Up Close & Personal

Chapter Twelve Silas

Chapter Twelve

Silas

T ype, delete. Type, delete. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I’ve made no progress on Jo’s article outside of my rambling zero draft, which is currently open on my laptop. My cursor highlights the words “ none of these people have any real credentials.” In the buttery, late morning sun, this phrase seems harsh. Unfair, even.

Jo sending me that picture of her view at MoMA sparked something in me. There’s no way she could have known that I used to spend hours at the museums when I first moved here. I used my student ID for discounted MoMA tickets long after I graduated, until the day the desk clerk caught on to my little scheme and charged me full price. She couldn’t have known that I’m a member now that I make adult money.

It was only a coincidence; New York’s museums are a huge cultural draw. People go to them all the time.

Still, it was weird to see another unexpected commonality between us. I thought about it the whole evening on my long run along the East River. It didn’t help when a song from her class came up on my playlist. I thought about her again the next day when I went scrolling through the Haven website, looking at bios of the various instructors. This is when I learned something: those beautiful people are actually quite credentialed. From former Olympians and college athletes to ex-Broadway performers and professional dancers, I was surprised to find that each and every one of them possessed the same personal training certifications.

It’s my own fault for not looking earlier. This should have been one of my first stops in my research, but since I managed to meet Jo through Derek instead of the traditional corporate channels, I had skipped looking here. I’d been so consumed by my preconceived idea of Jo—and everyone at Haven, for that matter—that I didn’t stop to think I could be wrong.

Which means that my zero draft needs to be scrapped.

“Shit,” I groan to myself. At least this can’t get any worse.

“All good in here?”

Colin’s voice scares me so badly I jump out of my chair and nearly spill coffee all over myself. I’ve been distracted all week, but I thought I’d been hiding it. One look at those narrowed eyes behind his square glasses tell me I failed.

We stare each other down in my little corner of the Metropolitan office. When words fail me, Colin saunters closer, plopping down in the chair next to the one I vacated. “What’s going on with you?”

Here’s the problem about working with and for someone you consider a friend. Colin and I have navigated professional territory together for years, so we usually respect each other when it comes to our differences. Except, of course, for this week, which I’ve spent zoning out during meetings, leaving emails unanswered, and on one occasion, hiding in a storage closet to avoid him.

But how can I tell one of my closest friends—and my direct manager—that I manipulated my way into the article he assigned to me? That I put one of my oldest friendships at risk because of my own biases? Worst of all, I’m losing my grip on my ability to be professional. I’m thinking about Jo more than I should be in ways that have less to do with the assignment and more to do with the incredibly inconvenient attachment I feel toward her.

How can I tell Colin that—for the first time in my career—I’ve fallen behind because I’m letting a subject get the better of me and my judgment?

Slumping back into my chair, I heave a sigh then set my mug on my desk. “Shit, man. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, I can tell by that horrific look on your face that this is bad,” Colin says. He pulls his phone from his blazer pocket and starts typing. When he’s finished, he slides the phone back into his jacket and stands. “I just canceled my afternoon meetings. Come on, you and I are getting coffee and going for a walk.”

A short time later, Colin and I emerge onto the sidewalk holding fresh iced coffees from the Starbucks in our building. Summer has descended upon the city fast, the air thick with moisture from all the recent rain trapped by the concrete jungle surrounding us. Colin stops to drop some cash into the guitar case of the usual guy sitting at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 43rd Street before we set off in the direction of our old haunt, Bryant Park.

When Colin and I first started our careers in journalism at a now-defunct print magazine, we used to eat lunch there regularly. For all the ways the park is different from years ago, it’s still the same in so many others; scattered chairs on the lawn and walkways, art installations tucked among the trees, people sitting on any horizontal surface they can find. A strange sense of déjà vu settles over me when we stop in front of an empty bench facing the lawn and sit side by side.

“I’m just going to jump right in here and ask you: What the hell is going on with you?” Colin asks.

The barely two-block walk here wasn’t enough time to prepare a well-crafted answer. Two different forms of coffee on an empty stomach aren’t helping me grab a lucid thought either. I have no choice but to settle for a half truth, hoping it will buy me some time to sort this out. “I’m struggling with the Haven piece. That’s all, really.”

“Struggling how?”

“The story isn’t really shaping up to what I thought it would be,” I reply. It’s a non-answer that I know Colin will see right through. “The subject isn’t being very cooperative.”

“And that’s why you’ve been avoiding me this week?” he asks.

I can tell Colin is looking at me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the people lounging in the grass as I rattle the ice in my plastic cup. “Mostly, yeah. This piece shouldn’t be that hard to write. I’m just embarrassed by what little progress I’ve made.”

Colin doesn’t need to know that I have, in fact, made no progress at all.

“Silas, you know as well as I do that the stories that look easy from the outside are usually the hardest to write,” he says. “Not to go all Wise and Sage Leader on you here, but writing about whatever is popular carries an extra burden. You tend to skew toward the fringes of cultural relevance, and there is nothing more in your face than Haven. That’s exactly why I assigned it to you.”

Placing my elbows on my knees, I turn my head toward him. “You assigned the Haven story to me so that I’d struggle?”

“No, asshole,” Colin replies with a roll of his eyes. “I assigned this to you because I knew you’d take the time to see it from all angles. Imagine if I had given this story to Mia: she would have written the kind of fluff you see on those millennial-centric listicles because she already loves the brand. You, on the other hand, may hate it or you may love it or you may land somewhere in the middle. Our readers will connect to what you write, because I have no doubt that your take will be fresh and authentic.”

“I’ll get there,” I promise him.

“Good,” he says. “Remember how I told you that Gary was interested in this article?”

How could I forget that my editor-in-chief has his eyes on this? “Yes,” I reply, the word coming slowly from my lips as I attempt to prepare myself for whatever Colin has to say next.

“He and I talked, and we agreed that Jo should be on the cover of the September issue,” he says. “Your story will be the center feature. Copy is due in five weeks.”

Colin’s update nearly knocks the wind out of me. With my neck like a wet noodle, I let my head hang between my shoulders as I sift through what this means.

Jo on the cover.

My story as the center feature.

Due in five weeks.

And I don’t have a single recorded interview yet.

Once I’ve regained my ability to breathe, I sit up just enough that I can look Colin in the eye. “Why? I thought we had that singer from Park Slope slated for the September cover.”

“Gary made the executive decision to switch them out. He thinks Jo’s national reach is better suited for the cover, and I have to say that I agree with him.” He leans back, eyes narrowing as he takes in my defeated posture. “Why are you being so weird about this? I thought you’d be happy to get the cover story.”

“I am, I just…” With uncharacteristically dramatic flair, I flop backward so that my back is flush with the bench. There’s so much I can’t tell him that there’s no point in even trying to pick apart pieces of the truth. Instead, I allow myself one genuine sigh, rub my hands down my jeans, and force my brows to unknot themselves. “I am happy. Seriously. You know I love to push the entertainment writers out of the spotlight once in a while.”

Colin smirks, but his gaze is still wary. “I know you do. Now all I need from you is three thousand to five thousand of your best words.”

How silly of me to think this couldn’t get worse. Not only has my aggressive deadline been cemented, but I also have to craft a story worthy of a center feature about a woman I know little about outside of what she’s told me off the record. To top it all off, I can’t even decide on my angle or hook to get me started.

A couple of hours after my impromptu park meeting with Colin, I find myself sitting at my desk again, a little shaky from coffee overload. Not for the first time in recent days, I’m staring at my text conversation with Jo. We’re scheduled to meet this weekend. I tell myself my heart is racing because of Colin’s news and the 400 milligrams of caffeine coursing through me. It has nothing to do with the fact that I genuinely want to see her.

Before I can do something dumb like text her, a push alert from the Haven app fills my screen, notifying me that Mike’s class has a bike available later today. I’ve been putting myself on the wait-list for his classes ever since the start of this assignment, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other founding instructor at work. I wonder if I can get him to share a quote or two about his relationship with Jo since he doesn’t seem as shy as she is. His Instagram is filled with brand partnerships, and his name is often touted in regional publications—some of them gossip rags, yes, but he’s also been in some “People to Watch” lists over the years.

Haven only gives you a few minutes to claim last-minute slots. Without any real thought, I hit the option that says BOOK MY BIKE and send a silent prayer up to the universe that this Hail Mary works in my favor.

As it turns out, it does.

After a frantic dash home to drop off my work bag, change into workout gear, and inhale some leftovers, I make it to the NoHo studio with twenty minutes to spare. I’ve been here enough times to know how it all works now: I check in at the front desk, rent my shoes, and follow the flow of foot traffic to the lockers on the first floor. The familiarity of it all stirs up a fresh wave of shame as I change into my bike cleats. Just a couple of weeks ago, I’d been nervous as hell before my first class with Jo, certain that she was a fraud and that I’d feel like an outsider in this heavily branded world. I’d shown up as the judge, jury, and executioner.

Learning I was wrong has been a very humbling experience.

I’m clomping my way across the tile floor toward one of the camera-free studios when I see her. Descending the stairs in an all-red workout set, her long, damp hair trailing down her shoulders, is Jo. It takes me a minute to realize that the man she’s talking to is the very man I came to see. She and Mike are locked in conversation, both already mic-ed up, though I know thanks to the inordinate amount of time I spend on Haven’s app that Jo has just finished teaching her last class of the day. Even if I didn’t, I’d be able to tell by the way her skin glows and the breathless way she laughs at something Mike says to her.

When she sees me standing near the foot of the stairs, her dark eyes widen in surprise as she comes to an abrupt stop. “Silas? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to take a class. I finally got off his wait-list,” I reply with a nod in Mike’s direction.

A beat of awkward silence passes between us, during which Mike looks from me to her and back again in an almost comical fashion. When the door to the closest studio opens and the music spills out, clashing horribly with the music already rumbling through the locker area, comprehension dawns on his face.

“You must be the journalist,” he says. Unlike the first time I met Jo, there’s no skepticism in his voice. His tone is warm and friendly; if anything, he’s a little more soft-spoken than I anticipated, given his larger-than-life online persona. It’s a stark contrast to the sheer presence of the man, who is like a solid wall of muscle, clocking in at well over six feet tall, with the kind of natural confidence that leads me to believe he is more than comfortable in his body. I suppose that makes sense given his college football career, which is often mentioned in his press blurbs.

“Yeah, sorry,” Jo says with a little shake of her head. “Mike, this is Silas, the writer from Metropolitan magazine I told you about. Silas, this is Mike.”

We exchange little head bobs to say, Yes, hello, nice to meet you.

“Come to see a real pro at work?” Mike asks with a playful nudge to Jo’s side, to which she rolls her eyes.

“Says the one with empty bikes in his evening class,” Jo says.

“Not my fault half of a corporate group canceled.”

A spark ignites in Jo’s eyes as she descends the final stairs to the ground floor. As she passes by me, she puts a warm hand on my shoulder. My stomach does a funny little flip at the unexpected contact. “Try not to be too disappointed when you realize he’s not as good as me,” she says, a smirk playing across her full lips.

Then she’s gone, folded into the crowd of people coming and going from various parts of Haven’s labyrinth. Mike motions for me to follow him into the studio, then farther inside, and I find myself confronted with a fear I didn’t even know I had until just now.

My bike is in the front row.

So far, I’ve been riding in the middle or the back of the group, where I can comfortably struggle through class with some semblance of anonymity. Tonight, however, my wait-listed position has put me at the front of the room, where I’ll have a full view of myself in the big mirrors lining the wall behind the instructor. With a groan, I go about setting up my bike while Mike goes through his usual instructions and safety checks on the podium.

I’m so focused on not falling over as I haul my ass into the saddle that I don’t notice the uptick in noise until Mike says, “ Oh, shit. Looks like we have a special guest tonight.”

A rumble of applause and murmurs drowns out the music. My head snaps up just in time to see Jo saunter over to the empty bike next to me. She’s still clad in that red bra and leggings set, but her mic is gone now, and her hair is secured in a familiar high ponytail. The lights lower, submerging us in that moody darkness that signals class is about to start.

“I got the last bike,” she explains, her head bent toward mine as she adjusts the settings on her bike.

“Didn’t you just finish teaching?” I realize that I just revealed I know her schedule, but I’m so surprised by this turn of events that I don’t care.

She shrugs before hopping onto the bike with practiced grace. “What’s one more class?”

“I would die.”

Her head tips back as she laughs. I can’t stop myself from admiring the slope of her cheekbones, the way her jaw curves into the long line of her neck, the swell of her chest, so at odds with her sculpted shoulders… no .

I have got to get it together.

The music changes abruptly, forcing my attention to the front of the room. Mike’s spotlight brightens, and we’re off.

The Mike I met on the stairs is different from the Mike in front of me now. This version is loud—and not just because of the microphone looped over his ear. And despite the shit talking I witnessed just a few minutes ago, it’s clear that there’s a deep affection between the woman next to me and the man on the podium.

“It’s a real honor to have my girl Jo in this class tonight,” he says to the group before the first song even comes to a close. “We’ve known each other a long time, and I can tell you that she’s a real one. Let’s show her how it’s done.”

Then, and for the rest of the class, Jo is the ultimate hype woman. She’s the first to holler, the first to twirl her towel and shout, and the sheer joy of her presence is infectious. This is the rowdiest class I’ve taken to date, with the entire room gassing each other up. Even I—Silas Anders, part-time hater—can’t resist yelling along with everyone else when a nostalgic hit starts to play.

Not to say Mike doesn’t push us hard—and though his style is different from Jo’s, with less drama and more outright grind, it’s all very effective and fun. Music seems to ignite memories for him; he tells stories about his days on the field, how the hustle of the team made him stronger as an individual, only to relate it all back to what we’re doing together, in this very room.

On more than one occasion, he makes the whole room nearly fall off our bikes from laughing. When things get tough pushing through heavy hills, he asks us to lean on each other for support. From my vantage point with the mirror, I can see how his message resonates with the clients, their faces scrunching up as they push through the tension in their legs. They do what he asks without hesitation or fear.

The whole thing is over faster than I expected, giving credence to the old adage about time flying when you’re having fun. As the clients filter out, I pause in front of the podium to shout, “Great class!” at Mike, who smiles and waves in return.

Even though I’m sweaty, tired, and thirsty, I can feel Jo’s presence behind me as I weave my way out. Now that it’s late in the evening, the usual locker room crowds have thinned enough that it’s easy to find space to pause and take a breath. I wipe the moisture off my brow and take a swig from my water bottle just as Jo stops beside me and does the same.

“That was fun,” I say, noting how unfair it is that she gets more radiant after a workout, whereas I just turn pink.

“Yeah, it was.” Her gaze goes distant for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she purses her lips. “It’s been a long time since I rode in a class that I wasn’t teaching. I forgot how good Mike is, but don’t tell him I said that.”

I think I understand what she’s really saying—that without the pressure of leading, she was able to enjoy a class the way everyone else does. She found the escape she needed, the same kind of reprieve that those eighties workouts gave her as a kid. Maybe she’s feeling the same clarity that I do. Maybe all that mental fog that bogs us down day after day is gone for her too.

I think of that museum picture she sent me—how I find a similar comfort in the hallowed halls of art—and ask, “How was your day at MoMA?”

“It was great. Exactly what I needed,” she replies. “It was my first time there, actually.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Ever? I thought it was a requirement that everyone who moves here goes at least once in their first year.”

“Yeah, the mayor’s office has been after me. Threatened me with jail time and everything.”

“Forget violence and financial crimes. New York’s biggest problem is museum delinquency.”

That spark in my chest flares brighter when she laughs and says, “Well, I’m off the hook until they realize I’ve never been to the Guggenheim or the Met.”

“Wow, I had no idea you were a serial offender.” I relish the way she smiles at me, like she’s truly enjoying this exchange. “Is that what you meant by ‘homework’? Are you determined to visit every museum in the tri-state area?”

She runs a hand through her ponytail and shakes her head. “Not exactly. I’m just… trying new things. That’s all.”

It takes all my focus to keep my face neutral at this statement. My gut tells me this is related to the article somehow, but I refrain from asking for more details. This is the kind of thing I want on the record. No, not want—I need her honest and open.

I wait her out.

To my disappointment, she doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she takes a big breath before saying, “I’ll see you this weekend, right?”

As if I could forget. Heat rises to the surface of my skin. It’s a good thing I’m already flushed from the class. “Yeah, we just need to pick a place.”

“Times Square Olive Garden?”

Her sly grin softens the pressure swirling inside me. I huff out a laugh at both her wit and the realization that we now have an inside joke. Sensation zings up my spine that I try to ignore.

“How about the diner? This Sunday at noon, right?” she asks again, this time her tone serious.

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.” She gives me a little nod goodbye before she turns to leave, but she pauses when I say, “Hey, one more thing.”

The cover—I need to tell her that she’ll be our center feature. My heart pounds as I try to form the words, but I can’t bring myself to say it. I don’t want to scare her off when we haven’t gotten anything on paper yet. Her head cocks to the side as she waits for me this time, one brow arching ever so slightly.

I make a split-second, game-time decision not to tell her. This is a bridge I’ll cross once we’ve got some momentum built.

“I just wanted to say good night,” I say, dying a little at the awkward way I handled that.

Jo’s expression is unreadable as her eyes rake over me, from my damp mop of hair down to my rented shoes. Her reply is a flat sounding, “Good night,” before she sets off toward the stairs.

On the walk home, I have no choice but to come to terms with three truths:

One: I really fumbled that exit.

Two: I was definitely wrong—about Jo, at least.

Three: I might like her. A little.

So much of my time has been spent searching for information on Jo that when she hands me a glimpse of herself, I take it like a starving man being handed a free meal. Each new piece of her personality settles somewhere deep inside me.

God, the way it feels to make her laugh—it’s a high, one that I want to chase.

At home, I crank on the water in the shower to let it heat up, plop in front of my computer, and pull up my original draft of the article. In the darkness of my apartment, the bluish glow of my computer screen feels like the aura of some kind of literary ghost. I contemplate deleting everything I’ve written for such a long time that steam starts billowing out of the bathroom. But ultimately I decide to keep it—to do what with, exactly, I’m not sure—because it feels like something I should save.

If nothing else, it’s a token of a past when I felt a certain way, and a reminder that I grew out of it.