His nod is that of someone who’s just been told they have three weeks to live, but who doesn’t want to make the doctor uncomfortable by getting upset. “Okay.”
What the hell is that?“Okay?”
I get a shrug in return. “Okay.”
This man is driving me insane. First it’s don’t touch me, then it’s do touch me, then the world is ending, then no, actually, let’s go for a beer. We’ve time-travelled, but it’s nothing. I need you to be a quantum physicist, but now I don’t.
I tap my beer down on the counter and turn to face him. “August, level with me. Exactly how bad is this? Are we in danger? What happens if I’m not a quantum physicist with my own lab for you to use?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BAD AUGUST
DOES NOT LEVEL WITH GOOD AUGUST
You’ll be dead within two weeks is what happens.
But of course I don’t tell him that.
If he were a different August, I might. But this one’s too sweet. Too anxious. I doubt he would take it well, and what’s more, it’s kind of making me feel unwell to think about telling him the truth.
I want this August to be happy. I don’t know why. He’s just one of infinite Augusts, so why should it matter?
But for some reason, it does.
I can’t say I’m surprised to hear that he’s not a quantum physicist. He’s never a quantum physicist. Not in any reality but my own. Yet some part of me, desperately clutching at straws, asks, “Astrophysicist?”
He almost looks offended. “No.”
“Nuclear engineer?”
“No!”
Why is he getting snappy? “Science fiction literature reviewer or Hugo Awards judge?”
“Could you please stop throwing out oddly specific careers and tell me why any of this matters?”
We’re going to need more beer for that. And this place just rang the bell.
I chuck him a tight and lopsided smile and instantly know he knows it’s as fake as when I knew he’d fake-smiled at the barista earlier. “I’m just curious about you,” I lie. Again. “It’s not every day you meet yourself. Do you, um… you like Bon Jovi?” I point to his hoodie. It’s grey and has the lyrics ‘shot through the heart’ written on it. It has a symbol of a heart rather than the word ‘heart,’ and that has a target on it. It’s pretty cute, actually. On him.
But his hand falls on it, and he looks down as if he’d forgotten he’s wearing it. “No. Not a Bon Jovi fan.”
“But you’re wearing a Bon Jovi hoodie.”
“No. It’s not.”
“What do you mean?” Does this universe not have Bon Jovi? Did someone else write that song in this world? What must that be like? What a shitty universe.
But now he’s all flustered and blushing again. “It’s not. It’s something…” He puts his tankard down with more seriousness than I can handle right about now. It only gets worse when he says, “I have the weirdest feeling you’re trying to throw me off. When you turned up in the alley today, you said the world was going to burn. You said I could help. And now you’re acting like none of that matters. Clearly, you’re a quantum physicist. Clearly, you know what’s going on here, and clearly, you don’t want to tell me. I can only assume that’s because you think I can’t help after all. Because you’ve just realised, I’m not… I’m not smart like you.”
There’s so much vulnerability at the end of that speech. He hasn’t learned to hide it, the way I have. And I never once thought that could be endearing, to show weakness like that. For the first time since we met, I’m not lying when I reply, “You aresmart. It’s in everything you say, the way you turn things over in your mind. I can see it from a mile away.”
The pink in his cheeks reaches critical, and his head tilts down as though he’d like to hide his face in his beer. “I’m not… I’m… I just… I do, um… I’m a karate teacher.”
“A karate teacher?” Why is that so delightful? I’ve never met one before.
“It’s only part-time. I don’t have a real job. Like yours.”
