16. Isaiah
Isaiah
May, Oxford
“Arainbow aisle runner?” Isaiah’s brows shot up into his hairline. “Elliot, no. Put your foot down. Please.”
He was walking towards a meeting at the Schwartzman Centre with the professor who would be his DPhil supervisor, Dr. Schmidt.
Limited funding and hesitation over his topic from some of the senior academics were putting his place at risk, and he hoped she had some thoughts on how to move forward.
He knew the alternatives were to take his topic elsewhere or pivot to something safer.
But Isaiah didn’t want to do either of those things.
Elliot’s wedding was a helpful distraction from his building anxiety.
“Jackson really wants it.”
“Of course he does, but does he also want you to expire from embarrassment the second you set a foot on the aisle?”
It had been less than a month since Jackson and Elliot had proposed to each other at the London Marathon. His cousin was so fucking smitten with his fiancé that it was slightly nauseating.
“I’ll tell him my best man exercised his veto,” Elliot replied.
“Your best man?”
“Yeah.” Elliot paused like he was waiting for an answer.
Isaiah paused. “Wait. Me?”
“Of course,” Elliot replied as though this was the most obvious thing on earth and Isaiah was being deliberately obtuse.
“Are you sure?” He picked at his fingernails. Surely there was someone better, someone Elliot was closer to.
“I’m sure, Zay. If you want to, that is. Because if you think Jackson’s being insane about the wedding, then wait until you hear his stag do ideas.”
“Oh lord,” Isaiah groaned. “See, now I have to step in, if only to save you from yourselves.”
“You’ve got time, don’t worry. We’re thinking winter wedding, so we can be a bit more flexible about the menu without any majors in the calendar.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yeah,” Elliot replied in a dreamy tone no one ever would have believed could come out of the mouth of the man people had spent years referring to as the ice prince of the marathon. “Hey, I’ll let you get to your meeting and we’ll catch up later, alright? Good luck. Not that you’ll need it.”
“Thanks, Ell.”
As he walked the last few streets to his meeting, Isaiah scrolled through his notifications, swiping things away with disinterest. It wasn’t until he was in front of the door that he realised he’d been subconsciously seeking out a message from Flash or an email from Chris, neither of which would ever come again. 55
Isaiah paused for a minute outside the door and took a breath, looking around to remind himself of what really mattered. Oxford.
Oxford in spring was a sight to behold. The dusty, perpetual autumn that always seemed to be associated with the place gave way to colourful flowers and students punting on the river.
The ever-present band of cyclists seemed to grow exponentially as the weather warmed.
He loved it here, and he wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it for him—not Matt, not Ollie, not Chris Green, and certainly not a bunch of stuffy old men who found his research too risqué.
He pushed open the heavy door and made his way up the stone steps to the third floor, where the academic staff had their offices.
He’d been to see Dr. Schmidt before, but today felt more important.
More final. Isaiah worried that this was more than a simple discussion about funding, especially with Matt’s hopefully empty threat still hanging over his head from months ago.
Steeling himself, Isaiah rapped his knuckles hard against the ageing wood.
“One moment.” Dr. Schmidt’s tone was unreadable.
She opened the door a minute later, and Isaiah swallowed around the lump forming in his throat.
“Owens. Come in, make yourself as comfortable as you can.” She laughed, gesturing to the uninviting wooden chair in front of her desk.
“I’d imagine you want to know where things sit. I know everything has felt quite uncertain recently,” she said as he perched on the edge of the seat.
Isaiah nodded.
“I loved your proposal, but not everyone in the department was quite so enamoured.”
Isaiah’s heart fell. This was it. She was going to tell him it was out, that he hadn’t done enough.
“It’s taken time to bring them around, but I believe we’ve reached an understanding. Tradition may matter here, but if we can’t take a risk in the philosophy department then what does that say about our scholarship?”
Isaiah breathed out. “Is that your way of telling me…”
“That you have a DPhil place next year? Yes.” She shrugged.
“Funding isn’t confirmed, but I have some thoughts to go through with you today.
We want you to move forward with this, Owens.
Thought must evolve. We can leave the endless debates on Aristotle and Kant to…
” She wrinkled her nose dramatically. “Cambridge.”
Isaiah smiled.
“Now, these are some of the grants we can apply for.” She handed over a stack of Post-it notes with scribbles on them that were only just legible. “We’ll look at the alumni network as well, and your college will have its own. Balliol, right?”
Isaiah nodded.
“Excellent. Good options there. Go through that list first, and we’ll redirect if needed.”
Isaiah grinned, clutching the notes to his chest. For a moment he considered telling her, to get ahead of anything Matt might be planning to reveal, but he hesitated. She may have been open to his research, may have gone to bat for him in the department, but this seemed a step too far.
“And, Isaiah…” She paused. “Regarding your extracurriculars.”
His heart lurched. This conversation was going to put him in hospital if it carried on at this rate.
“Let’s keep them between us for now.”
“You know?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “I wondered about some of the references you made, and Matthew, that poor misguided man, made a disparaging remark that I won’t repeat. But he did…well suggest you have a…creative outlet?”
Isaiah snorted.
“I’ll take that as confirmation.” She gave him a wry grin. “I don’t foresee an issue, but I’m sure you’ve come across some less-than-progressive members of staff, so I don’t suggest broadcasting your work for now, not until funding is in place. They always fold when the money’s there.”
Isaiah nodded.
“Though, of course, it could give you more access to primary research. Others in the industry would be more willing to speak to one of their own.”
He considered it. She wasn’t wrong, but that would mean taking off the mask, and right now it felt like the only thing keeping him safe, in more ways than one.56
“Well, now the real work begins,” she said as she stood, effectively dismissing him. “I hope you’re prepared for months of funding applications, Owens, because I’m looking forward to working with you.”
She shook his hand, and Isaiah barely managed to squeeze it back, floating away on a cloud of complete disbelief that he’d done it.
He’d been chosen. It was utter bollocks that the first thing his stupid brain thought of doing as he walked back to his room was emailing Chris Green to tell him that he’d be adding more letters after his signature soon.
As May gave way to June and he finally submitted the thirty-thousand-word BPhil thesis he’d worked his arse off on, on agency in digital spaces, Isaiah finally had time to breathe.
It would serve as a jumping-off point for his more extensive and specific DPhil research, and hopefully help with grant applications that felt like throwing spaghetti at the wall and hoping something would stick.
He emptied his dorm in Balliol. He’d be back here again in September, but it still had a finality to it.
He was giving his room a final once-over when there was a knock at his door.
“One minute,” Isaiah called out before grabbing the stray sock he’d spotted under his bed and pushing himself back up to his feet.
When he opened the door, Amara stood in front of him, her smile was shaky, but it wasn’t until her eyes caught on his packed bags that she burst into tears.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He pulled her into a tight hug, stroking her back as she sobbed.
e led her inside and sat her down gently on his recently stripped bed.
Amara let out a shaky breath. “Isaiah, are you rubbing my back with a dirty sock?”
Sheepishly, Isaiah let his hand fall and tried to surreptitiously toss the sock into his bag. It landed in the middle of the floor in all its bright pink glory.
“Oh my god, you were,” she groaned. “Christ, you’re such a boy.”
“Hey, I’m very domesticated. And surely I get points for the back rub, sock or not?”
Amara sniffled. “You do. You’re a good friend, Zay. I’m going to miss you so much.”
“Me too.” He sighed and pulled her into his chest, fighting the stinging in his eyes.
“My Uber’ll be here any minute, but just…” She paused. “You’re going to do such great things. Promise me you’ll keep in touch…and stop being so damn hard on yourself.”
Isaiah bristled. “I don’t mean to be hard on myself.”
“Intent versus impact,” she replied, brushing the hair from his face.
He laughed, and they hugged again before her phone buzzed and she rushed out the door to catch her Uber to the airport.
Isaiah sank back down onto his bed. Amara had been with him through five years at Oxford.
The same college, same course, all the way through.
Being here next year without her would be like missing a limb.
None of his friends would be back, not the core of their group. Jacob was graduating and he and Malek would be swapping their Oxford flat for a place in London, closer to training for Mal and work for Jake.
Isaiah folded in on himself. It was as though it hadn’t hit him until now that next year, though he’d be back in familiar surroundings, he’d be doing it all alone. It made sense for them, for all of his friends, but Isaiah couldn’t imagine ever leaving.
With a final backwards glance at his room, he dragged his bags outside to where Elliot and Jackson were waiting for him. They helped load his things into their SUV, ribbing him about the number of books and the camera equipment.