He actually sputters out his coffee. “Who says I’m going to?”
“That little black notebook I saw you scribbling in, and your face. Your big, wide-open, couldn’t-fool-anybody-about-anything face says you’re going to.”
He blushes again, because blushing is his entire state of being. “And why shouldn’t I?” he asks.
“Because I’m not going to fall in love with you.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t believe in love.”
“It’s not a religion,” he says. “It exists whether you believe in it or not.”
“Oh, really? Can you prove it?”
“Love songs. Poetry. The institution of marriage.”
“Please. Words on paper. Can you use the scientific method on it? Can you observe it, measure it, experiment with it, and repeat your experiments? You cannot. Can you slice it and stain it and study it under a microscope? You cannot. Can you grow it in a petri dish or map its gene sequence?”
“You cannot,” he says, mimicking my voice and laughing.
I can’t help laughing too. Sometimes I take myself a little seriously.
He spoons a layer of foam off his coffee and into his mouth. “You say it’s just words on paper, but you have to admit all those people are feeling something.”
I nod. “Something temporary and not at all measurable. People just want to believe. Otherwise they would have to admit that life is just a random series of good and bad things that happen until one day you die.”
“And you’re okay with believing that life has no meaning?”
“What choice do I have? This is what life is.”
Another spoon of foam and more laughter from him. “So no fate, no destiny, no meant-to-be for you?”
“I am not a nincompoop,” I say, definitely enjoying myself more than I should be.
He loosens his tie and relaxes back into his chair. A strand of his hair escapes his ponytail, and I watch as he tucks it behind his ear. Instead of pushing him away, my nihilism is only making him more comfortable. He seems almost merry.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so charmingly deluded,” he says, as if I’m a curiosity.
“And you find that appealing?” I ask.
“I find it interesting,” he says.
I take a look around the café. Somehow, it’s filled up without me noticing. People line the bar, waiting for their orders. The speakers are playing “Yellow Ledbetter” by Pearl Jam—another one of my favorite nineties grunge-rock bands. I can’t help it. I have to close my eyes to listen to Eddie Vedder mumble-sing the chorus.
When I open them again, Daniel is staring at me. He shifts forward so his chair is grounded again on all four legs. “What if I told you I could get you to fall in love with me scientifically?”
“I would scoff,” I say. “A lot.”
ONE POSSIBLE SOLUTION to the grandfather paradox is the theory of multiverses originally set forth by Hugh Everett. According to multiverse theory, every version of our past and future histories exists, just in an alternate universe.
For every event at the quantum level, the current universe splits into multiple universes. This means that for every choice you make, an infinite number of universes exist in which you made a different choice.
The theory neatly solves the grandfather paradox by positing separate universes in which each possible outcome exists, thereby avoiding a paradox.
In this way we get to live multiple lives.
There is, for example, a universe where Samuel Kingsley does not derail his daughter’s life. A universe where he does derail it but Natasha is able to fix it. A universe where he does derail it and she is not able to fix it. Natasha is not quite sure which universe she’s living in now.
Area Boy Attempts to Use Science to Get the Girl
I wasn’t kidding about the falling-in-love-scientifically thing. There was even an article in the New York Times about it.
A researcher put two people in a lab and had them ask each other a bunch of intimate questions. Also, they had to stare into each other’s eyes for four minutes without talking. I’m pretty sure I’m not getting her to do the staring thing with me right now. To be honest, I didn’t really believe the article when I read it. You can’t just make people fall in love, right? Love is way more complicated than that. It’s not just a matter of choosing a couple of people and making them ask each other some questions, and then love blossoms. The moon and the stars are involved. I’m certain of it.
Nevertheless.
According to the article, the result of the experiment was that the two test subjects did indeed fall in love and get married. I don’t know if they stayed married. (I kinda don’t want to know, because if they did stay married, then love is less mysterious than I think and can be grown in a petri dish. If they didn’t stay married, then love is as fleeting as Natasha says it is.)
I pull out my phone and look up the study. Thirty-six questions. Most of them are pretty stupid, but some of them are okay. I like the staring-into-the-eyes thing.
I’m not above science.
HE TELLS ME ABOUT SOME study involving a lab and questions and love. I am skeptical and say so. I’m also slightly intrigued but don’t say so.
“What are the five key ingredients to falling in love?” he asks me.
“I don’t believe in love, remember?” I pick up my spoon and stir my coffee, even though there’s nothing to stir together.