Page 9 of Love and Other Paradoxes

He followed his future towards the ADC. His hair felt like something had nested in it, and the trench coat lay heavy across

his shoulders. He shrugged, trying to get comfortable in the new self he was wearing. Strange, how he could feel so certain

about the future, and so terrified about the next half hour. He and Diana were destined to be together: whatever Esi said,

he still believed that. But any number of disasters might stand between them and happiness. And it wasn’t as if he could just

wait them out. He had to keep trying, hoping each time that this would be the turning point. It was like Dr. Lewis had said.

Determinism was nice in theory, but it didn’t actually save you any work.

He pushed through the glass doors into the lobby. His vision of Diana sitting onstage had been a fantasy: signs informed him

that the meeting was upstairs in the bar. As he entered, a man in a velvet blazer was talking about how the potential collected

in the room could power a thousand nuclear reactors, or something equally unscientific that would have made Rob cry. Joe looked

around for Diana. Soon, he would see her , said the narrator in his head, gleaming through the crowd like an emerald amongst the—

He couldn’t find her. He searched again, lingering on every dark-haired woman. Finally, he saw her at the bar, severe in a black turtleneck, hair pulled up into a bun. He was disturbed that he hadn’t recognised her. Surely her soul should have called out to his, regardless of how differently she was dressed? That thought lasted until he touched his goop-covered hair and remembered he was effectively wearing a costume.

He wiped his hand discreetly on his jeans and turned to his secondary objective, to look for Esi’s mum. That was easier: he

ascertained at a glance that everyone in the room was white. He usually wouldn’t have noticed; now, he couldn’t unsee it.

His feeling of accomplishment took on a sour aftertaste, like spoiled wine.

As the velvet-blazered man started introducing the actors, Joe texted Esi.

She’s not here. I’m sorry.

A few seconds later, her replies came through.

that’s ok

knew it wouldn’t be that easy

He flipped his phone closed as the man in the velvet jacket finished his introductions. “Poets, you should already know who

you’ve been paired with.” He clapped his hands. “Tomorrow begins today!”

Joe took a deep breath and walked towards Diana.

She was scanning the room, looking for the person his words had made her imagine. When their eyes met, he tried to feel the weight of the moment, but he was too busy panicking that she would recognise him. She took him in, a roving, interested glance. She didn’t gasp, or flee in terror. Esi’s magic had worked. He thanked her wordlessly for giving him the second chance to make a first impression.

“So,” Diana drawled, putting out her hand. “Joseph Greene. The genius behind ‘A Taste of Stars.’”

And it all went to pieces. Esi had dressed him up, arranged his hair, told him what to say, but she hadn’t told him how to

act normal when the future love of his life called him a genius. His shoulders caved; his hand went automatically to the back

of his neck. “Uh—yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “That’s—that’s me.”

“No.” She reared back. Her eyes narrowed. “It’s you .”

His heart was hammering. “What?”

She pointed at his chest emphatically. “Train Boy! Is this some kind of joke?” She held up a printout of the poem. “Did you

even write this?”

“It’s not a joke. I...” I did write this. He couldn’t say it. He searched for a way to claim it that was true. “That’s my poem. I’m Joseph Greene.”

She looked at him, then back at the poem. She took a breath. “You should know that the only reason I’m not walking out right

now is because I am a consummate professional.”

He exhaled in heart-stopping relief. “Thank you. I—”

“And because your poem is, I grudgingly have to admit, very good.” Her attention pinned him in place. “Who’s it about?”

His brain short-circuited. “I’m sorry?”

“The poem,” she said, with fraying patience. “Who inspired it?” When he still failed to reply, she rolled her eyes. “Oh my

God. Do I have to spell it out for you? Who were you kissing? ”

“Just—this girl.” Rob’s words echoed. There’s the competition-winning eloquence I’d expect. He had to do better. “She’s—” And as he said it, he realised his dilemma. The poem had been written by someone deeply in

love. But he couldn’t have Diana thinking he was taken. “She was the love of my life.”

Cliché. He winced internally. Diana raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Was?”

She died. He rejected the lie with the same instinct that rejected the wrong word when he was writing a poem. Another cliché, not to

mention it was in bad taste, not to mention he’d have to think up something his imaginary girlfriend could have died of and

keep that straight for the entirety of his and Diana’s future together. “It didn’t work out.”

She looked at him knowingly. “You mean she broke up with you.”

He felt the self-protective urge to deny it. Wouldn’t it make him look more desirable if he’d been the one to end it? Esi

spoke softly in his ear. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable.

“Yes,” he said, with a quiet laugh. “She did.”

Diana nodded sagely. “You couldn’t have written this poem otherwise. The pain, the loss—that’s what drew me to it. All that

longing, all that desire for what can no longer be, it’s there in every word.”

“Aye—yeah, that’s exactly what I was going for,” his mouth said, while his brain protested, What the hell is wrong with you? How could she read the poem as a lament for love lost, when it was clearly a celebration of love everlasting?

She threw him a sly glance. “Is this what all that nonsense was about the other night? You knew I was involved in Love Poems

for Tomorrow, and you were—what, auditioning?”

He remembered what Esi had said. She’s going to ask you for an explanation, but that’s not what she really needs. “It doesn’t matter. I should have realised going up to you like that was creepy and invasive. I’m sorry. I won’t put you

in that position again.”

She looked taken aback. He wondered uneasily if she wasn’t used to men apologising. The idea of Crispin floated into his mind.

Her unhappy, inevitable marriage loomed on the horizon, a shadow she was doomed to walk through.

“All right,” she said. “I accept your apology. Mostly because, on the evidence of this”—she shook the poem—“you’re talented

enough to get a pass.”

He didn’t necessarily agree that talented people could go around being as creepy as they liked. But the future love of his

life had given him a compliment, and he couldn’t think straight. He grinned at her, then realised talented people probably

didn’t grin, and moderated it to a knowing smile.

Her eyes met his. Gimlet eyes , he thought. Not just because of their sharpness, but their colour, exactly like the cocktail, a green so pale it was almost

yellow. They looked through him, searching for something he wasn’t sure he contained. “I tend to find collaborations flow

better in more intimate surroundings,” she said in her low, musical voice. “Why don’t you come by my room tomorrow morning

and we’ll give it a go?”

He tried to look as if he wasn’t exploding. “Uh—sure. Absolutely. Here’s my number.”

She typed it into her phone and gave him a missed call. As if by magic, Diana Dartnell’s number appeared on his screen. “F5, Whewell’s Court,” she said. “Trinity Street gate. Shall we say eleven? Text me when you’re outside. I’ll buzz you in.” She leaned forward, a breath of orange blossom and patchouli, and kissed him almost imperceptibly on the cheek. “Must go. Got to circulate.”

He watched her leave, his soul buzzing. He’d done it. He’d made his future happen. But even as joy spread through him, he

felt it dull at the edges. He hadn’t really done anything. He’d been a passenger, floating on the tides of fate, no more responsible

for his success than a message in a bottle that had happened to be found.

He knew one person who would give him credit. As he left the theatre, he took out his phone and texted Esi.

Want an update?

YES

don’t tease me, joseph greene

please tell me you unbroke the future

Don’t tease me was too much of an invitation.

:-)

what is that

It took him a minute to understand what was confusing her.

An emoticon. Look at it sideways. It’s a wee smiley face.

oh my god

that is the best/worst thing I ever saw

why is everything about the past so stupid

Don’t ask me, I just live here.

so that means good news? what happened??

He was typing another teasing reply when his phone buzzed again, and again.

please

just tell me

I need to know

He felt a stab of guilt. He’d been too caught up in his own triumph to think about what this meant for her. Swiftly, he deleted

his reply and typed another.

It went well. Really well. I’m invited to her room tomorrow.

To practise in “more intimate surroundings.” Her words, not mine.

oh thank god

so what’s the next step with my mum?

You free to meet up? I’ve got some ideas, but we should talk.

A moment passed. Then:

:-O

Is that a no?

it’s a talking face. let’s talk

:-O means surprised.

who made you king of the little face pictures

talk where

He looked up from his phone to gauge where he was.

I’m just coming back to college. Meet me outside?

too central

too many people

I told you, I’m trying to keep a low profile

He checked up and down the street. A group of girls in wedge heels were heading out for pre-clubbing drinks. A wild-haired professor was cycling towards the river, his dog trotting frantically to keep up. The tour groups, time traveller or otherwise, were long gone.

It’s not exactly jumping this time of night. Come on! Live a little!

I’m not here to live, I’m here to reset my life

but fine

give me 20 minutes

He waited outside the gate, vibrating with euphoria, until he saw her round the corner of Pembroke Street. As she came up

the steps, he unlocked the gate and held it open.

She stopped. “Wait, we’re going in ?”

“Aye. I want a beer, and it’s cheaper than anywhere else.” He saw her hesitate. “What’s wrong? And don’t say the butterfly

effect. You work in a coffee shop. It’s not like you never interact with people.”

“That’s Mill Road. This is the university. It’s different.” When he started to demur, she gave him a look. “You’re telling

me I’m not going to be the only Black person in that bar?”

He thought about the two Black students he knew in the college. “Well, Omar never comes to the bar, but Vanessa spends more time on the quiz machine than she does on her degree, so overall, odds are about fifty-fifty?” She smiled a little, but she still looked tense. “You can’t avoid the uni forever,” he reminded her gently. “Your mum’s here.”

“Exactly. She never felt like she fit in, and she was a genius. Compared to her, I’ve got no right to be here at all.”

“You’re my guest.” He leaned back against the door, pushing it open wider. “You have as much right to be here as anyone else.”

She bit her lip. “Can we have a code word? If I say it, it means I need to get out of here .”

“Absolutely. What’s the code word?”

Her eyes flicked up to the grand stone archway. “Threshold,” she said with a smile, like she was making a private joke.

He held the gate open. She ducked through, humming uneasily under her breath. “So,” he said. “Don’t you want the full story

of how I swept Diana Dartnell off her feet?”

“If I say no, are you going to tell me anyway?”

“I’ll give you the short version. I did everything you said, and it worked.” He looked up at the crescent moon, remembering

the odd, hollow feeling that had descended on him afterwards. “I mean, of course it worked, because it was always going to

work.”

“Don’t take this away from me, Joseph Greene. It worked because I’m amazing at romantic advice.” She looked sideways at him.

“And don’t take it away from yourself. You listened, and you did what I told you. That can’t have been easy.”

He led her down the arched tunnel towards the bar, feeling a little patronised. “You think I’m incapable of following basic

instructions?”

She looked surprised by his reaction. “No. I just didn’t think you’d want to.”

The cosy, old-man-pub atmosphere of the bar enveloped them. Esi wrinkled her nose. Joe experienced a moment of dislocation. Smoking in pubs was going to be banned in Scotland in March—his regulars had talked about nothing else all summer—but the idea of his everyday reality being obsolete made him feel suddenly ancient.

“We can go somewhere else,” he offered.

“It’s fine,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face. “I’m getting used to it.”

He got the drinks—a beer for him and a blue cocktail for Esi—and took them to a table in the corner. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” As their glasses clinked, an odd look crossed her face.

“What?”

She started laughing. “I’m sorry. You have no idea how weird this is for me.”

“Oh, this is weird for you ? Me, I’ve had the most normal week I can remember.”

She sipped her blue drink, winding a braid around her finger. “I mean, I get that, but—look at it from my side for a second.

Like—who’s a writer you had to study in school that you hated?”

“Walter Scott.”

“Who?” He opened his mouth. She waved a dismissal. “Actually, doesn’t matter. Just think about how you’d feel if you were

me, and he was you.”

“That’s who I am to you? Walter fucking Scott?” He groaned into his pint glass. “Jesus, I’m starting to get it. Walter Scott

rocks up in my coffee shop, ruins my day, steals my book, I give him a makeover, he buys me a drink...” He looked up at

her, horrified. “Wait. Is this—is this creepy? Am I being a creepy old man?”

She laughed. “No, you’re fine. I get the concern, but—it’s not creepy.” She took a sip of her blue drink. “Also, you’re not

an old man. Not yet, anyway.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I feel so much better.”

“Want to know what the weirdest thing of all would be?” She rested her chin on her hand and gave him a sideways smile. “If

Walter Scott turned out to actually not be a total nozz.”

His heart leapt strangely. “No, sorry. Too far. That’s impossible.” Her words surfaced a thought that had been lurking in

the back of his mind since he had met her. The look she had given him, as if he was the last person on earth she’d wanted

to see. “Why did you think I would be, though? Is that what future me is really like?”

She picked up a beer mat and started tearing tiny perforations around the edge. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s no way to become

a famous poet without turning into kind of a nozz.”

She said it offhand, like it was a neutral observation. He felt like she had slapped him, in some deep part of himself he

had thought no one could reach. “So I’m fated to become a bad person?” His voice shook. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Because I say the wrong thing. Always.” She shook her head wildly. “I don’t know future you. How

could I? Future you is famous, and happy, and I’m—nothing. I’m nobody.” She stood abruptly, heading for the door. “This was

a mistake.”