Hands flailing in light panic, he whisper-shouts at me, “What are you doing?”
“I’m the black coffee, August,” I inform him, placing my cup back down. And I think it’s a pretty bloody good analogy I just came up with on the spot. Though I am a super genius after all. “I’m the coffee inyourcoffee, and now it’s overflowing, and the coffee isn’t where it’s supposed to be anymore.”
“But I wanted decaf,” he protests.
“That’s exactly right.” I pull the saucer away from him to get his full attention, meeting his eyes when I explain, “You’re ‘decaf August,’ I’m ‘caf August,’ and now everything is fucked.”
He stares a moment, his mind whirring behind those lovely eyes. Then, “Okay. I think I understand.” He takes up a napkinand slips it under his cup to soak up the mess. “We need to get ‘caf August,’ um… We need to… We, uh.” He puts the cup back down on the sopping napkin. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Correct.”
“And if you’re here, you’re going to fuck up my coffee.”
“Exactly correct. And everything else. This timeline, all the possible timelines and realities, were never meant to include you and me together in the same one. We’re a mathematical impossibility, and the universe—thisuniverse—is fritzing out, trying to meld where I should be with where you are. Her hair—” I point at the waitress “—is orange in my reality. Or it was. It’s not now because my reality is gone.”
Totally, surprisingly adorably, his eyes grow big when he whispers, “Where is your reality?”
And here’s another thing he doesn’t need to know. Not yet, anyway. Better lie. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. And I don’t know how to fix this. That’s why I’m here, today, with you. Because there’s one other man in this whole universe, that I know of, who’s just as clever as me. Who can help me solve this problem, and put all the bits back in place.”
August smiles, so obviously relieved after this abominable morning. He claps his hands together, a determined spark lighting his eyes. “Well, alright. Where do we find him?”
Really, August?“Really, August?”
He looks about the place, as if I’ve dropped a pamphlet on how to find the world’s greatest super genius, and he’s looking to pick it up. “Where? Where is he?”
“He’s sitting right here, you idiot!”
Head turning left, right, back to me, whispering, “Where?”
“Jesus fucking Christ. For a super genius, you’re pretty fucking slow.”
“A super…Me?”
“Yes! Just why do you think I’m here?”
“Stop being…” The smile’s plastered twice as wide across his face, and I can’t help but notice this guy’s teeth are perfect. And his lips are so…
Damn, he’s so cute.
How many sit-ups do I need to do to be like this?
When he laughs, it does something to me that I haven’t felt in a long time. A really long time.
Unfortunately, he then says, “This is ridiculous. I mean… You had me.” Again, he’s searching around, but this time more minutely, looking at the plant pots, searching the sides of tables. “Are you recording this?”
“No, I’m not—what are you doing?”
I try to swat away the hand that’s now on my cheek, fingertips pulling at my jawline. “That has to be prosthetic. How did you manage this?”
I shove my chair back, trying to get out of his reach. “You’re not meant to touch me!”
“Bullshit!” He’s up and around the table. I jump up, then a sharp pain cracks down my thigh as I bump against another table. Cutlery clatters to the floor, and the barista and the few other patrons in the place are all looking, but August’s locked onto me. His hand grips my shirt, and he pulls me in. He’s strong. He’s way stronger than me, for sure. It’s such an easy movement, but the power there is… It’s kind of hot, actually. And I hate that I’m thinking all these things, believe me, I do. I never thought I’d be crushing on myself like this. But I guess I am… Bad August.
He cannot be thinking the same thing I am, because his face is so close to mine that I could see his pores if any existed in that perfect skin, and he doesn’t betray the slightest blush. He’s intent on examining me, so I do the only thing I can and lift my chin.
“You see there?” I whisper, my heart beating more violently than it did when he punched me. “There are no prosthetics here. No makeup. Nothing.” I lock fingers around my neckline, pulling my sweater down as far as it will go, the desperate movement fully exposing my neck, my collarbone, and a good portion of my pec.
His hand lands on my bare skin, searching for any sign of disguise. He traces fingers down my chest… until his fingertips reach the scar.
