Chapter Twenty Silas
Chapter Twenty
Silas
I will never recover from Jo in that dress.
I could die tomorrow, and it would be the last thing I would see before I entered the Great Beyond.
It wasn’t just the dress. It was the way she carried herself in that dress, with that hair and makeup that made her look like a fucking movie star.
I could see it in her eyes. She was confident. Ready. Assured. Watching as she posed for the camera, taking direction from Lucas with ease, I tried to ignore the rapid beating of my heart and the heat spreading all over my skin. Chin up, hair back, look this way, look that way, over your shoulder, yes, just like that —she handled it all with grace and a smile.
Every few shots, an assistant would run forward to adjust her dress, her hair, whatever. Each time, I fought against the wave of jealousy that rolled through me. I wanted to be the one touching her. Now that I know what it feels like to experience the heat of her under my hands, I want more of it.
I tried to stay out of the way, opting to stand a few feet behind where Lucas hunched over the camera, but every now and then, Jo’s eyes would slide to mine. Only for a second or two, but each stolen glance was enough to add fuel to the fire warming up my skin.
I was so fucking proud of her.
It’s when the shoot wraps and I find myself standing outside with Jo that I really start struggling. It takes every ounce of my willpower to force the indecent thoughts out of my brain. Thoughts like…
Are those red-lacquered lips as soft as they look?
How would those strong legs feel wrapped around my waist?
What does she sound like when she’s breathless from pleasure?
At the very least, I now know that no one and nothing will top this. Jo is my sexual Sistine Chapel.
“Listen, Silas,” she says, pulling my thoughts back to the gum- and trash-riddled sidewalk on which we are currently standing. “I want to say thank you for coming with me to the shoot. And for the other night too. It… it meant a lot to have you here.”
I have to swallow before I can answer. “Anytime. I’ve never been to a shoot of this caliber before. You absolutely killed it up there.”
“Did I?” she asks. A tentative smile tugs those red lips up, and I become a wanton mess again. “It felt like it went well. Speaking of—my face and hair will never look this good again and the vain part of me wants to show this off. Can I buy you some happy hour drinks and food as a thank-you? My treat?”
The logical part of my brain says: No, Silas. Here is that line between Just Friends and More Than Friends that you keep toeing.
The emotional side of my brain says: Yes, Silas. You would do just about anything she asks of you right now.
The horny, possessive side of my brain says: Yes, Silas. You want to be the one she’s seen with.
So when I reply, “I think I saw a bar around the corner when we were walking earlier. Let’s go check it out,” I wonder if I’ll ever find my way out of the mess I’ve been making since the day I met her.
There is, in fact, a bar around the corner. It’s the kind of kitschy hipster place that Brooklyn has become synonymous with over the last decade. There’s a great deal of exposed piping in the ceiling, brick walls, copper accents along the bar, and a wall of vinyl records encased in simple black frames. Some sort of nondescript indie rock pipes in from the speakers as Jo and I take seats next to each other at the bar.
Once she cautiously drapes the garment bag over the empty stool next to her, Jo turns to face me. “Silas, I feel like an asshole.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I feel like all we’ve done since we’ve met is talk about me and my bullshit,” she says. Her lips form a red rigid line as she crosses her arms. “I mean, I know this all started because of the article, but can we just forget about all of that for tonight? I want to know more about you. ”
Equally flattered and panicky, a nervous laugh escapes me. The bartender chooses this opportune moment to approach us, buying me some time. We each order a pint of the happy hour–discounted beer to start and settle back into our barstools.
She turns to me again. I’m struck by the endless depths in her gold-tinged brown irises rimmed by smoky streaks of kohl. “So. Who’s the man behind the pen?”
“Well, you already know I grew up in Iowa,” I reply, fidgeting a little in my seat. “Three out of four brothers are still there. The other one that left is in the Chicago suburbs. I’ve got a whole litter of nieces and nephews. You know about my dad. What else do you want to know?”
“What do you like to do in your spare time?” she asks just as the bartender drops off our drinks.
My eyes narrow as she takes a long drink from her beer. “This feels like a job interview.”
“Have most of your interviews happened in bars?”
“Only for the jobs I leave off my résumé.”
She tosses her head back as she lets out a small laugh. Her hair tumbles back, exposing the long column of her neck, which makes me think of what it would be like to kiss her there, slowly, gently, working my way down to her chest…
I shake my head to clear my thoughts.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” she suddenly asks, her eyes fixed pointedly on the wall of liquor bottles on the bar.
I nearly choke while trying to swallow a mouthful of beer.
“Damn,” she whispers, her shoulders deflating. “That came out…”
Please don’t say wrong. Please don’t say wrong. Please don’t say wrong.
“… not as smooth as I’d hoped,” she finishes. She rolls her eyes and finally wrenches her gaze back to me. “Fuck. But are you? We haven’t talked about that at all, so you could have a girlfriend or boyfriend—”
“No, I’m single. No girlfriend,” I say quickly, hoping to clear up any questions about my sexuality. I remember the flowers sitting on the coffee table in her apartment, along with the jealousy-tinged daydreams they conjured. “Are you? Seeing anyone, I mean.”
“No,” she says with a snort, then takes a heavy drink from her beer.
Relief washes over me. “Not a fan of the dating scene, I take it?”
“I wouldn’t really know, to be honest.”
“What does that mean?”
With her finger, she traces a bead of condensation on her pint glass. “I haven’t really dated much since my last breakup. I’ve never even been on the apps.”
“Really?” I ask, the surprise in my voice genuine. “How do you meet people, then?”
She shrugs as she looks at me. “I don’t.”
“Ah, is this one of the drawbacks of your very public job?” I ask instead. When she nods, I continue, hoping to just barrel my way through the fringes of awkwardness left behind by the shared interest in each other’s love lives. “In answer to your question: I like to read. I go to museums. I go see live music occasionally, but just local shows, because this body has officially aged out of the multi-day music festival. I like to travel, but don’t do it as much as I probably should. When I’m not doing Haven classes on the magazine’s dime, I run.”
That earns me a small, self-deprecating laugh from her. “I know what you mean about getting older. I can’t believe the shit my body used to tolerate. When you hit thirty, you cross this invisible threshold where suddenly you’re tired all the time and your hangovers last three days.”
“After recovering from Bonnaroo a few years ago, I said never again. ”
It’s so easy to talk to her that I lose all sense of time and space. We compare our favorite trips and find that we may have stayed at the same ski resort in Aspen a few years ago. We also discover that we’ve been at many of the same concerts over the years, from the flashy shows at Madison Square Garden to the more niche venues in the boroughs. Conversation shifts to books, movies, and TV shows when our order of nachos arrives. When I tell her my favorite show of all time is The Sopranos , she replies with an uncanny impersonation of Tony: “It’s a retirement community, ma!”
The bar begins to fill up as people get off work, but I can only see and hear Jo. She is the center of everything as she recalls the story of how she met Serena and Amber. It’s a tale of chance, a lucky Craigslist ad, and three young women who were relieved to find they were not rooming with a serial killer.
“I’m so glad we met each other when we did. I think we all came to the city at a time in our lives when we really needed friends,” she finishes with a wistful expression. “We moved out of that place once we all started making enough money to live on our own. All these years later and we’re still close.”
“Your friend Serena intimidates the hell out of me,” I admit.
Her head cocks to the side as she surveys me. “Interesting that you didn’t say Serena is intimidating.”
“It’s not her fault that she scares me,” I say with a shrug. “I can just tell that she’s smarter and more ruthless than me. That’s my own bullshit.”
Jo laughs, the sound filling me up with lightness and joy. “She is smarter than you. She’s smarter than me. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, aside from Amber. But Amber is a quiet kind of smart. That’s just their personalities.”
When the bartender comes around to offer another round of beers, both of us refuse on account of early mornings the next day. Even though I want nothing more than to extend this time a little longer, I sit quietly while Jo pays the check. I glance at the rest of the bar while she scribbles the tip. That’s when I notice them—the group of good-looking finance bros in matching light blue button-downs seated where the bar curves into the wall. They’re staring shamelessly at Jo.
I don’t blame them. But I don’t like it either.
Bolstered by three drinks and the tantalizing way Jo inquired about my relationship status, I reach over to brush her hair out of her face. She freezes as my fingers graze her cheek, her arm still shoved into the giant tote bag she carries. Her hair is impossibly silky as I tuck it behind her ear. When she looks up at me, her eyes are open and searching, and I swear there’s a force drawing us together, urging me closer.
I let my hand rest on her shoulder. My fingers twirl idly in the locks flowing freely down her back. She smiles at me—small, tentative, her red lipstick still flawless despite a platter of nachos and three beers of her own.
I want to kiss her. More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. Finally admitting this to myself after attempting to rationalize away the way she makes me feel is so fucking freeing I could scream in relief.
Even though this clarity eases some of that pressure that’s been idling under the surface since the day I was assigned this story, I have a job to do. A fissure forms as my heart cracks down the middle because I cannot, in good conscience, make a move on a subject. Professional ethics aside, Jo has no idea that I manipulated my way into her life. I have to right that wrong before anything happens between us.
Because if I kiss her, it will mean something to me.
“Ready?” I ask, my voice a little choked.
Her mouth slips into a frown, her brows flattening, before she arranges her face into a placid, neutral expression. But though it was brief, I know what I saw—disappointment, maybe even frustration. I know because I feel it too.
Jo says nothing as she nods, throws her purse over her shoulder, grabs her garment bag, and slides off her barstool. I’m right behind her, my hand falling to her lower back as I escort her out of the bar. I don’t need to look in the corner to know the Goldman Sachs crew are watching her leave with me.
It’s another humid, sticky summer night outside. We stop at the corner of two streets, where the pale orange glow of a streetlight brings out the natural golden hues in her hair. When she turns to face me, our hands graze, but instead of holding on to her like I want to, I let her fingers slip away.
She cranes her face to look at me, but not by much considering how tall she is. “Do you want to share a car back to Manhattan together?” she asks, her voice low and quiet.
I nod and finagle my phone out of my jeans to request an Uber. While we wait for a RAV4 to pick us up, we watch the busy Brooklyn thoroughfare as the night deepens around us. It’s an easy, comfortable silence. Our bodies lean toward each other, as if that magnetic force keeps drawing us together.
When we’re tucked in the back seat of a stranger’s SUV together, she sighs and leans her head back against the headrest, eyes fixed on the world outside. As discreetly as I can, I watch the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge filter through the windows, bathing Jo in alternating slices of light and shadow. She looks tired—weary even—and I wonder if it’s the day catching up to her, or if there’s something she hasn’t told me.
Every fiber of my being wants nothing more than to reach across the seat and thread my fingers through hers—anything to show her that I don’t want this night to end, that what I feel for her goes beyond professional or Just Friends. But I know we have a lot of work left to do for the article. I need at least two more sessions with her on record speaking openly about her journey with Haven. I need to tell her the truth about how we met.
So I have no choice but to give Jo what I can—and for now that means sitting here with her while the Batman Forever soundtrack emits from the SUV’s speakers.