I met Jacob at an overcrowded aba-themed dance night. He wore a faux fur head wrap. He seemed very young. I was 33 years old. Still, I thought he was cute. When I looked at the smoking patio, I knew that the feelings were mutual.
It's now a chat. Jacob said he worked “in music.” He asked what I did and I brushed off the question. I didn't feel like talking about work.
A week ago, my ex moved out of our apartment. Six years after together, he said, “Anna, I don't think this is working.” And like that, we're done. There were many reasons. We were too insisting and had a different timeline for our kids. And then there was sex – or lack of it.
Couple therapy helped with discussion rather than intimacy. I sat in a half-empty apartment crying as he finally handed me his keys.
Now, with Jacob, I thought about how most of my friends started a family and bought a house. And here I was at Ava Night and had some vodka soda.
He asked my number. I didn't expect that from him.
The next day he asked if I wanted to get a drink. We met for Margarita. I was quick. I realized I barely remembered his face. All I knew was that he seemed young. As I waited at the bar I wondered how young I was. Finally, he appeared to be dressed for Coachella – a baggy cargo pants and a thick, layered necklace. I could barely meet his gaze.
He was 24 years old and almost ten years younger. I was embarrassed, but Jacob shrugged.
“Age doesn't matter,” he said.
Of course, that wasn't true.
He said he was a rapper and his tracks did well on Spotify. I was surprised. I was moved. He said the manager was interested, but he would have to diverge into a huge portion of his profits.
I began to give him advice – as a TV writer, I had experience in predatory contracts. Then I stopped myself. Did I sound like his mother? I talked more. They didn't have much in common, but they weren't ready to give up. When I finished the margarita, I suggested a second bar.
The next place was stylish. The bartender gave me an interesting look. Was he judged me? Maybe nine and a half years wasn't that much, but I wasn't on this side of the age gap. In my early 20s, I was dating a handful of older men. At the time I found their age attractive, but hindsight made me skeptical of their charm. I've heard that adult brains are not fully developed until the age of 25. Was my young self simply easy to manipulate?
Sitting with Jacob, I wondered if I was now a creepy older man. I ordered myself an orange wine and he blinked. “What is that?” he asked.
I explained that it had something to do with the grape skin. He nodded absentmindedly, then he asked what I was working on. I told him about my horror script about a girl who lost her heart in the woods. He asked his eyes wide. He told me it sounded “like a real movie.” I knew he meant it as a compliment.
Jacob was a kind lover, if he was a little nervous. He stayed in my living room for an hour before kissing me. I didn't care. He was a good kiss. And the gap in age disappeared as he ran his fingers along my arms. We were just two people in the fitted seat and were trying to feel alone. Once, sex felt easy.
On my second date, Jacob showed me his music. It was chaotic and noisy. Even his voice – deep and full of sw noise – felt unfamiliar. I didn't understand that.
On the third date naked in bed, I told Jacob I wasn't looking for anything serious. I explained that I was emotionally unavailable due to my breakup. He said it was okay. In fact, it's perfect. Because he wanted to focus on his music, not on love. We agreed to keep things casual.
“Casual” meant seeing each other once a week. He always offered to pay, but usually I grabbed the check. I knew my TV writer's salary would exceed his Spotify profits. He lived in an apartment in a sloppy studio and slept on his futon. I slept there once, but my back hurts so much from the flimsy cushion that I vowed not to do it again.
Two months later we went to a club with his friends in a sweaty basement that everyone seemed younger than me. I wore high-waisted Zara jeans and a tank top that I bought in 2017. Other women wore small crop tops and low-haired pants to exude the confidence they felt when they had their parents' health insurance.
One teased me about her Again Off-Again boyfriend. I proposed couple therapy. She looked at me like I told her to eat her shoes.
The next morning, I looked into the bathroom mirror, spending the wrinkled forehead. I turned 30 in my first year at Covid. Before school, I didn't remember any wrinkles. After the pandemic, my face looked centuries old.
Three months later I realized I was falling for Jacob. On Valentine's Day, I took him to my favourite sushi restaurant. After that, in bed, I told him how I felt. I said there was no need for a serious relationship, but I wanted to take things to the next level. Maybe a weekend trip?
He was quiet. “Maybe,” he said.
The next day, Jacob abandoned me. We had just ordered an appetizer when he dropped the bomb.
I didn't get it. Was this about weekend trips? He said that was everything. I never understood his joke. We had a variety of interests. And we didn't agree to keep things casual? When I told him he was lying down, did he not realize he had never returned it?
The waiter came back with our appetizers – a salad for me and a large bowl of mac and cheese for Jacob. Waiting for the bill, I wanted to cry, but I refused. It was one of those 24-year-olds dating with fake head wraps. It was a completely different thing to be thrown away.
I couldn't sleep that night. At 3am I opened Spotify and clicked on the first track on Jacob. I listened many times until the music stopped confusing me. What was initially confusing, now seemed to be driving in an emergency.
I searched Spotify for similar artists. It was as if it opened my eyes to the fact that there was a new generation of people dating Jacob and making art, and it was worth trying to understand. Obviously, maybe, but I missed it.
Jacob and I have only been on a few months and have barely hurt the surface of our emotions. We were “situations” by all accounts. And I spent most of it focusing on myself. I paid for things so I chose what we did, what we ate. And that wasn't all. He seemed endlessly impressed with my writing career. He made me feel like I understood things. But I wasn't thinking about how it all made him feel. It was a constant focus on my life that made him feel small and inactive.
A month later, I threw myself into a dating app. When I met Jacob, I was upset from my broken heart. But things had changed and I had to admit that sex with anyone would inevitably lead to emotions.
I quickly met a man named Lucas. He was 45 years old and had wrinkled eyes and gray hair in his whiskers. On our second date he took me to a flashy restaurant and ordered some orange wine. He had just bought a house in Encino and redoed the floor. After our fourth day he suggested a weekend trip. Maybe Santa Barbara?
I liked Lucas, but what have I been doing to throw myself beyond the age spectrum? Lucas wanted something serious. Was I ready to do that? I told the therapist that I was thinking about breaking it. She asked why. I said, “Because he's old!”
She laughed. “If you like him, it all matters.”
I said yes to Santa Barbara.
A year after my parting with Jacob, he texted me. He was now 25 years old. In other words, his brain had officially finished developing. I was shocked when he asked if I wanted to meet. Did he finally realize he couldn't live without me? He made it clear that he doesn't want anything serious yet, but am I interested in stringless connections?
I politely declined. Lucas and I had a plan.
