Chapter Thirty Silas
Chapter Thirty
Silas
T he day after the Fourth of July, I email Colin and tell him we need to meet ASAP. I don’t care that Monday is technically a company holiday. Once I realized that Jo had blocked my number—after my fourth attempt at calling her, no less—time didn’t matter anymore. I spend the remainder of my holiday weekend lying in my bed, too upset with myself to do anything other than wallow in my own misery.
On Tuesday morning, I march into Colin’s office and tell him everything. I confess all my sins that stemmed from this one fucking assignment. My voice wavers when I tell him how Jo stormed out of my apartment on Sunday, furious and heartbroken.
In the end, I resign. My friend doesn’t need an HR nightmare because of my actions.
For a moment, he simply stares at me, too stunned to speak, the whites of his eyes tinged with red from lingering holiday exhaustion. Then he orders me to sit in his office while he reads the final copy I’d emailed him—admitting to not having even looked at it yet—so like a bad little schoolboy, I do. My breathing is steady as Colin pores over all 3,000 words. I’ve had enough time to come to terms with the professional consequences of my actions.
When he finishes, he eyes me over the rims of his glasses and says, “This isn’t what Jo saw.”
“No.”
“She saw the first draft, the one I warned you not to get us sued over?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” He sighs then, his eyes closing as he rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to run this article as it is minus some minor edits. I’m going to personally email it to Haven’s PR team to get ahead of the jump. If we’re lucky, they’ll see it before Jo says anything to them. If she says anything to them. Also, I don’t accept your resignation.”
“What?” I ask.
“You heard me,” he replies, his tone short and irritated as he crosses his arms over his chest. “This isn’t something worth resigning over. Give me some time to figure out what to do with you, but you’re not quitting and I’m not firing you.”
“Colin, I slept with a subject—”
He fixes me with a stare so murderous I promptly shut up. “So you said. But this happened after the story was written, correct? Ultimately the angle of the story is a misunderstanding that can be cleared up once the issue goes to print. As far as the magazine goes, we should be fine. Your personal life is a different story.” Another sigh, followed by a shake of his head. “This explains some things, though. I knew you were hiding something. Not to mention Jo this morning. Sheesh.”
The numbness I’ve grown accustomed to over the last couple days is quickly eclipsed by a jolt of longing so intense I very nearly cry. In all my selfish wallowing, I forgot that Colin rides with the woman I love nearly every day—including Tuesday mornings, when she teaches a streaming class. “What do you mean? Did you ride with her? How was she?”
“She tried to murder us. The things she asked us to do… it’s not human, Silas.”
All of this to say: that’s how I end up with a $3,000 Haven bike shoved into my tiny kitchenette.
I don’t care that I can’t use the oven anymore. It won’t open because the rear part of the bike frame is shoved right against it. This bike is the only window I have left to her, especially after the flower shop and bakery both told me that Jo refused delivery of my apology gifts. She didn’t so much as glance at the manila envelope I’d asked them to deliver with both; it had been my last-ditch effort to provide Jo with the real article before the issue went to print.
Short of showing up at her apartment uninvited—which would put me in stalker territory, and likely jail—I’m out of options. Jo has made it abundantly clear that she wants nothing more to do with me. Consumed so deeply by the guilt and shame I feel over everything that’s happened between us, I don’t even care that I had to fork over an extra $750 for an expedited shipping fee. I ordered it the same day I tried and failed to quit my job. It arrived at my apartment a week later.
Haven Home asks you to choose a username, which is displayed publicly on a leaderboard if you want it to be, so I pick “invisiblem0nster.” Every single chance I get, I tune in to ride with Jo.
I’m never prepared.
I’m never prepared for how much it hurts to see her, all done up in stage makeup, her long hair flowing down her back and shoulders. I’m never prepared for the way it feels like she’s talking right to me , not the other thousands of clients clipped in. I’m never prepared for the words that come out of her mouth.
She’s different now. She’s raw and open. She always leaned in to the drama, allowing us a peek at the way this whole experience makes her feel, but now she’s on another level. She’s candid in the ways that she couldn’t be before, but the cameras still find her when she slaps a hand to her sweaty chest and says things like, “That burn in your legs is a reminder that you’re still alive. Look at how far you’ve come. Don’t stop now.”
More often than not, I have to choke back tears when the ride ends.
I ride as hard as she asks me to. I give it all I’ve got over and over again. All the sadness and heartache that I feel is channeled into my pedal stroke. I’m angry too—at myself, for getting it so wrong to begin with, for lying to her when we first met, for giving her the opportunity to see that bullshit first draft. I can tell she’s mad by her playlists. There’s a lot of System Of A Down and Nine Inch Nails and classic breakup songs. Frankly, it slaps.
More than anything, I’m so, so, so fucking sorry, but she’s made sure I have no way of telling her this.
Except, of course, the actual article that will run. She’ll see it, right? There’s no way a person can ignore a photo of themselves on the cover of a magazine. Jo’s will might be ironclad, but not even she can resist the temptation of at least opening the issue. Right?
Right?
This lingering kernel of hope is what keeps me going. It’s the reason I pull myself out of bed after sleeping nine hours yet feeling like I haven’t slept at all. It’s the reason I choke down food without tasting it. Eventually this hope threads itself through me, becoming a part of who I am. The print run for this issue is scheduled for the very end of the month.
I just have to make it until August, when issues start to hit newsstands and the digital edition goes live.
A week and a half after my bike delivery, I’m standing in the kitchen of the Metropolitan office. I’m numbly stirring my coffee after having just received a vocal beatdown from Colin now that he’s decided on my disciplinary action. Officially, we’re calling it a “verbal warning for professional misconduct.” That’s what’s going in my HR file for putting the magazine’s reputation at risk. Colin was careful to omit actual details from the documentation, but he wasn’t shy about telling me what he really thought of my antics. Words like “horny dumbass” and “flagrant idiot” were thrown around.
I deserved every word.
“Silas? Are you on this planet?”
I turn to my left, where I’m surprised to find Mia standing next to me. Her black hair is pulled back into a perfect, tight bun, save for her bangs, which hover over her brows in their usual sharp line. She gives me a critical once-over before she reaches for the sugar packets, which I’m blocking with my body. “I don’t know how this is possible, Silas, but you somehow look great but also like total shit.”
I can’t even muster a witty response.
“What’s going on with you? Are you okay?” she asks as she dumps a few packets of sugar into her cup.
“I bought a Haven bike,” I reply. Mia has no idea why I bought a bike or what led me to this miserable existence I’m inhabiting now; Colin agreed to keep my indiscretion between us and HR. I hope this tidbit of information will at least get her off my back.
It doesn’t. “Are you chasing every ride with a handle of whiskey or something?”
Suddenly I’m so tired that my eyes inadvertently close. My hands shake as I bring my mug to my lips. The coffee is already lukewarm.
“Is this about the copy for the Haven article?” she asks. “Because I read it, and honestly, it’s some of your best work yet.”
Good god—does this woman ever let up? “It’s not.”
I leave Mia standing in the kitchen and take my almost-cold coffee back to my desk. When I open up my laptop, I find an email from Colin sitting at the top of my inbox, time-stamped just minutes ago. The subject line reads: “FW: RE: Metropolitan Haven feature—Sept.” My stomach somersaults as I click into the email.
Hi Colin,
I appreciate the early look at the feature. All good on our end——can’t wait to see this in print!
Cheers,
Tracey Donovan
Head of PR & Marketing
Haven Fitness, Inc.
There’s no accompanying message from Colin. The rest of the email chain is just a polite corporate prelude and a PDF of the finished article. Still, it’s enough to feed the delicate bud of hope that’s taken up residence in my chest.
August. I just have to make it to August. Jo will see the article. She’ll know how I really feel. Whether or not she comes back to me is irrelevant at this point. I just need her to know that I was wrong about her in the beginning, but I respect her now. I see her for who she is and love her even more for it. My penance will be paid, and I can start to piece myself back together.
Until then, I have the bike.