Epilogue Silas
ONE YEAR LATER
From its place on the kitchen counter, my phone dings. My hands are full with a charcuterie board piled high with meat, cheese, fruit, and nuts, so I ignore it as I shuffle my way into the living room. Once the food is safe on the coffee table, I go about lighting the extraordinary number of candles set around the space. I’m on the third one when my phone dings again, again, and again, and so I return to the kitchen with a furrowed brow.
My home screen tells me I have four texts from Jo.
I’m running late
My appointment ran long and two Uber drivers canceled on me.
I’m in a cab now but 7th Ave is a mess
Serena is already on her way
As I’m reading, she sends another one, but it’s just five crying emojis in a row. I respond as quickly as my thumbs allow:
It’s ok! Everything is ready here.
Jo has made great strides with her anxiety now that her life is completely different, but some things never change. Not that I’d want them to. She hates nothing more than being late.
It’s even worse when she’s the one hosting the party.
Technically it’s us hosting this party, but I have to give credit where credit is due. While I helped clean and prep the apartment we now share, Jo is the one who ordered the beautiful charcuterie board, fruit tray, and crudité platter from the French bistro around the corner. She selected the wine—a stressful experience, as our mixed friend group has varying tastes—and I dutifully lugged all ten bottles four blocks home.
Home.
We fell in love with this gorgeous, cozy, pre-war apartment the minute we saw it. However, it took us a while to get to this point, both literally and figuratively. Once Jo and I found the rhythm of our relationship and she settled into her new job, we toured dozens and dozens of apartments together, only for them to get ripped out from underneath our feet by renters with more aggressive tactics. We got smarter, though, and developed a strategy. By the time we found this place, we’d arrived for our showing armed with a bouquet of fresh flowers, a bottle of Veuve, and enough cash to pay the security deposit plus first and last month’s rent. We signed the lease while a line of people waited to see it in the building’s hallway.
And now? Now, this place is ours, with its original crown molding, shiny hardwood floors, and fully updated kitchen. Every night, we sleep side by side in the bed we share, surrounded by mementos of the memories we’ve made. No more hauling our overnight bags all over Lower Manhattan; no more nights spent in separate beds, wishing the other person were there.
No more Haven Home bikes, either. We both sold our bikes before moving in.
For the last month, we’ve been chipping away at unpacking and decorating. The art and photos are finally on the walls—including the gaudy frame I bought during our impromptu visit to the thrift store last year, with a fresh picture of the two of us at Amber and Derek’s wedding—and the place has been thoroughly cleaned. We’re ready for our first ever housewarming party.
Just as I’m lighting the last candle—man, Jo really loves candles—there’s a knock at the door. Straightening my shirt, I check my reflection in the small mirror hung next to it, opening it once I’m sure there’s no food in my teeth.
“Serena! Welcome!”
Her face is as cold and impassive as ever when she glides into the apartment on shiny black heels, a very expensive looking handbag dangling from her wrist. Jo told me she’d helped Serena pick it out when she was promoted to senior partner. Jo also told me how much it cost, which is how I know that Serena could afford to hire a hit man if I ever do Jo dirty again.
“Hey, Silas. Where’s Jo?”
“She had a hair appointment uptown that ran a little late. She’s on her way.”
Since Jo started the first Monday-through-Friday job of her life, she’s learned the pitfalls of the nine-to-five grind. Her old Haven schedule allowed her to make appointments and run errands in the middle of the day, but now she’s subjected to evenings and weekends like the rest of us suckers. The tradeoff has been worth it, though; she’s now a part of a broad but ambitious partnership between a sportswear company and the New York Public Schools, designing and implementing a physical education curriculum for the mental health generation.
It’s a job she loves and one that she says she would never have gotten if it hadn’t been for my article, but I disagree. That’s all her.
In the end, it took Jo three months to quit her job at Haven. The new parent company considered her “mission critical,” so it took weeks of confidential planning before the announcement went public. As a writer, I understood why; Haven and Limelight wanted to frame the narrative in a positive light, to celebrate Jo’s legacy and mark her departure as the start of a new chapter for both Jo and the company. Her final ride was held the day before Thanksgiving, an enormous streaming production that required dozens of extra bikes to be jammed into the studio. I rode directly behind Mike and Z, with Amber and Serena a few bikes over. During the final run home, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, and I’d guess that most of the 30,000-odd clients riding from their homes cried too.
“Ah.” This is all Serena says as she slowly walks the length of the living room. Her astute eyes look everywhere but at me as she surveys the space. Suffice to say that Serena is not my biggest fan, but I’ve been chipping away at her dislike for me ever since she returned from Tokyo.
“Can I get you something to drink? Wine, maybe, or seltzer?” I ask.
“White wine would be great,” she replies. “Pinot gris if you have it.”
“Coming right up.”
Once my back is turned, I stifle a grin. Of course we have pinot gris; Jo picked it specifically for her.
I’ve just handed her a glass of her favorite label wine when the front door flies open. Both of us jump at the sudden movement only to freeze once Jo emerges from the other side of the threshold, looking frazzled as she brushes her hair out of her face.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Jo says as she throws her purse onto the bench next to the door. “The fucking traffic was ridiculous.”
For my part, I’m frozen because I’m floored by how good she looks. It takes me a second to realize what’s changed about her, but Serena beats me to the punch.
“Your hair!” Serena cries, eyes wide in shock. This is the most emotion I’ve ever seen the woman display.
Jo blushes immediately and runs her fingers through her tresses. “Oh yeah. Kind of a big change for me.”
I don’t have the verbiage to articulate exactly what’s changed—admittedly I am not an expert on women’s hair—but I do know that whatever the hell she did looks hot. Her dark mane falls below her shoulders, so most of the length is still there, but it drapes differently, framing her face with gentle sweeping locks. Layers, maybe?
“I can’t believe you got bangs,” Serena says.
Oh, yeah—that’s it. Sweeping, long-ish bangs that kiss her cheeks and make those eyes I love so much pop even more.
“Curtain bangs,” Jo corrects.
“Whatever they’re called, they look fucking incredible,” I say, closing the small distance between us in two quick steps. I kiss her, lingering a little longer than necessary, and breathe a small sigh of relief when I feel some of the tension ease from her body.
“Thank you.” Those words, that small curve of her mouth, are just for me. Jo pulls away, looking decidedly less bashful than she did when she first arrived, and heads for the bedroom. “Give me five minutes to change. I’ll be right out.”
Colin arrives just as Jo closes the bedroom door. In a tailored blue suit made of fine linen, he looks more dapper than he did during our time working together at Metropolitan. His new job heading up the entire editorial team at R Jo ribs Mike endlessly about his new title of VP of Programming and Instruction, which means that Mike is now in charge of all of Haven’s instructor training, so he teaches fewer classes. Colin is pelted with questions about the various celebrities that come through R Jo hates surprises, so the occasional bouquet of flowers or spontaneous dinner date is generally her limit. We’ve already made it through what I can only hope will be the worst fight of our relationship. There’s no need for showy, flashy events or exchanges.
And yet, we still choose each other. Every day. Because love is a choice, even when it’s difficult. And I will always choose Jo—the diamond ring I have on hold at the jeweler is a testament to that.
A year or so ago, if someone had asked me where I thought I’d be now, I never would have said this—sharing a home with the woman I love, surrounded by our friends, dreaming up a future with limitless possibilities.
I would have been wrong, then. And that would have been a good thing, because if nothing else, I’ve learned that sometimes being wrong is so much better than being right.