Chapter Twenty-Two Silas
Chapter Twenty-Two
Silas
T he Hamptons are a blur. No matter how much fresh lobster and rosé I’m plied with, I can’t stop thinking about Jo.
Not even the sight of my old friends or the pristine white beaches of their very expensive vacation houses are enough to pull my mind out of her small apartment in the Village. Every social interaction feels like I’m watching it all happen from above. I maintain a constant level of tipsiness that keeps me one hairsbreadth away from a dissociative state.
Thankfully, this is expected in the Hamptons.
I’m not wealthy enough to afford a week-long stay in New York City’s summer hideout, so I take the jitney back to the city on Monday afternoon. The rest of the week is filled with playing catch-up from taking a long weekend. This is all complicated by the fact that I’m bringing, at best, my C-plus game to work.
When I play back the audio of our last interview, my heart breaks.
In a way, it reminds me of myself, all those years ago, in a little office of the BU student health center, where a patient older woman named Kathy looked at me with empathetic eyes. Kathy was the first medical professional I’d ever seen outside of my family doctor and dentist; the concept of a therapist had been foreign to me when I first arrived at BU.
It had been Derek’s suggestion that I see someone after I slept too much, ate too little, and flopped hard on my first major assignments. I’d been at risk of losing my scholarship, deep in my feelings about losing my dad, missing the home I both loved and hated, and drowning in the fast-paced hustle of city and college life. But I sat down with Kathy for my first session, took a deep breath, and unloaded everything I carried with me. I cried myself into a headache, then walked out of her office with a follow-up appointment scheduled, a prescription for an anti-depressant, and a newfound feeling of clarity.
It’s not that I pity Jo. No, it’s the opposite, actually—I’m so fucking proud of her for overcoming what she went through, and then making the conscious decision to put herself out there again. The national conversation around mental health is shifting, but it’s happening slowly. People are less afraid to speak about their own issues, which in turn is helping create a normalcy around the subject as a whole. Coming from someone who considers my own anti-depressant essential to my daily life, I know this is sorely needed. Getting help was a lot harder ten years ago.
No, my heart breaks in the way that you never want someone you care about to suffer. It hurts to hear their pain, even though you weren’t involved. You want to fix it, to help in some way, but the truth is the act of talking about it is fixing it. It’s the chance to heal.
This piece will put Jo at the forefront of the mental health movement, at least for a little while. Having someone like Jo speak publicly about her struggles will no doubt help normalize the experience for other people who have gone through something similar. She has the potential to reach millions with the size of her platform. Her story is about a breakdown, yes, but also about dreams and hopes and bravery, and the struggle to stay true to yourself while setting boundaries. This is what I remind myself of every time my fingers tap the keyboard.
I have to do her story justice.
Did I do the right thing when I left her alone that Friday? She promised me she was fine, that she really just wanted to wash her face and sleep. I had laundry to do and an eight A.M. bus to catch, so I relented. Between sleeping in the same bed and happy hour drinks and hugging on her couch, I know I’ve already crossed the line. There’s no going back for me.
But I can, at the very least, move forward with my last shred of professional dignity.
This article is so close to being done; all I need from Jo is one more session on the record for a few follow-up questions. The idea that we could be done soon is akin to a knife to the chest. I don’t want this to be over.
But I cannot pursue anything—romantic or otherwise—until her interviews are complete. Beyond that, I need to tell her the truth about how we met. Even if I’m manufacturing a mutual attraction in my head and she doesn’t think of me romantically in any way, shape, or form, I’d still like to be her friend when all of this is over. I actually like the person she is, and we have a startling amount in common. And friends deserve the truth—even if that means I have to come clean about the fact that I manipulated both her and Derek.
This is the morally gray area that I’ve decided to camp in. After consulting both the journalistic code of ethics I kept from college, along with Metropolitan ’s HR and code of conduct policy, I’ve learned that there are no explicit rules barring a writer from entering into a relationship with a subject once the work commitment ends. There’s a lot of talk about “professionalism” and “do no harm,” of course. Leave it to us literary types to use words as both armor and a weapon for our own self-destruction.
With all this weighing on my mind, plus my actual deadline, I need to have finished these interviews, like, yesterday. So I text Jo, hoping we can find some time to talk once I’m back from my second—and final—Hamptons trip.
Hey! Got time for one final interview next week? Probably a short one.
I check the time—it’s early evening. She’s teaching. It’ll be a while before I hear back, so I lace up my running shoes, slip my phone into my armband, and pray that this run distracts me enough that I’ll forget how much I miss her.
Being invited to Jo’s home not once, not twice, but three times is a gift. Granted, the first time I was here I shoehorned my way into the situation, but it worked out in the end. I know that, for her, it’s a sign of trust to be let into her private space.
It’s Thursday evening—night, really, considering the time. I’ve shaken off the last of my Hamptons hangover-induced brain fog and am meeting Jo after she’s taught her last class of the day. Standing under the porch light of her building, watching moths flutter aimlessly around the glass globe, I feel an immense sense of gratitude. Not for the first time either.
I’m grateful for this assignment—for Colin pushing me, even as I initially considered it a waste of time. It’s changed my perception of the brand, and more importantly its star instructor. Never in a million years did I think I would end up as a part of Jo’s journey.
Really, I’m just lucky to be here.
I push the buzzer button next to the cracked label with the name DE LA CRUZ printed on it. She answers immediately. “Silas?”
“Yep.”
I’m buzzed inside and make my way upstairs. There’s no need for me to even knock; Jo’s standing in the door to her apartment when I reach her hallway, old floorboards creaking under my feet. A grin spreads across my face of its own accord.
Jo in that strappy black dress was one thing. Jo, freshly showered, skin dewy, hair wet and clean, in the coziest set of tie-dye pajamas I’ve ever seen? It’s a whole other experience.
She smiles too, and I find myself as nervous as I was the first time she turned the full force of her attention on me at The Greenhouse. It’s clear she has that X factor bestowed upon some people. She makes you feel seen, if not a little bit scared, whenever she looks at you.
As Mia told me the day I was assigned this story: “If you know, you know.”
Well, now I know.
She steps aside to let me into her home. “I promise not to blubber and cry this time,” she says as she closes the door behind me. “I got all of that out the last two times.”
I face her so there’s no mistaking the sincerity in my voice. “Even if you do, it’s okay.” Our gazes hold for a long, quiet moment before her lips tug up into a small smile. I place my hand over my chest as I add, “When you’re here, you’re family.”
She huffs a laugh before grabbing two LaCroixs out of the fridge. “You still owe me a trip to Olive Garden.”
“All in due time,” I reply. “I promise.”
“I can’t believe you’re not tired of hearing me talk about myself yet,” she says.
“I could never get tired of you talking about yourself.”
“How were the Hamptons, by the way?” she asks as she hands me a drink.
“Oh, the usual,” I reply with a dramatic sigh. “Lots of WASPs drinking Aperol spritzes like it’s their job, fabulous sunsets, fresh seafood. I live a very difficult life.”
She nods solemnly. “I’ll pray for you.”
After claiming my usual spot on the couch, I unload the interview necessities from my backpack. Jo takes her seat opposite me and runs her hands through her wet hair. The action shakes loose fragrant notes of something sweet, almost tropical. It’s the same scent from when I first met her at the bar.
“Is that”—I pause to sniff the air around me—“banana?”
“And coconut, yes,” she replies with a sheepish look. “It’s my conditioner. Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. You smell like a vacation.”
The sight of her fresh-faced and comfortable, surrounded by that delicate scent, sends my thoughts to a very indecent place. I have to fake a cough and fidget in my seat to stop myself from going somewhere I have no business being—not yet, at least.
One more interview. You can do this, Silas.
I glance at her before turning the recording device on. She nods, her face set in familiar determination. It’s how she looks before performing some unbelievably difficult feat on the bike. The face of her pushing through resistance.
With the recorder running, I lean back into the couch and position my pen over the notepad. “So, I just have a few questions today, starting with the most common criticism of the brand,” I begin. “Some say that Haven is a cult, or cult-adjacent. How do you feel about comments like that?”
She gives me an eye roll and a derisive laugh, and then she says, “Cult-adjacent? That’s a new one.”
“I did see an Instagram comment on one of your pictures that said, ‘we bow to our queen.’” I poke her bare leg playfully with the end of my pen. “And that was one of the tamer ones.”
“It’s tongue-in-cheek,” she replies with a smirk. “The way I see it, there’s always going to be people who want to shit on others for enjoying something. Doesn’t matter if it’s a spin class or pumpkin spice lattes or artists like Taylor Swift and Beyoncé—the bigger something gets, the bigger a target it becomes. Haters are always going to pass judgment on people, but I think the community is what most Haven clients really connect with. It isn’t just us instructors they come back for. It’s the other riders too. Critiquing the classes or brand actions is fair game, I guess, but critiquing the clients? Not so much. Why can’t people just let others enjoy things?”
A fair point—one that would have been a strike against the earliest version of the article, if I had chosen to pursue that angle. Guilt flares in my chest when I think about that zero draft. I’d been so quick to judge—not just Jo, but everything about Haven, including its clients.
While I have rightfully earned my title as a part-time hater, it’s just that: part-time. I still enjoy pop music and blockbusters and read books that hit the New York Times bestseller list. This whole experience with Jo is a much-needed reminder that I like and enjoy all those things, mainstream as they may be.
I clear my throat and glance down at my notes to get back on track. “On a related topic—do you think the fitness industry preys on people’s fears and insecurities? Why or why not?”
“The industry as a whole?” she asks before chewing her bottom lip. “Maybe. But in the end, it boils down to the instructors and the coaches, right? I mean, I never talk about achieving certain body image goals like six-pack abs or losing weight or whatever. And I mean literally never. That’s not my place. Everyone’s reason for exercising is different. All I ask of the people in my classes is that they give it all they’ve got.”
I resist the urge to look at her athletic body when she says this. Instead, I ask, “Was that a conscious decision in the company? To not talk about weight loss and the like?”
“Yes, from the very beginning,” she says with a nod. “Back when it was just Mike, Z, and me. We never wanted any of it to feel shameful. We instill that same message in the new instructors.”
“Where do you see Haven headed? What’s the future of the brand look like?” I ask.
She hesitates, her breathing catching ever so slightly. Her head angles to the left, her eyes losing focus as she stares at the candle flickering on the bookshelf. “I think Haven is just getting started,” she says finally. Her gaze returns to me as a slow, curious smile works across her face.
“The company is ten years in. Can you elaborate on that?” I parry back.
She shakes her head. Damp waves tumble down her shoulders. On my notepad, I write, re: Haven future, no comment. I had expected this line of questions to go further, so I have no choice but to pivot.
“On a more personal note,” I start, after consulting my notes, “how does your family feel about this job?”
“My parents are, in a word, proud,” she replies. “It took them a while to understand what I actually do for a living, especially since there was no home bike at first. They would always ask me, ‘Mija, what do you mean the bike goes nowhere? Pero, like, it has wheels, no?’” She pauses to laugh at the imitation of her parents’ Spanglish, then shares a lighter, easier version of the story she shared with me previously.
“It would be hard to envision what this job might look like, because it didn’t really exist before,” I respond.
“There were the greats of the fitness world before Haven,” she says. “The Jane Fondas and the Billy Blankses and Richard Simmonses who taught us how to exercise in the privacy of our own homes. But, yeah, the rise of Haven happened in the Internet age, so it’s different.”
“This brings me to my next question, which you touched on a little yesterday: Do you consider yourself famous?”
She tosses her head back and lets out an overly dramatic sigh. “Didn’t we cover this the night we met?”
“I seem to recall us not agreeing on anything that night.”
“Yeah, because you were wrong,” she replies.
Oh, she doesn’t even know the half of it. “Humor me, please? Now that we’re recording.”
“Fine. Do I consider myself famous? Yes and no,” she says after a thoughtful pause. “Not in the traditional sense of the word. Paparazzi don’t hound me outside of restaurants and I don’t walk red carpets or anything. But we aren’t just social media influencers either. We have a separate job that does put us in the public eye but in a very personal way. We’re literally in people’s homes, you know? We shout out to people for birthdays and anniversaries and Haven milestones. Our clients connect to us in varying degrees, especially the ones who have been riding with us since the early days.”
“I think what I keep coming back to is the parasocial relationship aspect,” I muse. “That’s the hallmark of fame—that disconnect where people feel like they truly know a celebrity because they’re exposed to them so much. But all of us, even Hollywood superstars, pick and choose what to present to the world.”
She nods slowly, eyes bright, urging me on. I think I’m finally seeing what she’s been talking about for all these weeks.
“But at the same time,” I continue, “what you have with your clients isn’t just one-sided, is it? You interact directly with a lot of them. You see some of them in person every single week.”
“Holy shit, Silas.” She puts both hands over her heart. “I think you’ve got it.”
I lightly toss one of the decorative pillows at her. “Hey, I’m a slow learner sometimes. I got there eventually.”
She bites back a smile and tosses the little green cushion on the floor. “I’m sorry.”
I pivot from my own shortcomings by saying, “How do you feel about the Haven meme pages?”
“Are you asking me about the Instagram page for my hair?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.
“I mean, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. There are several thousand people with a vested interest in this very topic.”
I can tell she’s trying very hard not to blush as she says, “It’s just further proof of the community of it all. People bond over it. It’s really not that serious.”
“Some of those clips are very dramatic,” I tease.
“Pretty on brand for me, then.”
“People are going to love how self-aware you are.” I mean it.
She snorts—honest to god, snorts —and says, “We’ll see about that.”
I skim through the various scribbles I’ve left for myself in my notebook over the last few weeks. We’ve covered almost everything I need, which is ironic considering Jo wouldn’t even speak on the record when we first started.
I opt for one more question, just for fun. “If you weren’t a Haven instructor, what would you be doing for a living?”
Those big, expressive eyes cloud with a sadness I wasn’t expecting. It jolts me, sending a wave of regret that raises goose bumps down my arms. It’s not Silas the Interviewer who’s experiencing this shame; this job often requires me to ask people difficult questions. But Silas the Friend? He never wants to be the reason Jo looks like that, with a melancholy sort of longing that I want to soothe by any means necessary.
“I don’t know,” she replies softly. “Helping people, in some way.”
I shut off the recorder and set my notebook and pen on the coffee table.
“Well, you did it,” I say. “You made it through an entire interview series, on the record!”
“Damn. It only took several hand-holding sessions to get there.”
She rubs her face and groans. I pull her hands away, encasing them in my own. “Hey. No self-deprecation allowed. We got there, in the end.”
Her eyes drop to our intertwined fingers. “Yeah, but what happens when the monsters aren’t invisible anymore? Now I get to be anxious about what everyone will say when they find out I lost my shit and kept it a secret for years.”
“Well, I can’t speak for everyone who will read this article, but I will say this: there’s an enormous amount of strength in vulnerability,” I reply. “Just think about how many people have responded to you being more open in class. We can be honest about what makes us who we are, and people love us all the more for it. At least, the people that matter.”
When she looks up, we’re closer than before, our bodies leaning toward each other as if on instinct. The scent of coconut and something else—something light and clean, almost powdery—fills the air, clouding my thoughts.
It’s the most intoxicating scent I’ve experienced in my life.
“Do you really believe that?” she asks.
“That people will love you for all that you are? Yes. A hundred percent. Irrevocably.”
Her response is to tilt her face toward mine. My body responds of its own accord—my hands gripping hers, my blood pumping furiously in my veins. Pulse loud in my ears, I lean in, until our faces are just inches from each other.
The interviews are done. The gates of my morally gray campground have been unlocked. But— but —I have yet to tell her the truth about how we met. And the article isn’t published yet.
My gaze drops to her lips—bare and impossibly soft, no lipstick or shiny gloss to hide the tiny, faint freckle on the peak of her upper lip. How have I never noticed that before?
For what feels like a lifetime, we hover there, the space between us so small I can feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. Those big, expressive eyes with their delicate flecks of gold seem to glow as they dart all over my face. The atmosphere becomes heavy and dense, as if all the oxygen has been pulled away.
I thought I wanted to kiss her back in Brooklyn, but that feeling is nothing compared to this.
I stay as still as I can, keeping myself leashed, waiting for her to give me a sign that this is okay. She does just that when she untangles her hands from mine and trails them up my stomach, my chest, my neck. Her fingers brush through my hair, shifting the curls off my forehead, and I barely manage to hold in a groan.
It’s a light, tentative touch to ask— do you like that?
I respond by cupping her face— do you want this?
We lock eyes, our shared gaze burning, as we finally meet in the middle. Her lips press against mine, gentle and sweet. My breath hitches on contact.
My restraint snaps when she hums with pleasure, and I kiss her the way I’ve wanted to for days.