Chapter Twenty-Four Silas
Chapter Twenty-Four
Silas
T he city’s having one of those brutally hot summer nights. Despite the low-hanging sun and the rush of wind stirred up by the East River, the humidity is impossibly thick, the air so oppressive it’s a wonder anyone chooses to live here at all.
I’m a sticky mess by the time I arrive at the restaurant Derek chose for his birthday celebration. It’s a nondescript barbeque place—LONE STAR BBQ is hand-painted in black letters on a white exterior. Amber and Derek are waiting out front, hand in hand, though Amber’s struggling to keep the floaty hem of her yellow dress from flying up in the breeze.
“Happy birthday, man!” I call out.
We share a round of jovial greetings before we’re joined by two of Derek’s colleagues from school. I’m introduced to Andrew and Quinn—both teachers, of art and math, respectively—before Amber turns her intelligent, kind eyes to me.
“So, you’ve been interviewing Jo for the magazine, right?” she asks. “How’s that going?”
I’d expected this, especially after the first meeting with Serena, all those weeks ago. Jo’s friends are protective, which is understandable given what she’d been through. “We’re done with the interviews, actually. It went really well. My copy should be done soon.”
“Good,” she says, and she looks like she means it. “Speaking of—here comes the cover girl now.”
I turn to where Amber’s gaze is fixed, and every thought empties from my head. Jo is crossing the street toward us, marching across Third Avenue like she fucking owns it.
Clad in tiny denim shorts and some sort of breezy linen top knotted at her navel, Jo is 80 percent legs and 20 percent sass. Her hair billows out behind her in ribbons of mahogany and gold. When our eyes meet, her face transforms from the typical Do Not Bother Me Glare into a smile that transcends all time and space.
It’s that look, like she’s genuinely happy to see me standing there with her friends, that stokes that tiny flame right in my solar plexus. My kernel of hope that she and I will come out on the other side of this article together—whether as what I’m hoping for or as friends; that what happened between us on her couch meant as much to her as it did to me.
Funny that I used to think she wasn’t much more than the glamazon currently crossing the street.
“Hey!” she says, somewhat breathless as she reaches the final stretch of street. “Happy birthday, Derek!”
She goes in for a birthday hug, giving me additional time to admire her legs, which I’m fairly certain were shaped by the goddess Nike herself. Somewhat dazed, I watch as she greets the rest of the group before she finally rounds on me, her eyes bright and smile wide.
How is she always glowing?
She pauses, uncertainty radiating off her. “Hi.”
As much as I want to kiss the shiny pink gloss off her lips, I settle for a hug—the kind of strong embrace that not so subtly implies how happy I am to see her.
Her arms tighten around me while that strangely alluring tropical scent permeates my brain. I’ll never be able to look at bananas and coconut without thinking of her again. What a weird Pavlovian response.
“It’s good to see you,” I say as we disentangle from each other. “You look great.”
“Thanks!” She does the cutest little hop-twirl to showcase her outfit. “You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl.”
“Yeehaw, indeed.” As the others start to file into the restaurant, I stick close to Jo. “I’m surprised you were the last person to show up tonight. I think this is the latest I’ve ever seen you arrive to anything.”
She looks over her shoulder and gives me a smug smirk. “I’ve been circling the block for the last ten minutes.”
We’re seated at a picnic table layered with a white paper tablecloth, which bodes well for the authenticity of the food, in my opinion. Amber orders a round of specialty summer cocktails, and soon I find a pale yellow concoction decorated with grilled lemon slices in front of me. The smoky tang of tequila hits me on the first sip. I let the alcohol soothe my nervous heart as I try not to stare at Jo—and fail.
She’s across from me, not next to me as I’d hoped, given that there are six adults squeezed into one table. Conversation ambles on around us; I don’t have a lot to contribute, as the stories center on shared experiences between old friends and colleagues. I learn there are five or six others planning to join us at a bar after dinner. Occasionally I supply my own social anecdotes or laugh as if on cue.
When the first round of appetizers arrives, I catch Jo’s eyes lingering on me.
She’s quick to look away and blush over the mountain of fried foods between us. I can’t keep my eyes off her, not when she looks so cute being shy, and when her eyes slide back to me, it’s like stage lights being turned on. I could swear that the room darkens around me, the background noise of the restaurant falling into silence, as we offer each other tentative smiles.
I’m the first to break under the magnitude of our connection. I dive for a French fry with a shit-eating grin on my face.
I shake my head, and country music, conversation, the clatter of cutlery, and the orange glow of Edison bulbs hits me in a wave of sensations. The waitress drops off another round of drinks and takes our orders. I’m surprised to find my first cocktail is empty already. When Jo knocks back the last of hers, I can’t help but watch the way her throat works, struck with the need to kiss that beautiful neck.
God, I’d give anything just to touch her hair right now.
There’s a heated debate roiling on, and I offer my two cents. In the long-standing question of Star Trek versus Battlestar Galactica , I’m firmly on team Star Trek , which is one of the reasons Derek and I bonded at college. But to be a shit, I throw out a third contender and casually mention Doctor Who . This ignites a whole new fervor among Derek, Amber, and Quinn, in particular.
Andrew, appearing uninterested in this new vein of conversation, turns to Jo, who is watching the fight unfold with rapt attention. “So, Jo, what’s this I hear about you being a model now?”
She rolls her eyes. “Definitely not a model. Silas here”—she waves her drink at me—“wrote about me for his magazine, and they decided to put me on the cover.”
“Which magazine do you write for?” Andrew asks as he turns his attention to me.
“ Metropolitan. ”
“Oh! I read that every month!” he exclaims. “Wait—are you Silas Anders ? The one who profiled that Democratic senate hopeful a couple of months ago?”
“The very same,” I reply. I’m proud of that piece, not just for how it garnered Internet traffic, but because it meant something to me. That candidate went on to win her race and made history as one of the youngest women to ever hold a seat in Congress. Anytime I write about someone who becomes a trailblazer, I treasure the experience.
“Well, damn,” Andrew breathes. “I knew Jo was a big deal, but this is, like, really cool.”
“It’s all her.” I motion toward Jo with a fried pickle. “Do you ride with Jo?”
“At home, yeah.” Andrew pauses to take a long drink from his cocktail before continuing. “Can’t afford those studio prices on a teacher’s salary, but Quinn and I share a Haven Home bike. It’s funny that you’re covering her, because Quinn and I were just talking about this the other day. He has his favorite instructors, and I have mine. But why? Why do we gravitate toward different people? Why are some instructors more popular than others?” A thoughtful expression floats across the angular planes of his face. “Why do you think that is, Jo?”
She blinks at the sudden question. For a long minute, Jo swirls an ice cube in her mouth until, her brows furrowed, she responds, “Longevity has a lot to do with it, I think. Mike and I have been around forever. It takes time to build up your regulars. Now I’m at the point where I could teach a class with my eyes closed. I know so much music that I’m practically a human jukebox. Maybe that translates?”
“Maybe,” Andrew says, but he’s clearly not convinced. “Quinn rides with Mike because he thinks he’s hot, but what do you think, Silas? You’re the one digging into this, after all.”
“You’ll have to read the article to find out.” I wiggle my eyebrows comically.
The food arrives, and we become the best kind of barbarians. With fingers covered in various sauces, each of us destroys our platters of meats and potatoes in their many forms. I’m mid-discussion with Amber on the state of NYC’s tech industry when I feel a sandaled foot slide up my ankle. Startled, I drop my cornbread muffin onto my tray and sneak a glance at Jo. She’s looking away from me—locked in conversation with Andrew again—but I see the corner of her lips tug up.
She’s playing footsie with me.
Oh, I can partake in this game—so I do, sliding my sneaker up her exposed calf. Even though we’re not skin-to-skin, my body erupts into goose bumps. We continue through the rest of dinner; our feet tangle with no one the wiser. It’s only when Andrew pays the check and we’ve shared our Venmos with him that Jo and I break contact. I rise and wait for the group to trek toward the exit. Falling in beside Jo, I place my hand at the small of her back.
“Hey,” I say, leaning in close. “How did that place stack up against real Texas barbeque?”
She feigns a thoughtful expression. “Well, as a native of the Lone Star State, it’s my civic duty to defend authentic Texas barbeque until the day I die.”
“I assume the same goes for Tex-Mex?” I ask. “And Mexican food in general, for that matter?”
She cuts me a sidelong glance. “Don’t even get me started.”
Outside, we form a lazy line led by Derek and Amber. The next bar is only a few blocks away, so we all decide to walk off our meal. My hand slips away from Jo’s lower back as I fall into step beside her. Hot winds billow around us, sending her hair flying until she tames it into submission with a tie from her wrist.
“I don’t even know why I bother on days like this,” she mutters. “It’s too hot for hair, bras, clothes—all of it.”
It takes approximately two seconds for my brain to picture just that—Jo, naked, her hair piled up in one of those messy buns on her head, her body splayed out on my bed, every dip and curve of her on full display…
Clearing my throat, I force myself back to the present and scramble for something relevant—and not horny—to say. “That’s exactly why I refuse to move out of my current apartment. I have central AC.”
Her eyes widen, and for a moment I’m lost to the dark depths of her irises. “You have air conditioning?”
“Yep. And my shower actually drains, unlike my first place.”
“That wouldn’t be the case if you had hair like mine. My poor landlord has tried everything.”
One look at the sheer volume of her mane and I know that to be true. But before I can provide a witty retort, I’m transfixed by a restaurant we’re passing. Called Little Havana, it has every window open on this sticky summer night, so the interior music tumbles out onto the sidewalk. Jo slows to a stop beside me, her eyes fixated on the busy hustle inside.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she says, softly enough that I have to lean in close to hear her over the music.
“Do what? Waitress?” I tease.
“No,” she replies with a smirk. “Learn how to salsa dance.”
I follow her gaze to the small dance floor in the middle of the restaurant, just big enough for a handful of couples. There are only two people dancing, but they are moving —twisting and curling into each other, pivoting to the beat of the music, hips swaying as the man deftly leads the woman with expert body language.
“I grew up doing the cumbia as a kid, but salsa is different. Harder, I think,” she says. “Doesn’t it look fun, though?”
Before I can consider the fact that I have no experience dancing, I reply, “I’d go with you sometime.”
Her eyes slide to mine, surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Even I’m astonished by the conviction in my voice, bolstered by the desire just to make her happy. “I mean, if you’ll have me. I can’t guarantee I’ll be any good, but we could look at it like it’s one of your homework assignments.”
Her expression softens as she turns to face me fully. My heart—currently pounding against my chest—can barely handle being this close to her. Now that I know what it feels like to kiss her, to melt into her, every fiber of my being wants to do it again.
“A group project,” she murmurs, just as she slides her hands into mine.
“I’ve always been very good at those.” Her skin is impossibly soft as our fingers thread together. “I promise to put in my fair share of work.”
The moment I’ve been waiting for all night finally presents itself. I draw her closer, hesitating briefly just in case she doesn’t want to do this when her friends are around, but there’s no need. Her lips meet mine, and I no longer care that I’m guaranteed to look like an idiot when we go dancing someday.
The kiss is soft at first, a little shy and cautious, but it quickly devolves into something hungry and searching. Closing my eyes, I let go of her hands so that I can cup her face, her skin so smooth and supple beneath my fingers that it sends a shiver down my spine. She tastes sweet, almost like candy. The last logical neuron firing in my brain registers that it’s her lip gloss I’m actually tasting.
Her hands snake up my back as we become just tongues and lips and a hint of teeth on a New York City street. Nails drag against the fabric of my shirt just as she makes a tiny moan. It’s barely audible over of the rush of traffic and salsa music, but it’s enough to light me up inside. We kiss through the rest of the song, but I’m forced out of the bliss of her lips when a stranger bumps into me on their way inside the restaurant.
Panting, I hold her close so that our foreheads touch. In her wedge sandals, she’s as tall as I am, and when I open my eyes, I find that hers are still closed. Impossibly long lashes coated in a sweep of black fan out on her blushing cheeks. There’s a small smile on her lips, the gloss completely gone, so her full mouth is bare and plush. I’m filled with such an intense yearning that I can hardly stand still. I haven’t wanted someone this badly in years.
Possibly ever.
In a world of half-baked Tinder and Bumble and Hinge dates, the attraction I share with Jo is strange, almost foreign. I had been so determined not to like her at first; if it hadn’t been for the article, my feelings would have remained the same. But this peculiar brand of forced proximity has led me to places I’ve never been—I’ve never pursued a subject before, never considered dating a public figure, never been so outright wrong about something, or someone, in my life.
I swallow as large a breath as I can. Humid air fills my lungs but it’s not enough. It will never be enough so long as my secrets lurk in the background.
My own red flag—the one I neatly folded and tucked away to deal with later—unfurls in my mind’s eye.
I have to tell Jo that I lied to her. That I knew who she was all along.
I have to tell Derek that I used him to get to Jo.
I have to beg them both for forgiveness.
I should also probably pray that Serena doesn’t fly back from Tokyo just to punch me in the face.
Even though my moral compass is delayed—and technically, Jo kissed me —I know that tonight is not the night to dredge all this up. It’s Derek’s birthday; airing my transgressions during his celebration would make me an even bigger asshole than I already am.
“We should find the group,” I say.
“Yeah.” The word is a mumble as she pulls back and opens her eyes. The look she gives me—all wanton and a little bit sad—is enough to give me hope that this will all be okay in the end. She wants me too. I can feel it, see it, even.
I will tell her. As soon as the time is right.
For now, I’m content to let her take my hand and lead me to our friends across the street.