Page 15 of Love and Other Paradoxes

They pulled up at the house in the afternoon drizzle. Behind them stretched the brown winter fields; ahead, a cluster of low-roofed

houses lay between them and the sea. Joe stepped out of the car, tasting the salt in the air. Strange, the things you only

noticed once you’d left.

“Guess I understand now why you think Cambridge is a city.” Esi stretched, arching her neck as Joe’s dad got their bags out

of the boot. “You going to show me around?”

“Got thirty seconds? That should be enough to cover the highlights.”

His dad dumped their bags inside the front door. “I’m afraid Joe doesn’t have thirty seconds. He’s going to be too busy catching

up on his reading. Turning that 2:2 into a First.”

The 2:2 was a lie. In fact, he’d scraped a Third, one step away from failing. The knowledge of his predestined 2:1 made him

weak with relief. But he needed to moderate expectations. “A First’s not going to happen.”

“Not with that attitude.”

“No, I mean it. It’s metaphysically impossible for me to get any higher than a 2:1.”

Esi gave Joe’s dad a look. “I keep telling him, the future’s not set in stone. If he just tries , he can do anything.”

Joe’s dad shook her hand. “You can come back anytime.”

“Joe!” His mum flew down the stairs, enveloped him in a hug, then immediately pushed him away to look at him. “Oh, darling,

you’re skinny as a rake! What are they feeding you down there?”

“I’m feeding myself, Mum. I’m an adult.” He took in his parents, his mum’s freckled face sporting new wrinkles, his dad’s

posture a little more stooped. Since he’d moved away, he’d started to notice them aging secretly in the gaps.

He became conscious of the way Esi was watching, with a wounded softness he couldn’t bear. Her mum didn’t age. She was frozen

in her memory, forever as she’d been when she last saw her.

Joe’s mum turned to her. “You must be Esi,” she said warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Really?”

His mum laughed. “All good things! Come on in.” She ushered them inside, where she gave Esi a lightning tour of the ground

floor, then immediately dispatched her and Joe on a mission to the village shop.

As they headed down the road, he looked sideways at her. He had been surprised she’d said yes to his offer: surprised, and

delighted, and a little anxious, in a way he couldn’t explain. He had half expected her to change her mind. Now, here she

was, walking beside him on the streets he had run down as a child, hugging herself against the sea wind he’d been missing.

Realities were colliding, and it made everything feel unmoored.

He felt the shy, restless flicker of her attention. “Was that your poem on the wall of the downstairs loo?”

“It is, indeed, an original Joseph Greene,” he said dryly. “I won a national contest with it while I was in high school. That’s why it’s on display.”

Her brow furrowed. “But—in the loo?”

“It’s their way of showing they’re proud of me, but also turning it into a joke in case anyone thinks they’re too proud of me.”

She shook her head. “I’ve been here two minutes, and I already feel like I understand you better than I have for the past

two months.”

“You mean that’s not how your family does it?”

She laughed. “Yeah, not exactly. One time I came second in my class in school, and my dad wouldn’t shut up about it. He was

telling strangers on the street. Posting about it on”—her cheek dimpled—“ the facebook . And it was never Esi came second in maths, isn’t that great . It was, My daughter came top in the entire school! In every single subject! She’s a future genius! ”

“Maybe he’s right about that.”

She rolled her eyes. “And maybe you’re a future comedian instead of a poet.”

They reached the village shop. He bought the tattie scones and butter his mum had asked for, then found Esi in the back, browsing

the tiny DVD rental section. He was shocked to see tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just...” She pointed at one of the DVDs. “That was my mum’s favourite when she was a teenager.”

He took it down. It was a romantic comedy starring Meg Ryan, but not one he’d heard of. “Have you ever seen it?”

She shook her head. “Dad had the thing that plays the tapes, so we could watch some of her old Nollywood collection. But we

didn’t have anything to play her—discs, or whatever.”

“Your dad has a VHS player, but not a DVD player?” She stared at him blankly. He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s rent it.” Her blank look continued. In a series of gestures, he explained. “We pay some money. We take this home. We watch it. We bring it back.”

“Like, the physical object?” She burst out laughing. “That’s hilarious.”

“How else would you rent a film?”

“I’m not telling. It’s too much fun watching your prehistoric brain try and figure it out.”

They walked back by the scenic route, taking one of the crooked lanes that ran down to the sea. By the harbour, a knot of

lads were laughing and spitting into the water. Joe’s guts froze with a stale fear he couldn’t reason away.

One of them looked up and saw him. “Aye, it’s Alfred Lord Tennyson! How’s the poetry?”

Esi looked between the lads and Joe. “You know them?”

He lifted his hand, walking on. “Aye. That’s the lads from school who used to shove my head down the toilet.”

“Why?”

“Oh, a million reasons. I was quiet, and weird, and I wrote poetry.”

“I don’t know. Some girls are into that. Not me, obviously.” She nudged closer to him, taking his arm. “But they don’t need

to know that.”

One of the lads whistled. The rest laughed. Joe understood what she’d done, and his heart tingled with sudden warmth. “It

didn’t start because of that,” he added. “At the beginning, it was because my dad’s English.”

She looked incredulous. “Is it that big a deal?”

He snorted. “Ask my grandparents. They were ready to disown Mum when she told them who she was marrying.”

She laughed. “Same story with my mum and dad. Her side is African, his side is Caribbean, it’s a whole thing. But their families

got over it. Eventually.”

“Did you get grief about it at school?”

“Not really. It’s not such a big deal in my generation.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Who’s Alfred Lord Tennyson?”

“Victorian poet. They call me that because...” He closed his eyes. “Because that’s what I said when the teacher asked us

to name our favourite celebrity.”

“Oh my God.” She leaned into him, shaking with laughter. “That’s so adorable I can’t accept it.”

He took her down to the beach, yelling his tourist spiel over the howling gale. She bent to examine a pile of seaweed, draping

strands of it into spirals, her braids whipping around her head. He watched as she worked, building up layers that started

out as nothing but turned incrementally into a woman’s face, calm and pensive, her hair a profusion of Afro curls.

“Your art,” he said. “It’s really good. You should do something with it.”

She looked up at him, amused. “First time I’ve heard that. My dad was always like, Esi, nice picture, but shouldn’t you be studying? No one gets paid to draw. ”

“Aye, sounds familiar.” He smiled. “Did you point out some people do get paid to draw?”

“So that’s what you’re saying I should do with it? Try and sell it?”

“Not necessarily. Show it to folk. Give them something to remember.” He thought again of the statue of Byron in the Wren Library,

gazed at by seven generations of watchers.

“But I’m not doing it for anyone else. I’m doing it because it’s fun. And because...” She looked up, as if searching for words in the overcast sky. “I like making things that didn’t exist before. Things only I could make. Even if I’m the only one who ever sees them.”

It felt like listening to himself three years ago. Where had it gone, that joy in just creating, without obsessing over what

people would think, whether it would impress them enough? Could he ever get it back?

She shivered, turning to the lashing grey waves. “It never stops, does it?”

He laughed. “The sea? No, customarily the sea doesn’t stop.”

“How do you get used to it?”

“It becomes a part of you, I guess. When I first moved to Cambridge, I used to sit holding a glass to my ear, just to feel

less homesick.” He closed his eyes, letting the sound pass through him. “Then I realised, it’s not really here I miss. It’s

the fact I grew up here. All the versions of me it remembers.” He understood, as he was saying it, what it meant. “We’re all

time travellers. Just, most of us don’t get to go back.”

They climbed the hill to the house, grimacing into the wind. He dropped the supplies on the kitchen table. A strangled meow

announced the arrival of his grumpy fifteen-year-old cat, who padded in and rubbed his head against Esi’s ankle.

“Hi there...” She stopped short. “What did you say its name was?”

“Jeely Piece.” He bent down to knuckle the old tabby’s head. “It means jam sandwich,” he explained.

She gave him a dead-eyed look. “You’re meant to be an entire famous poet, and you can’t even name a cat right.”

“In my defence, I was five.”

“Mmhm.” Her cheek trembled with suppressed laughter. He dropped his head with a grin.

His mum came into the kitchen and started tidying the shopping away. “Joe. Are you going to show your guest her room, or are

you going to make me look like a bad mother?”

“Jesus. Fine,” he protested, and ushered Esi up the stairs to his sister’s room. “Kirsty’s staying with her girlfriend for

Christmas, so it’s all yours.”

She sat down on the bed and looked around at Kirsty’s walls: pages torn from rock magazines, moody charcoal drawings of the

harbour in winter. “Your sister’s cool.”

“Hence why she’s the one with the girlfriend.”

She batted his arm with forced casualness. “Just wait till New Year. Catch Diana at midnight, and the rest is history.”

He felt a lurch like a skipped heartbeat. He thought of Diana on the roof, bathed in candlelight, the glowing mirage of King’s

Chapel behind her. Here, in the ordinary mess of his sister’s bedroom, it seemed like an image from another reality.

Esi was looking down at her hands. “How’s it going with her?”

“I guess—I’m starting to get to know her. Sometimes, I can imagine how it might feel to be in love with her. But I’m not there

yet.”

Her voice was carefully neutral. “If you keep comparing your feelings to how you think you’re supposed to feel in the future,

you’ll never get the chance to feel how you feel right now.”

“But the future’s the only thing we have in common,” he protested. “The one time we were really talking, really connecting,

it was about who we’re meant to be. It felt like she was finally taking me seriously.” He sat down on the bed, exhaling. “Or

maybe she was just impressed that I took her night climbing.”

“You took her what?”

“Night climbing. You know. Shinning up drainpipes to get to secret bits of the college roof. Like that picture I showed you.”

She was looking at him as if he had entirely lost his mind. “Anyway, I was trying to re-create this romantic moment in the

future where I take her to a private island. Clearly, that’s not an option right now, so—”

She interrupted him. “How did you know about that?”

“It was in the book.”

She stood up, eyes wide in alarm. “You shouldn’t be trying to impress her using stuff from the book. You’re not meant to know

any of that yet.”

This again. He sighed. “I know you’re worried I’m going to change the future. But I’m not changing it. I’m making it happen.”

“You know I don’t believe that. And anyway, that’s not the point.” She shook her head. “It’s wrong. It’s—manipulative.”

He felt the accusation like a blow. “I’m sorry. Weren’t you the one helping me manipulate her into liking me?”

“Making you look good. Telling you how not to be a nozz. That’s one thing.” Her gaze closed him in. “Using stuff you know

about her future that she doesn’t know herself? That’s something else.”

He looked up at her, arms crossed, an angel of judgment. He searched for a reason he’d done it, a good reason that would prove

he was in the right, but the truth was, he didn’t have one. He had seen a way to get what he wanted, and used it. He felt

a stab of shame. But it was too late to take it back. The whole shaky edifice of his and Diana’s relationship was built on

the foundation of a poem he hadn’t written yet.

She said it quietly. “Are you going to tell her?”

His heart skipped a beat. Esi didn’t know about the poem. Did she? “Tell her what?”

“About the future. Are you ever going to be honest with her?”

He imagined Diana opening Meant to Be . He imagined her looking up at him, eyes bright with accusation. He shuddered. “Esi, she’d be furious. You need us to get

together, right?” Reluctantly, she nodded. “Well. If that’s going to happen, I can’t tell her.”

“Guess you’re right. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She sighed, rubbing her face. “We should focus on getting you ready

for the party. What are you planning to wear?”

He shrugged. “Clothes?”

Life came back to her expression. “Come on. Let’s see what we have to work with.” She took his arm and marched him across

the landing.

“Didn’t we already do the makeover scene?” he protested.

“A makeover isn’t a onetime thing, Joseph Greene. It’s an ongoing process of becoming.”

“Aye, right.” In his childhood bedroom, he saw every embarrassing detail through her eyes: the single bed with the cuddly

Nessie tucked in; the skeletal rabbit head on his Donnie Darko poster; the pictures of his baby cousin sticking her fingers in his mouth.

Thankfully, Esi was focused on the contents of his wardrobe. “No. No. Oh my God , no. What? No. Wait.” A screech as she pulled every hanger but one to the front. “Yes.”

His kilt outfit, complete with Prince Charlie jacket and waistcoat. It had been hanging there undisturbed since his cousin’s

wedding two years ago.

She ran her hand over the blue-and-green squares. “Is that your family tartan?”

“Kind of. Clans are supposed to go down the male line, but my dad doesn’t have one, being English and all. That’s my mum’s.”

“Matriarchy. I like it.” She pulled it from the wardrobe, almost dropping it when she discovered how heavy it was. She hefted

it and hung it on the wardrobe door. “You’re wearing this to the party.”

“No!”

“Come on. Kilts are ving.”

“Ving?”

She rolled her eyes. “You need me to spell it out for you? The Scottish thing is a major selling point! There are a billion

romance books about the sexy laird, or whatever.” She coughed, looking self-conscious. “I mean, not like I’ve read any of

them. Just—you know. I’m informed.”

Joe, who was experiencing some confusing sensations, tried to focus on what she was asking. “Fine. I’ll wear my kilt. On one

condition.” He cleared his throat. “You come with me.”

“Come with you?” She looked dubious. “I’m not going to stand next to you whispering lines in your ear.”

“No, nothing like that. Just—I’d feel better if you were there.”

It was simple when he said it, but her reaction—a look of soft surprise—made him feel suddenly vulnerable. “What about her?”

she said. “Do you think she’ll be there?”

It took him a moment to realise who she meant. He remembered the photograph, her mum and Diana arm in arm. “You still think

Diana was lying about not recognising her?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But if there’s a chance she was...” There it was again: the fear, like a ghost behind her

eyes.

“Look. If we go, and she’s there, we’ll learn something. But I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Esi nodded. She looked back at the kilt, an uncertain smile on her face. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

They had a DVD night, huddled on the old sofa with a blanket and Jeely Piece, who had decided Esi’s lap was his rightful place.

They started with her mum’s favourite film, which was a romantic comedy about a woman from modern-day New York falling in

love with a time traveller.

“Mum was into period romance,” Esi explained as the Duke of Albany fell screaming through a time portal. “Guys in breeches

and yes, my lady and all that. Me, I always went for more contemporary stuff.”

He looked sideways at her, radiant in the dark. “You realise what you call contemporary is now science fiction?”

“Stop it,” she complained. “You’re making me time-sick.”

He tried his best to follow the plot, but the warmth of Esi against his side was pleasantly distracting, and the film’s time-travel

mechanics were confusing at best. “Wait, so... he’s going to be the inventor of the lift?”

“Elevator,” she corrected in a decent American accent.

“The elevator. And—because he’s travelled into the future, elevators in New York are just—randomly malfunctioning?”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t know how real time travel works. Why would I know how fake time travel works?”

They kept watching. “So she’s just going to stay with him in 1876?”

“Looks like it.”

“What’s she going to do? I thought she was this high-powered career woman!”

“What’s she not going to do? Think about it. She could invent everything a hundred years early. Move the future onto a better path.”

He looked at her fondly. “Of course you’d say that.” For a moment, the tension of the real argument between them hung in the

air.

She gave a tiny shrug. “Or, you know. Maybe she decided the past has some good points.”

He smiled and looked back at the screen.

“Okay,” he said as the film ended. “I’m sorry to say it, but my level of respect for your mum has dropped substantially.”

“Come on. This came out when she was—” She flipped the box and counted. “Sixteen. No one has good taste when they’re sixteen.

I mean, judging by that poster in your bedroom, you were into movies about zombie rabbits.”

He was indignant. “ Donnie Darko is not a film about zombie rabbits.”

“Prove it.”

They watched Donnie Darko . Esi sat in silence, a delicate furrow on her brow, until the credits rolled. “Okay, that made no sense.”

“I know, right? I didn’t get it till the fifth time I watched it.” He swivelled to face her. “So. Donnie realises he was supposed

to die when the plane engine fell in his room. He didn’t die, and that’s created a divergent universe, which is causing a

paradox and breaking reality. So he goes back through a wormhole into the original universe and makes sure he’s in his room

when the plane engine falls, so he can die like he’s meant to and set things right.”

She was staring at the screen. “Why do time travel stories always end with putting things back how they were?”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s comforting. The idea that there’s one way things are meant to be.” He felt her stiffen. Too late,

he realised how it sounded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You did, though.” She turned to him, serious in the screen’s muted glow. “And I get why you want it to be that way. You’re meant to end up with everything you ever wanted.”

He tipped his head back against the sofa. “And I get why you want the past to change. Need it to change.”

“We don’t have to change your future, though.”

He stared up at the ceiling, fear wound tight inside him. “I just—I still don’t really believe it’s possible unless it’s inevitable.

Does that make sense? Me succeeding—it feels so unlikely that if it doesn’t happen the exact way it always did, it won’t happen

at all.”

She didn’t reply. He heard her breathing, and felt her warmth against him, but he didn’t dare to look at her. He had known

since the start that they had different ideas about how time travel worked, but he had never let it bother him. Now, for some

reason, he desperately wanted them to be on the same side.

He tilted his head towards her. “Maybe we’re both wrong. I mean, Rob’s always telling me physics is much weirder than we can

imagine. Time travel could work differently from how either of us thinks it does.”

She met his eyes. “It doesn’t matter how it works,” she said softly. “There’s no way both of us get what we want.”

He tried to think around it, like a tricky essay question, but she was right. There was no world where his future was fixed

and her mum’s past could change. They would have to keep on as they were, working together but apart, in parallel but untouching

universes.

She got up, dislodging Jeely Piece. Her warmth against his side was gone. “Night, Joseph Greene.”

“Night,” he said, and watched her disappear into the dark.