In Jacob's Arms

by Alicia Rades

  So I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve always believed in love, but I wasn’t always sure that I would find it. Today, as nervous as hell as I am to admit it, I feel like I can say that I’ve discovered love.

  Is it the taste of his kiss? Is it the ache I feel in my chest when he’s gone (believe me, I feel it!)? Or is it something that goes deeper than the physiological changes I feel when I think about him or when he’s around or when—God, yes—he touches me?

  I think I have an answer, but it’s not one that I can completely share with you freely, because my love for the man I’m with is not the same love that you’ll feel with your partner.

  My sort of love is one of desire, passion, and connection. It is an undeniable feeling of happiness and pleasure. It is a phenomenon that I cannot put into words.

  Although I cannot give you a definition for love, I can tell you that I think I’ve found it.

  My hands are trembling as I type, and I think it’s out of exhilaration of my memories with Jacob, but I’m not entirely sure. Sometimes I have a tough time understanding what my body is trying to say, and now is one of those moments.

  As I reread my post for errors, I briefly wonder if I’m stuck in that “Love Vision” tunnel. How does this guy that I’ve spent so little time with have such an effect on me? Is it really love? I try not to look into the subject too much. I want it to be, and each time I read the word “love” in my post, my heart flutters. Is that what love is?

  I hit publish, my heart racing. I just shared my deepest, most inner thoughts with the entire world, and I don’t care. I know that Juliet is going to race to my blog the first chance she gets to see what new things I have to say. I’m not sure if Jacob will research my website and read my words, but I don’t mind if he does. I don’t care that my 120K Twitter followers are about to find out that I recently made love. I want the world to know, despite my unsteady fingers that tell me otherwise.

  As I think about Jacob researching my blog to check it out, I realize that the time has come to reveal the secret of my childhood. He is bound to find out sooner than later, and I want him to find out from me, not from a Google search.

  The only problem I have is that I don’t want to tell him over the phone, so I decide that I will schedule our next date as soon as possible so that I can tell him. I don’t want to hide anything from him, and I don’t want him to feel like I betrayed him by not telling him. I am ready to completely share myself with him, and that includes my past. I am putting all my trust in him, and by now, I don’t think he’ll judge me for it. He said he likes me and made love to me before he knew any of it. This realization makes my heart race, but again I’m unable to interpret the physiological response.

  It’s still early, but I find his number in my contacts and call him anyway. I’m happy when he answers.

  “Hey,” he greets. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Fabulous,” I answer. “When can I see you again?” I try to keep my voice even, but it waivers a bit as I ask the question.

  “I’m busy tomorrow, so how about we meet up Tuesday night?”

  I am more than happy to agree, and I’m prepared for another magical night with him. I’m so thrilled that I don’t even bother to ask what he’s busy doing. I get to see him Tuesday night, and that’s all that matters.

  “Look,” he says, “I’m kind of busy right now. Do you mind if I call you later?”

  “Not at all. I’ll talk to you soon.” We hang up, and I’m disappointed that our conversation is over, but I’m ecstatic about Tuesday night. I stare at the phone for a few seconds and then hold it to my chest as I stare into the distance, replaying every detail of last night. My God, that was magical.

  It’s Sunday, and although I can work whenever I want, I try to leave the weekends open so that I can take a break from work, so I quickly find myself at a loss of what to do. I could update my social media profiles, but I don’t really feel like tending to them. I am too focused on Jacob right now.

  As I think about him, my computer screen stares back at me, and I’m suddenly reminded that he’s a writer. He said he’s written for blogs before, and I’m instantly intrigued. I want to find some of his articles. I think if I can, it might make it feel like he’s really here or that I can gain some more insight into him. I’m not sure what exactly possessed me to start researching him, but I’m typing his name into the Google search bar before I can stop myself.

  I shouldn’t have been so naïve to think that one of his articles would show up on the first page. He has a fairly common name, and numerous other search results mask his. I flip through a few pages, but I don’t find anything.

  How can I find him? I click on my Facebook bookmark, and the screen switches from Google to my Facebook news feed. I type his name into the search bar. There are more results than I expect, so I narrow my search farther, focusing on his location, place of employment, and age. After a while of searching, I finally see his face staring back at me. I click on his profile.

  His profile picture is nice, just a simple photo of his face, and it almost looks professional. Perhaps he took the picture himself. After all, he does love photography. Since I’m already on his page, I send a friend request to him.

  I spend a few minutes investigating his profile, but I don’t find anything here that I didn’t already know since he hasn’t made much of his information public. I don’t blame him for this. I don’t want strangers snooping around on my Facebook profile, either. But I’m no stranger to Jacob, so I don’t feel bad about stalking his page.

  I continue my mission, and click on the About tab. There under Contact Information is exactly what I’m looking for. There’s a link to a website, and I click on it.

  This website is a simple one. And in desperate need of a makeover, I think as the web designer within me analyzes it. I catch myself leaning back in my chair, my elbow rested on my opposing hand, and my fingers to my chin. I quickly straighten up. I’m just as bad as Jacob and Juliet when it comes to admiring art.

  His website advertises his writing services, and it has a welcome message, his rates, his specialties, his contact information, and—what I’m searching for—links to sample articles. There’s also a professional portrait of him on the sidebar, and I stare at the photo for a bit, trying to memorize his face.

  My heart begins to race again, but I manage to tear my gaze from his eyes and head to his sample page.

  I begin clicking through the links. The first one is on finance, and I’m uninterested in the subject, so I close the tab. The second link leads me to a blog about relationships, and I’m instantly intrigued by the title, “8 Ways to Please a Woman.”

  Jacob’s professional photo, along with byline, sits under the title, and I begin reading. He doesn’t divulge any details about how he knows all this, but he goes on to talk about how to spice up the romance, and he even gives sex tips.

  Holy crap. Is this how he knows how to please me so well, both on our date and while making love?

  I’m a bit intimidated by his knowledge. How many women has he been with? I ponder the idea, but after a few moments, I realize that it doesn’t matter because he is with me now, but I can’t fight that feeling of jealousy within me. At least Jacob doesn’t have many guys in my past to rival against, although there’s no competition there.

  I finish the article and return back to his page of samples. I click on the next link, and the title takes me aback. My palms begin sweating, and my heart races. I know what my body is trying to tell me now, and I am furious.

  14

  The title reads, “Child Stars: Then and Now.” I want to refrain myself from clicking through the slide show, but I can’t. There is a fire raging through me, and it is not one of desire. It is one full of anger and bitterness, and I can’t get past my confusion that I’m feeling based on this article. Am I in it? Does he know me? Why is he writing about celebrities? What does he know? It makes my blood flame as I consider the possibilities. My hands are quaking
intensely now as I press my mouse, making my way through the slideshow.

  I’m a bit relieved when I reach the end of it and I haven’t found my own face staring back at me, but I am upset nonetheless. He knows about child stars. How could he not know who I am?

  I take my research farther, clicking on every sample link on his page, and I explode when I find a new link. The headline says, “10 Things We Can Learn From Elizabeth River’s Love Life.”

  Elizabeth River. As in the woman I costarred with in Taking Reservations.

  I am more than furious now, and in my rage, I take the vase of roses that he gave me and heave them full force into my garbage can. Even in the moment, I know I’m overreacting, but everything within my gut is telling me that Jacob lied. The vase shatters, and I begin to bawl, curling up on my floor, my knees to my chest. My heart shatters, and my body convulses uncontrollably with pain.

  I can’t explain why I do any of this, but a piece of me tells me that I’m terrified. Terrified of what? I don’t have an answer to that question in this moment. Instead, all I can focus on is these articles and the way I’m positive that he knows who I am. My God, this guy really knows how to put on a poker face. He really had me going.

  I thought that I could trust this man, but all that trust I recently put in him recoils at the speed of light, forming a black hole in my chest. He’s written about celebrities before. What does that mean for our relationship? My chest aches, and a tension headache quickly forms.

  I know that Elizabeth River, although somewhat old now yet still famous, is known for her skanky reputation and that people pick on her for it, but I cannot get past the fact that Jacob wrote this article. How can he not know who I am?

  The web page stares back at me, taunting me. Shouldn’t I have known this was too good to be true? Even I can tell I was acting ridiculous about dating him—especially when I didn’t even want to in the first place. Why did I rush it? Why am I such an idiot?

  With my discovery of these two articles, I quickly gather that he’s writing a story on me, and I am crushed. I thought that he liked me. Does he even care, or is he just trying to get a good story out of me?

  People have written my words in articles before without my consent, and I still get journalists contacting me to see ask me questions about my life today. Everyone seems to want to know what childhood actors have done with their lives, and I’m one of their biggest targets. Is Jacob one of these people who wants nothing but page views out of me? He must be.

  God, all those questions—about what I like, what I dislike, what I do, what my hobbies are—they’re all things that someone would ask if they’re trying to write a story on you.

  I can see the article now, and my imagination puts the photo that he took of me in Central Park under the headline. I envision his article going something like this:

  Siobhan Spencer: Childhood Star All Grown Up

  By Jacob Bishop

  Siobhan Spencer was once a beloved young actress that captivated the nation with her roles in Celina the Detective and Taking Reservations. After her last film, Beyond the Meadow, Siobhan took a break from acting at age seven, never to return.

  But the nation still wants to know: Where is Siobhan Spencer now?

  Today, Siobhan lives in a small New York City apartment with her roommate Juliet, who happens to be much prettier and more successful than Siobhan. Siobhan hasn’t dated in nearly two years and hasn’t had sex in just as long, which is just plain sad when it comes to any woman, but it’s a particularly troubling idea when you consider a former celebrity. Shouldn’t a woman like this have men on her all the time? You’d think so, but that’s simply not the case.

  Love has little merit in her life; after all, she doesn’t actively seek it but rather avoids it altogether. Instead, she closes herself off from the world and sits in her home designing web pages. She rarely gets out unless Juliet takes her with her.

  What else do we know about Siobhan now? Today, she is an atheist who finds solace in literature and in stuffing her face with pizza. Her preference: pepperoni and sausage. Perhaps the only good thing about her is the fact that she enjoys the view of the city atop a glorious Ferris wheel.

  Siobhan also has some interesting ideas about today’s top celebrities, citing that she would rather listen to One Direction than to Justin Bieber and that her favorite actress is Jennifer Lawrence. At least we can all agree on that one.

  While Siobhan freely shares her feelings with the world on her blog, she has a hard time showing what she’s feeling in real life.

  Is this the kind of girl you want your daughters to look up to? Perhaps not. Siobhan gave up her dreams of acting when she was young, and she was never able to regain her strength and become successful in any aspect of her life.

  I expect the article to go on longer than that, but I can’t continue thinking about it. A feeling of emptiness wells inside my body, and my lungs constrict, compressing my heart and leaving it to lay in a million tiny pieces. These are the honest words that someone would say regarding a celebrity like me. I just know it, and I believe that they’re all true.

  I lay on the floor for a long time, but I’m not able to gauge exactly how long. I can’t seem to make my muscles work, as if this realization blocked my body’s ability to move. I’m frozen in place, curled up in a ball, completely paralyzed.

  When I regain enough strength to bring myself off the floor, I crawl into my bed and pull the covers over me. Tears are streaming down my face, and my body is twitching as I cry. I honestly believed that Jacob liked me.

  I don’t move for several hours, and while the tightness in my chest does not regress, I have exhausted all the tears I have, and my body goes into dry heave mode. I tremble, trying to make the tears fall, but they just don’t work anymore.

  I can hear Juliet moving around in the kitchen as she prepares lunch for herself, and I am thankful that she doesn’t take the initiative to come and talk to me. I’m shocked because I would have thought she’d take the first opportunity she got to begin questioning me about last night, but my door is shut and I’m quiet. Perhaps she doesn’t know I’m even home, or maybe she thinks that Jacob is still in my bed. Whatever the reason, she doesn’t bother me.

  I stare at the ceiling for a while, and when I’m ready, I get out of bed and sit down at my computer. I promptly delete my previous post, and then at my blog’s dashboard, I open a new post template, and I begin typing.

  15

  Sunday, June 14

  Why I Hate People Who Write About Celebrities: A Former Celebrity’s Perspective

  By Siobhan Spencer

  Most people who don’t think they know who I am really do. If they don’t recognize my name, they’ll recognize my face. If they can’t place either, you just say the name of one of the movies I was in, and the connection instantly clicks.

  But there are a few things I’ve learned about being a former celebrity throughout the years. First is the fact that people never stop recognizing you. Second, no one ever wants to stop telling your story. I can’t count the number of times someone has contacted me in my adult life to ask for my most recent pictures, get a quote from me to put in their article, or ask me if I’m still acting. People want to know this shit, but I never comply.

  Why not? I am, after all, a good girl, aren’t I? But when people start digging into my past and want to connect that with who I am now—a person who is 20 years older than the little girl they’re trying to portray—it hits a nerve, and it hits it pretty damn hard.

  I cannot stand these people. First of all, if you just looked at my blog, you would know where I am today and you wouldn’t have to contact me about it. I do have a goddamn FAQ page. Second of all, why in the hell should you care? Yes, I was in a movie once. No, I did not change the world. Why not interview someone who actually matters in society?

  I have a problem with these people, even the ones who stalk my blog and then summarize it for others. Why? I’ll give you a few pretty damn g
ood reasons.

  It’s an Invasion of Privacy

  Yes, celebrities do put themselves out there for everyone to see, but more often than not, it’s in a professional manner. If a celebrity wants to share what time their scheduled bowl movements are, that is totally fine, but if they don’t freely share that information, people shouldn’t push them to answer it, especially when no one gives a fuck about the subject until they release the headline.

  Bottom line: people who write about celebrities don’t ever ask about the things that actually matter. Instead, they focus on the tiniest details about their lives, and getting that intimate is just fucking annoying. A celebrity shouldn’t have to divulge what they had for breakfast, what type of underwear they’re wearing, or—heaven forbid—who they’re dating.

  I won’t even go into the sick details on how these writers gather this private information.

  They’re Fucking Mean

  Celebrities are real people. They have feelings just like everyone else, but when you pick on them and bully them, it’s not like it is for the rest of the world. Instead of a few people telling them how worthless, ugly, and imperfect they are, the entire nation gangs up against them and reiterates the same crude comments a million times, sometimes more.