Chapter 8 Bad August
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 are smart. 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.”
I hate that he’s embarrassed. I hate that I feel like I set him up for it. “I bet you could kick my ass.”
He laughs. It’s a nice sound. “I probably could.”
And his smirk is cute too.
“I’d like to open a karate school,” he tells me. “Eventually. When I can save up. But I’m… I’m not doing great with work stuff. Finding more of it. If I had a brain like yours…”
This man is strangely adorable, that only being strange because he’s me, and I would never consider myself adorable. So when I see his smile fade on that last line, it pisses me off, and perhaps jumping to conclusions, I slightly spit at him, “Who ever let you think you’re not smart?”
“No one.” But his hand’s on his hoodie again, and his eyes are flying across the floor as if he wants to escape.
“I know I’m not. This must be so disappointing for you.
If you thought I was your best hope of getting home, or whatever we’re doing here.
If you thought I was like you, and I’m just…
I don’t even have a job. Not really. And I never went to university.
And the only reason I even know half of what you’re talking about is because I’ve watched too much Star Trek. ”
He’s definitely going to die. Him and all of this reality, past, present and future. Gone.
But I can’t have him knowing that. Whatever this weird, protective urge is, it’s already controlling my tongue. “Star Trek is a great place for us to start.”
He clearly doesn’t believe I just said that either, and his frown shows it. “Are you serious right now?”
“Dead serious. Everything we’re dealing with is mostly hypothetical. Or it was. But let’s not think about that bit.”
His eyes are piercing when he looks at me. Do I look at people like that? It’s like he’s flaying my mind. “It was hypothetical until you did it, do you mean?”
I swear to god, clever is the sexiest trait of them all. Also the scariest right now. “I told you, you’re smart.”
I earned that blush. And that smile. “I’ll be sorry to disappoint you.”
“You won’t disappoint me. I can tell already.”
His pretty lips part, he blinks once, then turns back towards the bar.
Fuck. I think I’ve inadvertently come on too strong. Probably didn’t help that I was slightly checking out his pecs when I said that. Now he’s realised I’m flirting.
But fuck, he’s cute. Why am I not that cute when he’s literally me? But he is that cute, really cute, god help me…
He isn’t saying a word. He’s clutching his drink with both hands for dear life.
I don’t want his last few weeks of existence to be awkward. I should probably stop this before it goes any further.
“Are you… interested in men?”
His question is painfully forthright. Should I lie again? Throw him off the trail?
“Yes.” Not a lie, also not conclusive evidence of my severe attraction to him.
“Me too.” That flicker of golden eyes between long black lashes just about ends me. “I was wondering if you knew. That. About me.”
“Do you want me to know that about you?” So much for not coming on strong. But his shyness is like catnip.
He laughs, and that blush… I want to lick it off him. “Very funny.”
Can he really think I’m joking? I’m practically tearing his clothes off with my eyeballs.
I take my last sip of beer. The place is slowly emptying out, and we have little choice but to follow them. “I don’t think this will last much longer. Eighteen forty-four. I can walk you home if you’d like?”
That sweet flash of uncertainty again. I like it there. But I feel like I should add, “The streets are a little different from how you know them. I can help you find your way.”
He’s slow to reply, but the words, “That’d be nice,” settle over me like another ten of these very good ales.