

“Exactly. I did those workout videos all summer just for fun. I had a decent sense of rhythm, so they worked for me. My parents didn’t really know what to do with me, so they threw me into a bunch of sports.” I shrug and finish off my water. “I played soccer and volleyball all through middle school and high school, mostly because I liked the team aspect of it. The competition and being a part of a group was fun, but it still wasn’t the same as those eighties workout videos. Those were fun and freeing.”

Silas pushes the remnants of his eggs around his plate. “So, was that always your goal, then? To be the next Jane Fonda?”

“Obviously it wasn’t that specific, but yes.” I shrug. “I went to college on a soccer scholarship because that’s what you’re supposed to do and my parents would have literally killed me if I didn’t. I had one of those work–study jobs where I worked in an office on campus for a while. I absolutely hated it. The fluorescent lights, the petty office politics, the ringing phones… all of it made me miserable. I knew I wasn’t meant for a traditional nine to five.”

“How does one become a fitness instructor, then?” he asks. “I assume you have to take a class or something?”

I finish off the last of my short stack before responding. “Fitness fads come and go like any trend. The aerobics of the eighties died out long before I got to college, but there was a sort of hip-hop Latin dance craze taking off when I was a junior. I got certified to teach that and did it part-time. When I moved to New York after graduating, I kept teaching anywhere that would take me. Z found me doing just that. The rest is history.”

“Why New York?”

“Have you ever been to central Texas?” I ask. He shakes his head as he takes a bite of his toast, so I choose my words wisely before continuing. “Well, let’s just say it’s not an easy place to grow up if you’re different in any way. I wanted to start over somewhere. Somewhere I could be whoever I wanted to be.”

A warm, knowing smile spreads across his face, those two dimples forming as he stares at me. “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”

“Exactly. Just like Frank Sinatra said.”

Silas leans back in the booth and surveys me. His eyes sweep over me, from the damp ponytail draped across my collarbone to the frayed cuffs of my most loved hoodie. Those eyes, so startlingly blue, are so focused and intense that I feel a bit objectified, though in a non-sexual way. As if I were an exhibit in a museum, or a pile of puzzle pieces—like I’m a question, one that he’s working very hard to answer.

The silence stretches on so long that I start to feel uncomfortable. Anxiety gnaws at my nerves to the point that I can’t stand it. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, not bothering to hide the insecurity in my voice. “Do I have food on my face or something?”

Silas scoffs as he shakes his head. “No, Jo, you’re perfect. You’re a smoke show who achieved her ultimate dream. What I’m wondering is why you’ve never talked about this publicly before. People love a go-getter.”

The anxiety gets worse. I feel it veering off course, my control slipping as I confront the prospect of telling Silas everything. Because I can’t do this interview without coming clean about all the pieces of me that have struggled for so long, the ones I keep hidden away from everyone save a select few. As my heart rate ratchets up, I force my breaths into an even rhythm.

In for four counts. Hold for four counts. Out for four counts. Hold for four counts.

The old box breathing trick my therapist taught me years ago helps a little. I get two rounds in before I respond, feeling deflated. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not worth sharing after all.”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Silas counters quickly. “Earlier you said you want to tell your own story. Is that not the case?”

I remind myself I spent all week hoping he would show up to my class: I want to be honest about who I am. I want control over the next chapter of my life. No matter how much it scares me, it’s the only way for me to set myself free from this edge I’ve been living on for months.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do.”

“Good.” His features soften as a smile spreads across his face. “There’s definitely a story here. Can we swap numbers so we can figure out when to meet next?” I pull my phone out of my bag, unlock it, and slide it across the table to him. His own phone dings shortly after he types on mine. “I just texted myself. Now you have my number. Can we meet sometime this coming week?”

“Sure. Fridays are usually my light days.”

“Perfect. I’ll text you some times.” He tosses a credit card onto the table and beams at me. “The magazine can pay for breakfast.”