Chapter 12
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 to Desperately 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?
Is Desperately Seeking Susan secretly 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 probably a 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.”
“Just… studying?”
“Uh, mostly. Some lecturing and tutoring on the side.”
He’s confirming what I’ve guessed, but it still rips through me like the point of a compass. “You taught at Imperial College London?”
“Yeah, but I’m not…” He holds a door open for me as we move inside one of the buildings that makes me feel even more like an imposter. “It wasn’t anything complex.”
‘Wasn’t anything complex.’ Is he trying to make me feel better about being such an idiot? Because it really isn’t working. “First time I’ve heard someone say quantum physics isn’t complicated.”
“It’s not. It only seems complicated because we don’t fully understand it yet.
” He carries on walking, head high, and I can see he belongs here.
It’s his past and his life, and again I get that awful sense of the divide between us, sick, like I’m going to drop into the chasm.
“But electricity was like that once, wasn’t it? ”
As someone who doesn’t understand electricity either, I can only say, “Yes.”
“Or radio waves.”
Also, “Yes.”
“Or paleomagnetism, or dark matter. Or the movement of the planets.”
Finally, something I do get. When his last comment snatches my eyes up, it pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“Do you still love astronomy?” He leans casually past me to push an elevator button, and I hold myself very still.
I like the closeness. I crave the closeness.
But I won’t let myself move nearer to him.
I also don’t want to step back from him.
“I do. I wish, now more than ever, that I’d pursued it.” The longing in my voice is on full display. That quirk of his lips wrinkles slightly, almost into a grimace, but it ends in that sad smile of his.
I guess he misses his world. His hot Coke and his undoubtedly poorer version of Desperately Seeking Susan.
But I miss this. This existence I never got a foothold in.
This world my parents would have wanted for me, with the money that was supposed to compensate me for their loss. The money I squandered.
Guilt sweeps over me for the millionth time. How much of a disappointment I would be for them, if they could know. What a moron I’ve been. Seeing all this, seeing the way he is, it’s such a visceral reminder of everything I’m not.
My vision clouds, a sting in my eyes, so I turn my face away before he can see, trying to shove it all back down. But there’s so much here. So much regret, so much sadness that I never let myself stop and feel. I press my eyelids together, trying to think of nothing but the dark and the black.
Then the touch on my arm. The soft grazing of knuckles just beneath my elbow.
It’s a sensation so shocking I look down at it.
His hand moves tentatively, along my forearm, over the cuff of my coat, then his skin hits mine.
It’s half a second of touch, and a galaxy of stars exploding over every atom of me that he traces as his little finger stretches and wraps around mine.
My own jolts in a violent chase, and I twist it around his, a desperate catch.
But the light above us flicks on, yellow, the elevator dings, and his finger slips away with the rest of him, to the other side of the open doors, while what feels like a sea of students pours out between us.
When he finally can, he moves to the back of the elevator, so I take my place there too, leaning against the metal banister, as silent as he is while he waits for the others to file in.
He doesn’t push a button, and offers me only a nod when I look at him for explanation.
A nod that says he’s taking care of it, and that we should stay quiet.
The elevator climbs up and up, stopping several times on the way to the eighth floor. He doesn’t move an inch until the last person exits, when he finally steps forward and hits the B3 button.
Basement.
Strange.
I don’t know where I thought we were going.
Some office or lecture hall, I guess. But we’re on the way down again, until we pull up at the fifth floor, and a woman gets on.
She hits three. He hits two with a sigh, as though it hadn’t lit up the last time he pushed it.
She gets out at three, and his hand slips to the close button.
At one, it opens halfway, but he’s pushed the close button again, and before a distracted pair of students have the wherewithal to shove a hand in the gap, he’s got the doors closed between us, and we’re moving again.
He keeps that nice hand on the button, his tongue passing swiftly between his lips, and we miraculously skip the ground floor where we got on. We fly past B1 and B2, and then the silver doors slide open on pitch black.
“This is it,” he announces, holding the doors open for me.
Guess it must be. But the cold and stale air, sleeping in darkness, doesn’t feel terribly inviting. Still, I’ve made a commitment to do this, so I step out. He follows me, and the doors swish closed.
The meagre yellow glow of the elevator light announcing our floor goes out, but just as swiftly as my heart rate elevates, his hand is on my forearm again. “It’s one of those push-light timer things. Hang on.”
The loss of his closeness is visceral. His steps on concrete echo as he finds the wall, and there’s a scrunch of plastic as he pushes the light into action.