Just as I’m wondering if I can pull my phone out of my pocket and Google this, he says, “I know it sounds mad.”
Understatement of the century. “It sounds very fucking mad.”
“I know. Um… I wanted to…” He lets out a hard breath, then pushes two hands out in front, as if he’s giving a lecture. “I wanted to see how much like me you are. And you’re… You seem…” He lowers both hands to indicate my whole being. “But you’re not quite.”
He walks away again, pressing those black-rimmed glasses up his nose and holding them there while he closes his eyes, boots squeaking to a stop on stone as he turns to me again. “You know, this has been very hard on me too. I’ve tried my best to keep you out of it. But things are getting serious, and I really need to talk to you. Before…”
His other hand taps at his thigh. It’s a habit I have when I’m stressed.
Do doppelgängers copy anxious mannerisms? To that extent?
I wait for him, still ready to punch him again if I need to. But he doesn’t look like he’s about to start a fight or pull a weapon. He seems lost in his own world, worried about whatever it is he’s not telling me yet. Which is fair enough, because then he tells me what’s on his mind: “You’re going to die, August. And I’m going to die. And everyone around you, and this whole reality you exist in, is going to burn unless you can help me.”
The air sours in my lungs, my chest turning hot, until I manage to whisper, “Help you do what?”
He takes a step towards me. “I don’t know. But there’s a chance you might.”
I want to say he has the wrong guy. But Iamthe guy—the guy who’s walking towards me right now, saying these things that are too ridiculous, too outrageous, to be true.
But he’s me. And I can see the proof, right here in front of me, that everything in the world is different from how I thought it was.
So when he stops about a foot away from me, and says, “Please, August. Sit down with me and let me explain everything,” I find myself nodding.
I find he’s doing the same.
And a second later, I’m following close behind him, letting him take me somewhere to talk.
CHAPTER FOUR
BAD AUGUST
THAT’S ME. BUT ‘GOOD AUGUST’ DOESN’T NEED TO KNOW THAT JUST YET…
“Anothercoffee?”
August’s staring at the barista like he’s seen a ghost. And well he might. Her hair’s changed from purple to green since this morning, and his eyes are the size of Jupiter, all swirling flecks of horrified wonder.
“Yes please, Kelly,” I say. “Same again.”
His gaze slides to mine, a second of almost pitiful questioning in his eyes, then, “De-de-decaf,” he stutters out. “Decaf. Um. Please.”
He watches her cross the room, gaping like a weirdo in the now mostly empty cafe, so I tell him quietly, “I think it’s because you hit me.”
Those eyes again, intent on mine. And they’re startlingly pretty. Makes me think I need to ditch these glasses.
“What do you mean?” he asks, leaning closer, which he’s very welcome to do. “What’s because I hit you?”
“Her hair. It was purple, right? Earlier today.”
“Itwaspurple,” he agrees in an eager, hushed tone. “It’s always been purple.”
“This is what’s happening.” After a quick scan to make sure that no one can hear us, I lean in just as close as he has and lower my voice to match his. “We shouldn’t be meeting. We shouldn’t be talking. And we definitely shouldn’t be touching.”
He glances down at my hand, an inch from his, and pulls back.
He’s smart. That’s exactly why I’m here.
“Alternate reality shit?” he asks.
