Page 57 of Love and Other Paradoxes

“It was a multipurpose name. Anyway,” said Rob, with an air of changing the subject, “how are you doing? Isn’t your poetry thing soon?”

“Tuesday.” He couldn’t believe it was nearly here. He had thought that by now, he would have become a different version of himself: more certain, less confused, closer to the man on thecover of the book. But if anything, he felt like he had got further away. He was caught in the void between who he was and who he was meant to be, no longer firmly anchored to either.

“You don’t seem very excited.”

Joe rubbed his knuckles against Bear’s tiny ears. “I don’t?”

Rob laughed hoarsely. “If I’d told you four months ago you’d be having one of your poems read at some fancy literary event, I think your head would have exploded. I’d still have been cleaning bits of Greeney off the walls.”

He thought about explaining that the poem wasn’t really his: strictly speaking, it was no one’s, because it had appeared by magic from the future. But as usual, he suspected Rob would be more interested in the physics of how that could possibly have happened than in the ways it was turning Joe’s life upside down. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the future boxing him in: the mug in his pigeonhole, the cat on his doorstep, his union with Diana looming closer and closer, nothing either of them could do to actively choose it. “Do you think all our actions are predetermined?”

One of his favourite things about Rob was that you could ask him a question like that, with no context whatsoever, and he wouldn’t even blink. “Oh yeah. Physics-wise, it’s pretty likely.”

“How do you cope with that?” He searched for an example that would make Rob care. “Like, you’ve been trying to murder Darcy since your duel in first year. What if you knew it was never going to happen? Would you still keep trying?”

Rob looked at him like he was insane. “Of course. Because it’s not just about the outcome. I’m in the Guild because I enjoy it. I love making weapons, I love staking out a target, I love the chase and the kill and writing up the report. I’d do it all, even if I knew it’d come to nothing.”

Joe felt like he was trembling on the edge of a profound truth. On impulse, he checked his phone: still no reply from Esi. “And what if you knew the opposite?” he said. “That you were certain to win? What would you do then?”

Rob shrugged, as if it was perfectly straightforward. “I’d pretend I didn’t.”

Joe went into his bedroom and closed the door, wondering vaguely if Rob might be a genius. He tookMeant to Beout from under his pillow, dropped it into his desk drawer, and slammed it shut. No more voice of the narrator. No more idea that a narrator even existed. He would go to Diana and meet her on her own terms, here and now, and he would see what was going to happen.

Chapter Twenty

“‘Her tongue, a dart, a star, a’—shit.”

The final rehearsal wasn’t going well.

Diana broke off for the fifth time in five lines. “This isn’t working. It’s flat. Isn’t it? It’s flat, and boring, and it’s going to send the audience tosleep. Fuck. Joseph, why am I making such a hash of this?”

“It’s not you.” He tried to think of what he’d say if he didn’t know the future. “Maybe it’s the poem.”

“It’s not the poem, you idiot genius. And it’s not me. I’m wonderful. It’s something between the poem and me.” She waved her hand airily back and forth. “I’m not connecting with it. There’s something missing.”

He tried to restrain his panic. “You’re having this revelation a day before the event?”

“Better a day before than a day after.” She paced across the room. “We need to shake things up.” She whirled on him, grabbing his arms. “Let’s go punting!”

He stared at her. “It’s February.”

“You’re Scottish.” She let him go and headed out of the door.

He followed her onto Trinity Street, trying not to think about where fate might be manoeuvring them. They were just twopeople, going on a spontaneous, completely insane boat trip. He registered Vera at the corner of his eye, but he refused to look at her. No time travellers today, no future. Just him and Diana.

She took him to the supermarket, where she bought a punnet of strawberries, a bottle of gin, and a pack of paper cups. Then she marched him down to the river, where she negotiated a discount self-hire punt simply by raising her eyebrow. When the overawed employee had shown them to their boat, she settled back on the cushions like a queen.

He laughed at her from the dock. “Oh, so I’m driving?”

She looked at him over her sunglasses. “If you’d rather, I’m happy to send us round in circles.”

“You’ve been at Cambridge two and a half years, and you haven’t learned how to punt?”

“I’ve had better things to do.”

“That’s convenient.” He took the pole and stepped onto the rocking platform. He hadn’t done much punting, but he had overheard enough of Rob’s rants about technique to absorb the basics.Keep the pole close to the boat. Drop it straight down, not at an angle.And finally, and most importantly,If the pole gets stuck, let it go. He lifted it hand over hand and dropped it, steering them smoothly out from the dock.

“Very nice, Joseph,” she drawled with an approving smile. “A man of many talents.”

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