My heart slips loose as the words spill from my lips. “Exactly how long are you here for?”
That hand I wanted wraps tighter around the mug, and his eyes remain down. It takes him too long to answer.
Why? Doesn’t he know? Or is he maybe… not wanting to tell me?
When he finally says it, it comes on a sigh. “Unless I can fix things, not long.”
“Not long like, a few more hours? Or not long as in… a year?” My voice comes weak on the last word, like I’m asking for an extension on an assignment I haven’t even started.
He smiles at that, but it’s an equally weak smile. A sad one. “I don’t know exactly.” The very last answer I wanted. The limbo of answers. The will he, won’t he of answers. “But if I could just figure this out, if I had someone to bounce ideas off, to find what I’m missing in all of this…”
My heart’s back in my throat, big and constricted, so that I can barely speak around it. “If you could?”
“If I could… maybe things wouldn’t have to end that way.” There’s a flash, a distinct sparkle of light in his eyes as they meet mine, then they drop to my thigh and linger there. I could swear his fingers loosen on his cup. And this time I do move forward to the edge of my chair, my body begging like a whore for the slightest brush of his hand.
But it remains on his cup, the slight shift of his jaw the only reaction to my desperate movement, if he even noticed it.
Christ, I hope he didn’t. Why do I have it so bad for this guy? I’m embarrassing myself. I need to stop. He’s probably dying to get away from me?—
“Will you come and cast your eye over the equations?”
I know nothing about maths. Absolutely nothing. I can’t help at all. “Yes.”
“Thank you. I know it’s a long shot. I mean, you’re me, so presumably you might miss all the same things I seem to be missing.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” Or I might miss it all because I have literally no idea what he’s on about. But suddenly the idea of himexplaining the complex maths of quantum physics to me is about the sexiest thing I can imagine. I hope he keeps his glasses on when he does it. Will he roll his sleeves? Does he have a private office with a big sturdy desk?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t care. I’m going with him. I’m going with him, and I’m going to do maths with this man so hard it hurts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GOOD AUGUST
LOOPS
Unsurprisingly, it’s an unsettlingly pleasant ride on the Tube with August. It’s the middle of the day, so we were able to get seats, and he talks in that same relaxed and confident way of his all the way there. There’s no shortage of topics. He tells me about his reality and some of the differences from mine. Like how Coca-Cola came out of Hong Kong, not America, and how you can buy it hot at every coffee shop, like tea.
He’s already noticed my love of music, so he spends a while on the charts—what was a hit in his universe, what wasn’t. That leads to a long discussion about the relative failure of Madonna to make much headway in his world. That alone is a devastating prospect. The conversation quickly turns toDesperately Seeking Susan, and he drops the bomb that his version starred Goldie Hawn and Diane Keaton.
I think a little part of me died when he said that. Not that I have a problem with Goldie Hawn, obviously, but that movie means more to me than I can possibly express right now without seeming very weird, and I feel so sad for his world.
It raises so many questions for me. It’s fascinating the way one little shift, one hit song or script coming to one particular artist or not, changes everything. Because for all the times I watched that movie over and over during my miserable teenage years, I have to wonder, what got him through? Is this why I love music so much, while it seems to be a time-passing entertainment for him? This ship in the night that sailed straight past my double. But is this also why my life took such a sharp turn away from his? IsDesperately Seeking Susansecretly to blame for me losing all my money due to falling for a pretend rock star?
I notice he stays away from all that. My huge mess-up, and the shitty life that led to it. I know he has my scar. I touched it yesterday. I know he went through the same foster homes, the same shitty schools, the same grief. But instead, he talks about our childhood cat, Mr Sprinkles, and how he could open the cupboard door, push his food box over, and would chase and scoff the kibble that rolled across the floor. He talks about Callum Parker, our best friend growing up, and that night we scared ourselves so much watching horror movies that we hauled our blankets into the bathtub and slept in there together with the door locked, convinced we’d get found and murdered if we were in our beds.
It’s lovely reliving this shared past. All these good memories I almost never dwell on, because with that comes the memory of the loss of my parents, and everything that came after it. But he never lets it drop. He’s onto the next thing before the sadness hits, and it’s been years since I took the time to remind myself that I really had it good for a long time. To be thankful for that.
When we arrive at South Kensington station, we’re so deep in conversation that I follow along with him blindly until I can’t help but notice the looks we get from people. You’d think they’d never seen identical twins out and about, which is probablya smarter cover for all this than cousins, should anyone ask. Maybe I should discuss that with him? Though that would bring up the question of how much I’m likely to be seeing of him. And again, for how long.
Before I can find a moment to broach it, we arrive at the campus of Imperial College London, and rather than keep chatting with him, I suddenly want to shrink into myself. Or into him. There are too many people here, lots of them giving us a second look. And well they might. But not just because we’re the same person, I’m sure of it.
I changed into ripped jeans for the trip, paired with my absolute sluttiest shirt. If he wants to see abs, then I’m going to show them off to my best advantage. But I’ll save that for later, after I figure out exactly what’s going on here. Until then, I’ve imaginatively covered the lot with a hoodie and a coat.
I don’t look hugely different from the students here, but August stands out next to me. His slacks are wool, as is today’s maroon sweater, and the whole vibe he has… He’s got the air of a professor even more in contrast with me. It’s the way he holds himself, like someone might come up and ask him something difficult and clever at any minute. It’s an authority. So I have to ask, “How long were you here for?”
“About three years.”
