Page 8 of The Likelihood Of You

My eyes fall into focus again and find their way over to the server who called my name, my hands reaching up to grab the tray out of her hands, smiling at her as I do, when she speaks again.

“Don’t you think he’s so much better looking in person than on screen? Something about watching him on my laptop makes his headseem square.” She beamed, nodding her head of curls in the direction of the door while I stared aimlessly back at her.

Is it ‘National Confuse Florence Day’ today, or am I missing something?

I assume from how she nodded to the door that she meant Jacob. So I ask, “Who? Him?” while glancing towards the door.

She glares back at me with a slightly contorted face and eyes that look like they’re about to burst out of her skull in disgust. “Yeah, that was Jacob Emerson,” she says. “Have you not seen the ‘Defenders of Time’movie?Or been online?”

No, name badge-less server, I haven’t. I’ve been hiding away from the world to recover from the mother of all heartbreaks; please do enlighten me,I think to myself, whilst shaking my head and offering a sorry, not at all passive-aggressive smile.

Although his name rings a distant bell, and I can vaguely recall seeing a movie poster with that title, I still can’t connect the dots.

Not getting the reaction she wanted from me, she let out a small scoff as she handed me the tray before swiftly moving on to the next customer.

Burn.

I tried to shake whatever that was off and made my way over to ‘my’ table, taking off my coat and draping it across the wooden chair as I sat down.

After I take a quick but savouring bite of the warm appley goodness, I whip out my phone and head straight to Instagram to find out who Jacob Emerson is. Pulling up the explore tab, I gaze at the squares upon squares of sweet treat tutorials and book recommendations, alsoignoring them because I have very little room on my floor for new books at the moment, before typing into the search bar ‘Jacob Em’-

Within seconds, I’m greeted by dozens of what I can only describe as teen-run fan accounts (I can tell purely from the heavily edited profile pictures of Jacob). In that terrifying mix is also an account with a shiny blue tick next to it, with the username ‘itsjacobemers0n’. The ‘0’ makes me laugh, a few pastry crumbs flying out my mouth as I do, because I can almost count on the fact that ‘itsjacobemerson’ was already taken by one of those fan accounts. A quick scroll through the never-ending list of accounts confirms my suspicions.

Well played, random fan.

My finger hovers over the blue tick account before clicking, only to come face to face with an unthinkable and slightly horrifying twenty-six million followers.My heart plummets at that number, my mouth gaping, and I say a silent thank you for my itty bitty nine-hundred follower account.

How on earth have I not heard of him before? It’s not like I’venotbeen active on social media or not existed for years. I wasn't some hobbit who was completely sheltered from the world…kind of.

I think back to what I joked about before, about me hiding from the world after what happened. Judging by his posts, it makes sense that I missed the commotion his emergence into stardom caused, which appears to have only happened recently. I start scrolling through the posts on his page and come across one where he’s on a red carpet, which looks like a premiere for the film I was quizzed about earlier by the server.

What’s the bet that she’s actually ‘itsjacobemerson’?

He’s dressed in a simple black tux, a black bow tie, and the shiniest black patent shoes I’ve ever seen. He looks lightyears different from how he did this morning. His hair just now was messy (in the best way), his shirt had creases along the collar and down by the hem, and his stubble wasn’t as freshly shaved as it was in the picture. The only thing that remains the same is his features. The knife-sharp jawline, the stretched muscles in his neck when his head is turned to the side, those golden brown pools that suck you in.

If the server hadn’t listed off his IMDB credits to me just now, I’d never suspected he was anything but Jacob, the random guy I shared an awkward turned wholesome coffee shop encounter—just an insignificant moment to throw in with the others.

He certainly didn’t have that typical arsehole attitude either, like he was offended I didn’t know who he was. He almost seemed…relieved.

But this picture screams ‘I’m famous’.

My mind trails back to what he asked me about earlier, about wanting a picture with him, and it makes much more sense than it did five minutes ago. His sunglasses also seem a little more appropriate than they did before, too.

I relax my hands on the table, still holding my phone, and divert my eyes to the raindrop-covered window.

I wonder what his routine must be like being famous. I wonder if he has to ask his assistant what star-studded event he has that night, or which celebrity he’s having brunch with that day.“Which Robert am I meeting again? Is it Robert Downey Jr. or Robert De Niro today? I know it’s not Pattinson; he was last week.”I picture him saying. I know I’m fabricating this way too much, but I don’t know any better. The closest I’ve been to being chums with someone famous is when myfriends and I had barricade tickets for a One Direction concert, and Niall Horan blew me a kiss.

Which the tween heart inside of me still thinks about at least once a week.

I pull my attention back to my phone, little snippets of our conversation slowly filtering into my head, as I scroll back up the post I was looking at before.

He reallyisbetter looking in person than he is on a screen, isn’t he? And not that I’m shaming him, but the name badge-less server does have a point about the camera making his head square. But the shape of his head wasn’t the thing that caught my attention.

The way he looked at me was enough for me to make my knees buckle, as if his stare could magic my legs into gummy worms. Just thinking about his…well, his whole face really…makes me catch my breath. The way we got over the whole ‘do you want a picture’ hurdle and ended up chatting about books and pie made me smile just thinking about it. The way his mouth rose into a smirking crescent when he asked me my name, showing off the dimple that I was still thinking about. How his face softened the more we spoke, and his laugh…it’s bad that I want to hear it again.

But I don’t fancy him.

Ican’tfancy him.

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