Page 16 of I Know How This Ends

“Why am I so nervous?” Henry says, pacing up and down by the front door like a dog. “She’ll like it, right? Of course she’ll

like it. It’s purple. Anything purple is good.”

I open my mouth and there’s a tiny knock on the door: faint, four times.

“Here goes,” Henry says to me with a wry grin, then he bends down to speak through the letter box. “I’m afraid I’m going to

need the code word or I might be letting in the wrong daughter.”

“ Dad. ” A tiny voice, followed by a giggle. “I’m your only daughter.”

“Then it is even more essential that I get the right one.” Henry winks over his shoulder at me as I continue to stare at the

door. My stomach is tight. “You only get one go, I’m afraid. It’s an exclusive entry policy here. After that, I’ll be changing

the code word and getting a new kid.”

“Vinosauraptor,” the voice says with a small sigh. “It’s always, always vinosauraptor, even though I know that’s not a real

thing anymore.”

Henry stands up, unlocks the door and holds his big arms out.

In the doorway is a little girl, about seven or eight years old.

She’s small, fine-boned, with a sweet oval face that reminds me a little of a fennec fox: heart-shaped, huge hazel eyes—a beautiful mix of green and brown—a pointy chin and large ears that stick out slightly.

Her hair is chestnut-colored and messy—fringe almost vertical—and she’s wearing a puffy lilac coat that reaches all the way to her little knees in their woolen tights.

Her trainers are also lilac, flashing from the soles, and over her shoulders is slung a dark purple backpack.

Next to her is a tiny purple suitcase, abandoned in the open doorway.

“You did it!” Henry picks her up and kisses her slightly grubby little forehead three times. “Phew. That was close. Come and

see what we’ve done to your new bedroom. I think you’re going to be pretty stoked.”

“ Stoked isn’t a cool word, Dad .”

“My bad. It’s rad . Better?” Then he calls over her shoulder: “Thanks, Mum!”

I hear Henry’s mother go back down the path and I stare at the little girl with a lump in my throat. She has accepted Henry’s

kiss with the patient regality of a small queen, and is now back on the floor, staring at me with wide, dark eyes.

A child. There has never been a child in my house before.

“Hello, Winter,” I hear myself say. “Welcome home.”

And I’m back in the park again, as if I never left.

But Henry is already walking away and I manage to recalibrate just in time to run after him, wobbling uncertainly down the

dark path. “Do you have a child?” I call after him. The park is shadowy, unclear, rotating slightly. “Henry, please. I need

to know. Do you have a daughter?”

He stops walking and turns reluctantly to stare at me.

His eyes are cold and hard.

“Yes.” Henry is studying my face, deeply unimpressed by whatever he’s seen.

“I do. I have a daughter. She stuck the unicorn on my screwdriver. She sewed the pink star patch onto my jacket when I got a hole in it. Is that what this is about? Me having a child? Because if that’s a deal-breaker for you, that’s fine, but you could have just said that.

It’s kind of a deal-breaker for me too. Obviously. ”

It was a deal-breaker for me, yes—it’s on the list—but that’s not what I’m thinking about now.

What I’m thinking is: I haven’t gone crazy.

They’re not daydreams, based on my subconscious desires. They’re not hallucinations I’ve built in a vitamin- and sleep-deprived

mind. They appear to be visions , and they appear to be accurate. Way, way too accurate. There is no possible way I could know all of these details if they

weren’t.

Except—are they visions of what will be or what could be?

Can I actually see the future, or are they just glimpses of another possible timeline: something that would have happened

if I had taken a different path? An alternative version of myself? I’m not moving about in time, because I never leave. But

when I arrive, for just a few seconds, it’s like I’m both this version of me and her . As if time isn’t linear but spotted, like rain.

And I suddenly wish with all my heart that I had gone insane. Insane is something I could hold on to: check myself into the right clinics, take the right medication, go through the right therapy.

I can’t see myself going to a doctor and saying, Hi, I’ve randomly started having visions of the future. Is there a pill for that?

“What’s her name?” My breathing is finally slowing down now; there is comfort in data, relief in information. “I know how

bonkers I sound, but please. What’s your daughter’s name? How old is she?”

Her name is Winter. She’s about seven years old and her favorite color is purple.

Henry assesses me for a few seconds. “Winter. She’s six.”

Winter is six. That means whatever I saw—the purple room, the paint, the little suitcase in my doorway—happens (or could happen)

in about a year, eighteen months at most. Henry and Winter move into my house. Or they were going to, before I knocked it off course. There is absolutely no way of knowing. I’ve only had four visions, and only one of them has come true so far, right at the beginning.

But Henry is still staring at me in horror: here is a woman so hard, so cold, she’ll attack a widower simply for having a

child. And I suddenly need to make this OK, without telling him the truth. I want the expression I saw in the car, warm and

affectionate, without saying Sorry, just casually having visions of a pretty serious future together on our third proper meeting.

“I...” I scrabble to explain myself without explaining myself. “Eve.”

Henry frowns. “Sorry?”

“My best friend Eve.” I feel a rush of relief, even as the lie forms. “She’s a teacher in a primary school. I think I know

who Winter is. I’ve seen you before while I was waiting for her, picking your daughter up from school. In a Mini. With red

leather seats.”

I watch as Henry’s face begins to clear, very slightly. “Oh!”

“Sorry. I was just shocked because...” I search carefully for a way to explain the inexplicable. “I knew I’d seen you before,

somewhere outside the restaurant, but I couldn’t place where. Then I suddenly realized. She’s about this big.” I hold my hand

out vaguely at waist height. “Wavy brown hair. Hazel eyes. Very cute. She loves the color purple. Wears it all the time. Backpack,

coat. Everything.”

Now Henry’s expression completely changes: his relief is palpable.

“Yes!” He visibly lights up and pride pours out of him. “That’s her! St John’s Primary in Clifton?”

“That’s it!” Thank goodness he filled in the gap for me. “I remember noticing her little purple flashing trainers. I asked

about her, and Eve said she’s brilliant and stuck a unicorn sticker on her dad’s screwdriver, so she could make DIY prettier

for him.”

OK, that’s a guess, but why else would a child pimp up tools?

“That’s exactly it!” Henry laughs. “She’s on a constant mission to make my world more aesthetically pleasing. Even my ‘boring’ tweed jacket. I tried to stop her and now I just let her embellish everything around to her heart’s content. I think it actually works. My world is more beautiful now.”

The tension has completely gone now—on his side, anyway.

“Shit.” Henry looks down, suddenly embarrassed. “Margot, I’m so incredibly sorry. I totally jumped to the wrong conclusion,

didn’t I? Then I got up and stropped off when all you did was ask me a couple of questions. I get really defensive about my

daughter. This is... new for me. It’s been just the two of us for so long. Please accept my apology. I am absolutely mortified.”

Guilt races through me, but what alternative did I have?

I can either lie and gaslight him—which is the path I have clearly chosen—or I can tell this man I barely know that I have

been having very clear visions of us meeting for the first time, road-tripping together, moving in together, painting my flat,

living with his child. We’ve only known each other now for roughly two hours, total.

The fear has only just left his eyes; I don’t want it to come straight back.

Except now the fear is all mine.

Because it’s only just hitting me that if it’s the future I can see, Henry and I are going to fall in love. This is someone

I’m possibly going to build a life with, a family with. And I don’t know him. I literally know nothing about him, other than what kind of car he drives and how he roller-paints

a room.

He’s a stranger, and apparently I’m being told to tie my life to his.

Not because of my emotions, or how I feel about him now , but because of how I’ve seen I may feel at some point in the future. How do you start from the beginning when you’ve seen

chapters of a story, written in the wrong order? How do I fall in love again, knowing that I have to?

“So.” Henry smiles at me, his sweet face warm again. “Shall we keep walking? Can you forgive me?”

I stare at him, suddenly wanting to cry.

Because I can’t do it.

I cannot go into this, knowing that at some point my heart will be on the line.

“Um.” Fear swells inside me from the ground, like fog. “Actually, I’ve just remembered I have a really early start for work

tomorrow. So I should probably be getting back to Clifton now. I’m sorry.”

Henry looks crushed—blaming himself—and I feel something inside me hurt again.

“Of course.” He nods. “I understand.”

“This was lovely, though,” I say lamely, unable to meet his eyes. “Thank you for my... jacket and everything.”

“You’re welcome.” Henry smiles sadly. “See you around, Margot.”

I swallow, hard. My eyes are still stinging. Why does it feel like we’re breaking up when there’s nothing here yet to break?

“Sure. See you around, Henry.”