Chapter Nineteen Jo
Chapter Nineteen
Jo
A fter a ninety-minute sports massage, roughly two gallons of water, two more sizable meals, and nine full hours of sleep, I’m back on my bullshit again. My usual Wednesday morning classes occur without incident, save for the all the people in suits I spot heading into Z’s office when I’m done teaching. I’m a little more cautious than usual, paying close attention to my back, but for the most part, it’s all muscle memory. Same old, same old, minus a certain blue-eyed, dimpled guy I can’t get out of my head.
Forty-five minutes ahead of my call time, I emerge from the Brooklyn subway stop just as instructed—fresh face, clean hair, casual clothes. The denim on my legs and underwire bra feel foreign as I putter around the block, stalking the entrance until it’s a normal time to arrive, per my usual routine.
When I round the corner of the tree-lined street for the second time, the air hot and sticky on my skin, I nearly jump when I see Silas lingering near the entrance to Lucas Russo’s private studio. He looks so fucking handsome I can barely stand it, clad in his usual uniform of a black T-shirt and slim cut jeans, this time with a pair of black Wayfarers perched on his freckled nose. Clutched in his hands are two iced coffees. He sips from one while he leans against the bicycle rack in front of the door—the picture of easy, casual charm.
Clutching my tote close to my chest, I approach him from behind with trepidation. “Silas?” I ask, as if I don’t already know it’s him.
He whirls around, breaking into a grin when he registers it’s me. “Jo! Hey!”
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask once I’ve closed the space between us.
He doesn’t hesitate to envelop me in a hug—albeit a slightly awkward one, considering he’s holding two drinks. “You told me you’re always early to engagements, so I figured I’d beat you here,” he says once we step back from each other. “I took the liberty of getting you an iced Americano. It’s decaf.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve already been circling the block for fifteen minutes, so I take the coffee in silence. The mere fact that he remembered my chronic earliness—and my aversion to most caffeine—sends my heart into a tailspin. It eclipses the nerves I feel about the photo shoot and about the other night, so much so that I’ve nearly forgotten why I’m here. Somewhere low in my belly, butterflies begin beating their delicate wings.
“That was really kind of you,” I reply.
“Take a walk with me?”
He looks so good, with the bright afternoon sunlight glinting off his golden-brown hair, that I’m fighting to keep my face neutral. We fall into step side by side, the ice in our drinks rattling as we walk.
“How are you feeling about today?” he asks. “How’s your back?”
“My back is fine, but I’m a little nervous,” I admit. “Somehow I’m less nervous about the shoot than I was about actually talking to you on the record.”
“Couldn’t be the thousands of hours you’ve spent being filmed, right?” He nudges my side with his elbow—a playful gesture that jostles those butterflies fluttering around in my stomach.
“Could be,” I reply with a nonchalant shrug. “We do photo shoots at HQ every six weeks or so too. Any time that we get new retail in, I meet up with our staff photographer and spend hours really hamming it up.”
“Is that where all of your Instagram photos come from?”
Nodding, I take a sip from my coffee. As a mom with a stroller approaches us, we cram together on the sidewalk to make room for her. Our arms brush, and every inch of my skin prickles with awareness. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by a craving to be closer to him, to feel more of his skin on mine. When I sneak a glance at his face, I see color blooming on his cheeks.
Does he feel it too?
We separate as soon as we have the space, and the conversation falls into the kind of easy nothingness that makes me forget why we’re wandering a two-block radius in Brooklyn. We chat about the weather, about summer plans and dream vacations and the book he just finished reading, but when Silas casually mentions Derek’s upcoming birthday celebration, my heart stumbles. The interview sessions, the class with Mike, and these kinds of informal hangouts are one thing, but a night out with my friend group?
The thought electrifies me as much as it scares the hell out of me.
We round the corner that leads up to the studio one last time just as I check my phone. With only a few minutes left until showtime, we make our way through the glass doors toward the elevator, where Silas presses the button for the top level. On the way up, I realize how not anxious I am.
The doors open directly into Lucas Russo’s private studio. Highly polished blond wood floors gleam under the light pouring in from numerous windows. I’m just starting to take in the buzz of activity—the people milling about, the enormous lighting rig set up in the middle of the room, the racks and racks of wardrobe against the far wall, the makeup station nestled in the corner with the best lighting—when I feel a gentle touch at the small of my back. Taking a deep breath, I let Silas guide me inside.
Multiple heads turn as we enter, but it’s the famous photographer himself who greets us. Silas’s hand falls away as Lucas approaches, arms outstretched as he swoops in for a hug.
“As I live and breathe, Johanna De La Cruz!” he exclaims as I return the embrace. “What a fucking pleasure it is to meet you.”
I love the way my name sounds in his Italian accent, the roll of the R not that different from the Spanish pronunciation. Flustered, I reply with a jumble of gratitude just as he releases me and embraces Silas. “You must be the writer, eh? Silas, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
I can’t help but smile at the way Silas hugs Lucas; he doesn’t hold back, doesn’t shy away from the display of affection.
“Good, good. Nice to meet you,” Lucas replies once he takes a step back. He looks just like the photos I spent nearly an hour Googling: a head of wavy dark hair, with pensive eyes set against olive-toned skin that tells a story of a life spent soaking up the sun. “Come. Let me introduce you to the team.”
We’re ushered forward to a group of about a dozen people. There are hair people, makeup people, wardrobe people, lighting people, plus their various assistants, and I try to commit names to faces. They gather around us in a semicircle, with Lucas, Silas, and me standing in a line. As I look out at their faces, at the beautiful and interesting crew assembled to make me beautiful and interesting, I realize they’re expecting me to say something.
I think of all the journaling I’ve done and all the progress I’ve made opening up to my in-person classes. Leaning into that strength I’ve cultivated—not at all different from the physical strength I’ve amassed in my career—I say, “Wow. It’s a lot harder to speak in front of a group when I’m not on the bike.” The group laughs with me, but not at me, so I continue. “It’s so nice to meet all of you. Thank you all for being here today. I need all the help I can get to be cover ready.”
“You’re in hair and makeup first,” the blond woman with a severe bun says. She’s clutching a clipboard to her chest, and I remember that her name is Caroline. Caroline the Coordinator with a Clipboard—the one who is clearly in charge. “You can head over to Dimitri and Paula when you’re ready. Nikki will be over in a bit to start on your nails.”
Dimitri and Paula give me a little wave, the former sporting a high and tight fade in an ethereal silver color, the latter half his size with bright pink cat’s-eye glasses and lips to match. The group disperses back to their stations, but before I can follow Dimitri and Paula, Lucas catches my attention.
“I just have to say, you saved my life two years ago,” he says. “I was in a shit place that winter. I’d just lost my mamma and New York can be so cold and dark. When I got my Haven Home bike and started taking your class, it was like I was delivered from the clutches of depression.”
This— this is what I live for, what the job is really about. Helping people find the same release I did.
Did. Not do. Another reminder of why I’m here, at this photo shoot, with a writer intent on chronicling my story. This is my jumping-off point. The edge of the cliff. My shot at carving out my next step.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I reply, hoping he can hear how genuine I am. “I’m glad the classes helped. I’ve always thought that movement can be a form of medicine.”
He breaks into a wide smile, and I notice not a single line or pucker forms on his face. His Botox person must be an artist. “When you teach, sometimes it feels like a punishment. But the best kind. You kick my ass every single time.”
I’ve heard this too, time and time again—that both Mike and I push people to their limits. But what the clients fail to realize is that they’re the ones putting in the work. We’re simply there to guide them.
“Anyway,” he says quickly, as if suddenly realizing why we’re standing in his own studio, “when my friend at R a man clutching hangers laden with all manners of fabrics and colors. “Shouldn’t that be obvious, Dimitri?” he chides in a smooth English accent. “The theme for her look is ‘soft elegance,’ after all.”
“It is?” I ask.
“Yes, love,” the mystery man says just as I register that this must be Andre from wardrobe. “You spend so much time in sports bras and athleisure that we want to show the world the woman beyond the bike.”
“Woman beyond the bike,” Paula echoes. “I like that.”
“What do you think of this, love?” Andre asks, jerking my attention back to him. He’s holding what I’m assuming is a dress, though ‘rainbow saloon cupcake’ would be a more accurate description.
I must make a face, because he shakes his head and holds up another. “What about this? Versace couture.”
Extended from his hand is a sheer pink lacy concoction that looks like it belongs in a boudoir, not a magazine cover. “Beautiful, but where do the boobs go?”
“Here, love,” he replies. It takes some effort for him to point out the tiny triangles.
“Yeah, I don’t know if those will do anything for my chest,” I reply. “I’ve got a set of sleeper C’s in here.”
“Then how would you describe your style?” Andre’s eyes narrow as he surveys my body, no doubt noting the faded jeans I picked up from Nordstrom years ago and the casual white T-shirt.
Even though there’s no obvious judgment in his tone, I bristle. The shirt, though simple, was an extravagant purchase fueled by Serena and Amber after a long girls’ lunch filled with white wine. “Well, this shirt is from Rag they’re now those of a woman who does not mutilate her own skin, complete with tasteful, oval-shaped nails in a natural nude shade.
“Close your eyes,” Paula warns. I do as I’m told just as a spritz of something refreshing and cool hits my face. “There. Done.”
She steps back, the hardwood floor creaking underfoot, and I open my eyes.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
It’s me in the reflection, but a me I’ve never seen before.
This Jo is primed, primped, and polished to near perfection. My skin is poreless, my lashes impossibly long thanks to both the mascara and the expert application of several tiny bushels of false eyelashes. The red of my lips is a beacon against the bronze glow of my face. It’s all framed by the smoothest, shiniest waves my hair has ever held.
Only those touched by some kind of god could make me look this good.
“It’s giving…” Dimitri says. “Bombshell. Nineties supermodel. Cindy Crawford. Effortlessly glam.”
Paula smiles at my reflection in the mirror. “I’m getting old Hollywood vibes.”
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t go that far,” I reply. “I can promise you I’ve never looked this good. Nor will I ever look this good again.”
Andre is summoned, and I’m quickly escorted to the changing area. Behind the screen of the partition, the freshly steamed Tom Ford dress is waiting for me. Andre, clad in all black himself, holds some sort of soft plastic pasties in one hand and a roll of flesh-colored tape in the other.
“Are you comfortable with me taping your chest, love? We can’t have nipples on the cover and that dress is not bra friendly.” He motions to the tiny, delicate straps dangling from the hanger. At my hesitation, he adds, “If it helps, I’ve done this about a zillion times before. Anything you have under that robe is not for me.”
“Right, right. Of course.” How silly of me to worry about this man seeing my boobs. No doubt he’s likely taped the breasts of hundreds, if not thousands, of models through his career. Whatever his sexual orientation, I have no reason to worry.
I realize that’s partly because Silas is here—and I trust him. He showed up for me when I needed help, even if I didn’t want to admit it. After the night we spent talking in my bed, I know he has my back.
So I shuck off my robe and let Andre do his thing. Even the feel of a stranger’s cold hands on my chest doesn’t send me into an anxious tailspin. He’s a complete pro about it, eyeing my intimate parts with care and an acute attention to detail.
When my nipples are covered with adhesive silicone pads and my breasts taped in such a way that I’m given artful cleavage, Andre helps me step into the dress. The fabric hugs my curves closely, the silk so delicate it almost feels as if I’m wearing nothing at all. The cool air of the studio prickles my exposed skin—which is a significant amount, considering the dress is backless, with a low scooped neckline framed by tasteful touches of lace.
Andre steps back to survey me. He nods as his eyes rake over my body. I smile at the approval.
“Beautiful,” he says. He adjusts the tape on my side boob and fixes a strap. “Just beautiful. Let’s get you shoes and accessories, and you’re ready.”
When we step out from behind the partition, I’m given a set of diamond drop earrings. “You have such a lovely chest, so I wanted to keep it bare,” Andre informs me. “The earrings are on loan from our friends at Piaget, but you get to keep the rest.”
Stunned, I stop in the middle of the floor. Andre turns to face me with one perfectly manicured brow raised.
“I get to keep the dress?” I ask.
“And the shoes, yes.”
This news sends my mood soaring to impossible heights. “Wow.”
In front of a full-length mirror, I affix the heavy diamonds to my earlobes and step into a pair of red-bottomed pointed-toe black heels. Somehow, this team of experts has transformed me into a version of myself I never expected to see. This woman is glamorous. Elegant. Expensive.
More than anything, she’s confident.
I take a deep breath, harnessing all that unfamiliar trust bubbling inside of me, and follow Andre to where Lucas and the rest of his team wait for me near the lighting rig. The clacking of my heels on the hardwood floors announces my arrival. Suddenly, at least seven heads turn to look at me. It’s Silas’s face that I look for first.
He looks… stunned.
I don’t blame him; I can hardly believe I look like this too. Those blue eyes—normally so bright, as if he’s always ready to laugh—darken as he gives me a very, very thorough once over. I watch as his breath catches. When he licks his lips, I realize I have the answer to my question.
Yes, Silas Anders feels it too.