6. Isaiah
Isaiah
November, Oxford
Isaiah was curled up in a brown leather chair next to a crackling fire, books open in his lap.
Amara was stretched out on the floor in front of him, her textbooks and papers spread haphazardly across the carpet, laptop beside her as she moved seamlessly between the three, typing at a speed that made Isaiah feel immensely inadequate.
Evening light slanted in through the tall windows, and the dust particles in the air floating above Isaiah’s head seemed to dance in it, almost deliberate in their inconsistency. Isaiah was on his third reread of the same paragraph, smoothing sentences that had already been smoothed to death.
“Ugh.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Swap papers?”
“Definitely,” she said, passing her laptop up to him as he handed his off. They read in silence for a moment. Amara sat up, tucking her knees under her, scrolling through his work with the kind of intensity that made nerves prickle down Isaiah’s spine.
“Okay,” she said eventually, pulling the pen free. “You’re over-hedging here. You don’t need both ‘arguably’ and ‘it seems plausible that.’ Pick a struggle.”
He snorted. “My struggle is surviving the tutorial.”
“You’ll survive. It’s Philosophy of Science, not trench warfare.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
“I thought you were only having a rough go of epistemology?” she asked.
“Yeah, well, I’m persona non grata in the department as a whole, it seems.”
“It won’t last. You know that, right? You just notice it more because you were so used to being everyone’s favourite.”
Isaiah stuck his tongue out at her. Things had been notably different since he’d skipped a tutorial to flee to his uncle’s place in the aftermath of his breakup with Ollie.
His tutors had not been sympathetic to his plight—likely not helped by Ollie and Matt being the darlings of the doctoral programme.
21 It had been well over a month, and it would be great if his one and only slip could be forgotten, but apparently that wasn’t how things were going to be.
Amara grinned, then tapped his screen with the end of her pen. “This bit’s good. The stuff about explanation versus prediction—very you. Miserable, but precise.”
She passed his laptop back, and he sighed with quiet relief. “Your turn. I’ve added a few comments, but this is solid, Mar.”
“Really? Cause Ethics gets me every time, I swear.”
“It’s just Jacobsen, he picks on people he likes.”
“Classic boy behaviour.” She laughed.
“Don’t I know it.” He passed her laptop back to her and she scanned his comments quickly, nodding, muttering, and scribbling something frantically in her notebook as she went.
They sat like that for a moment in parallel silence, the comfortable kind.
The BPhil had a way of burning through people, but Amara was one of the few who seemed to metabolise it easily.
Isaiah closed his document down and flipped over to his email, letting her finish in silence.
A smirk pulled at his lips as he saw the new email from Green.
There had been a few since their meeting in London.
It was too little, too late, but at least he’d kept his word, and that was more than Isaiah could say for some people.
In their most recent exchange, Isaiah’d asked him if he wanted to engage a lawyer, in the event that the case went to tribunal.
To: isaiah.owens@
From: c_green_run@
Subject: Re: re: re: re: ban reduction
A lawyer? Sure, why the hell not. Do you have a third cousin twice removed you’d recommend? Let’s make it a whole family affair.
You keep asking what I want, Isaiah, and I don’t know how else to say it. I want this over. I want to stop pretending there’s a version of this where I come out as noble and misunderstood.
There isn’t. You know it. I know it.
I’d assume Carl knows it, too.
Because my parents would never forgive me if I say no, if it does go that far, then yes, of course I’m not going to stand up there on my own. What would I even say?
I haven’t decided if your persistence on this is admirable or irritating but I guess thanks.
Yours,
Chris Green
It was the longest response he’d received from the man yet. Isaiah caught himself grinning at the snark and brutal honesty on the screen. He hadn’t quite admitted it, but Isaiah could half appreciate how Green didn’t try to deny things or play himself off as innocent.22
He was still an arsehole.
Amara cleared her throat. Isaiah looked up sheepishly.
“What’s got you grinning?” she asked.
“Just some work stuff.”
“For your uncle?” She seemed almost tentative for some reason.
Isaiah nodded.
“It’s going well, then? Do you think you’ll continue? After graduation?”
Isaiah laughed. “You know I’m going all in on the DPhil, Mar.
The agency is good. Useful. Gives me a glimpse of the world outside Oxford, but I can’t imagine ever leaving here.
Not willingly.” It was a touch more honest than he’d intended to be.
“What about you? Have you decided what happens after this yet? Assuming we make it out alive.”
She didn’t answer right away. She saved her file, shut her laptop, and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
“I don’t think I’m staying,” she said finally. “For a DPhil, I mean.”
Isaiah blinked. “Really?” Amara had been talking about it since first year, and he’d assumed it was still the goal.
An Oxford DPhil felt like it meant something.
Isaiah had toyed with the idea of walking away from it, especially these last few weeks when the shine had very much worn off, but he didn’t think he actually could.
She shook her head. “I want to go home to Lebanon, do my PhD there. Try to get a job at AUB eventually, if I’m lucky.”
There was something very calm about the way she said it, like she’d already had the argument more than once.
“That’s… Yeah,” he said. “That makes sense.”
“It does?”
“Yeah,” he said, surprising himself with how sure he felt.
“It’s home, right?” He shrugged. “I hear that means something for some people.” His laugh came out brittle as he realised the truth of his statement halfway through it, Isaiah may have loved his home, loved the traditions he’d grown up with, but even the idea of it rang hollow now.
It was meaningless ceremony. So unlike Oxford, where tradition was rooted enough to sustain itself without being forced. 23
She smiled at that. “Exactly. Plus, I don’t want my whole intellectual life to be coloured by one place. It breeds hypocrisy.” She smiled. “No offence.”
Isaiah shrugged. “Maybe don’t put that in your ethics paper. Jacobsen wouldn’t hear a word against Oxford; probably sees it akin to treason.”
Amara laughed and it lightened something in Isaiah. “The very definition of institutionalised.”
She wasn’t wrong. They all were here, to an extent. But it didn’t grate on him the way the rigid confines of his upbringing had. Oxford was grounded but evolving, you could feel it in the air.
A notification buzzed on Amara’s phone. She glanced down and groaned. “Speaking of borrowing things. I’m meeting him later.”
“Dylan? Thought you weren’t interested?” Isaiah said.
She shifted. “I’m not,” she said in the most unconvincing tone Isaiah had ever heard from her mouth. “But he’s very pretty and just a tiny bit dumb. It’s fun.”
“Didn’t take you for the type to go for a himbo.”
Amara rolled her eyes. “It’s nice. Easy. There’s no pretence with him, he just likes me because he likes me, and maybe that’s not forever. God knows I won’t be sticking around, but…”
“It’s nice for now?”
“Exactly. Nice for now.”
That was how Isaiah used to feel about Ollie. The thought wiped the grin right off his face.
“You cannot tell Jake and Malek,” she said. “I’d never live it down.”
“Never. Is this the part where I pretend not to be invested?”
She laughed, then tilted her head at him. “You coming out tonight?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve got reading. Got to impress this week. Rehabilitate myself.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You? Falling in line?”
“Temporarily. Also, I’ve got…stuff.”
She didn’t push, just nodded, already gathering her things. “Suit yourself. You’ve been kind of a ghost lately, you know.”
“I know.” And he did. He’d been drifting further from the cohort, letting group chats die unanswered, and excuses stack up. It was easier with his cross-country friends, they were training for a race in Hatfield in January, it was simple, and right now, simple felt like oxygen.
She hesitated, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”
“Dangerous preamble,” he said, but nodded.
“Has there been anyone,” she said carefully, “since Ollie?”
The question landed softer than he’d expected, but it still made him pause. “No,” he said, and then didn’t quite meet her eyes.
She tilted her head. “That’s not a very convincing lie, Zay.”
“There’s nobody. Or nobody real, at least,” he added, embarrassed by the direction of his own thoughts. The thoughtful gifts, that last session where he’d faked a random selection to thank Flash and got way more than he’d bargained for.24
Amara studied him for a second, then said lightly, “Is it one of your subscribers?”
Isaiah’s heart stopped. He looked up. His hands trembled as he met her gaze. “What?”
“Oh, relax,” she said quickly, laughing. “Isaiah, we all know. We’re not idiots.”
“You…you know?” Impossible. He’d been so careful.
“Yeah. And we support you,” she said, matter-of-factly.
That made something tighten in Isaiah’s gut. He wasn’t sure how he felt about people he knew for real watching him. God, what if Flash… He took a breath. It was far more likely his favourite patron was a balding middle-aged man than a friend or teammate.
“I mean, I’d never watch. Way too weird. I like you with your clothes on and your opinions bad.”
He felt heat creep up his neck, but there was relief in it too. “Right. Good. Great. Fantastic.”
She squeezed his shoulder as she passed him. “Just don’t disappear entirely, okay? We need you.”