Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BAD AUGUST
DOPPELB?NGER
August’s right. Desperately Seeking Susan is a much better film in this reality. A thousand times better. And I can see why it means so much to him. It’s another puzzle piece falling into place.
He tells me how he came across it one midnight when he couldn’t sleep, living in our old house in Dagenham.
Small room, bunk beds occupied only by him/me/us, and a tiny old-fashioned colour TV sitting on the dresser down below, so we had to peer over the edge of the bed to see the screen.
They were a kind enough family who took us in.
They did their best for us. But there’s no world in which an orphaned kid feels at home in a new flat in the middle of the night, not knowing really who their temporary family is, how long they’ll be there, or what will happen next.
I wonder what I watched that night. I wonder if I was up at the same time, in the same place. I almost definitely was, but it’s a moment long-since forgotten. Me, a universe away, undoubtedly wishing I’d had someone like him to reach out to.
Maybe I watched my world’s subpar version of this movie. Maybe that’s why I forgot it, why it wasn’t life-changing.
But August tells me how he was sucked into the film, the story, the clothes, the hair, the music, but above all, the friendship.
That unrequited something of never being quite close enough to the thing you can’t define, but that you want so badly.
That liminal space where you’re free-floating, wanting, but where you still believe you’ll get there.
He’s found that in music, in the magic of it all, just the way I’ve found it in science.
There’s such beauty in our smallness, our inconsequential nature—a profoundly calming effect in believing, for a while, that you don’t matter, whatever’s happening to you.
That you’re just a number, or a random assortment of particles—that the universe is numb to you, ambivalent.
That maybe it shouldn’t all cut so deep.
You can be lost in it. You’re allowed to be lost in it. Just a passing emotion in a storm of atoms. Not unlike a line in a song, when you close your eyes and sink in. It’s just you and the music, or it’s just you and space. There’s no exterior, and there’s no sadness. Only that moment exists.
It’s something we both chased, but we chased it in different directions. I loved music, and he loves science, but that one night, all those years ago, that one slip of a drink, and we parted ways. For a time.
I wonder, if I met me—really me, who went down the exact same timeline—would I be feeling this way? That me would be abrasive. That me would be trying to get the job done. That me would never have held me in the kitchen and let me cry on his shoulder. That me, I realise now, would never have cried.
Three long years, I’ve run, and I’ve worked, and I’ve struggled. I kept on. It’s only August who’s grounding me now, slowing me down.
To think that’s what’s inside me. To think that’s what I could be. Home and warmth and compassion. That I could mean the world to someone, the way he already means so much to me.
It’s profound, and it’s humbling, and it is that liminal space. The floating, discombobulated feeling of being in this strange moment. But then he takes my hand, and he feels like the way out. He feels like the only room I want to be in ever again.
We switched to Coke a while back. He heated them both, brought out some crisps. Then he put on An American Werewolf in London. He’s leaning back, his pretty head on the back of the couch, telling me it’s another of his favourites.
It’s one of mine too, but I’ve seen it about a hundred times, and he’s far nicer to look at.
He never did get changed. His legs are stretched out long, this bowl of crisps between us.
That damn hoodie is hiding his beautiful physique away, but it looks so nice on him.
So soft. I don’t even care that it’s his ex’s band’s promo hoodie.
Not when he’s ditched him. Not when he’s chosen me.
More than anything, I want my hands on it.
On him. I want to take it off for him, and I want to step on it when I push him into the bedroom.
It’s slow, but August’s head turns towards me, a smile in his eyes and on his lips that says he knows why I’m looking at him. It’s so warm, so good-humoured, that I take a moment to look away, my own smile irrepressible.
I train my eyes on the screen, on the pretty English countryside, and try to pretend I care about it, but he’s all I can think of.
The flick of his head, shaking the hair out of his eyes when he looks back at the movie.
The small breath he lets out, half sigh, half…
something else. Something pronounced. Disappointment? Judgement? A provocation?
His hips shuffle a little in my direction, pushing the bowl into me. My eyes fall down to it, then across, up his stomach, over his chest, and to that smile. Pure cheek. And even if his face is turned towards the screen, his eyes catch me out of the corner, through his impossibly long eyelashes.
Why am I even dancing around this?
My own sigh slips out. “You’re handsome.”
“You’re handsome,” he rebuffs, eyes back on the film.
He doesn’t say another word. It’s an odd feeling knowing someone knows they have you in the palm of their hand. Every inch of him radiates invitation. But one he wants me to show I accept.
My chest is fluttering like he let loose a coven of cats, tickling and toe curling, and making me want to lunge. That bowl is still between us, and he’s still watching the movie, the smile begging to be wiped off his pretty face.
My eyes drop closed in an effort to calm myself. I just told him, only hours ago, this was ending. It’s not smart. If I kiss him now—
“August?”
My eyes snap open.
He’s here, and he’s beautiful.
Then he does it. He grabs the edge of the bowl, and in one swift and life-altering movement, he places it, carefree, on the coffee table. He leans back, and his shoulder falls against mine. Just as quickly, I capture his hand.
He settles into the couch, back against me, his hip working a delicious friction against the nook of mine.
He’s slightly turned away from me, his elbow coming to rest on my stomach, the lean muscle of his shoulder pressing against the front of mine.
He leans his head back, and it must be calculated, every move, because he’s irresistible.
His hair brushes my cheek, soft strands touching my skin, and I seek the scent of him. My hand snakes around his waist like it’s on a string, the fabric of his sweater all at once homely and catastrophically erotic. He turns his head, arches his back, and I’m done for.
His lips meet mine with a slow hesitation. There’s time to pull away—time to stop it—but we both know that’s impossible now, just like we both know this is different to the kisses earlier in the night.
The second our lips touch, he swivels around, his whole body giving me full attention.
I grasp his waist and wrench him closer, my hips thrusting forward greedily for him.
He lets out a little moan at the decisive move, and I want another one.
His pelvis slides against my thigh, and fuck, he’s already hard.
My hand drops irresistibly to the enormous bulge pushing up against his grey track pants.
He’s not wearing anything under these. Even through the cotton, I can feel him so big and hard, loose and free for me.
His tongue takes mine as his knee slides over my thigh, and he grinds into my closing hand.
This man is all sex, and for someone who hasn’t had sex in years, that’s a lot.
I’m suddenly terrified I’m going to let him down.
How am I supposed to handle a man like this?
He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s killing me.
But the way his hand falls on my cheek… It’s so tender.
There’s a tremble in his lips when he kisses me, and it can’t be true that he wants me the way I want him.
It can’t be true that he could find it in himself to adore me that way—that I could ever mean a billionth of what he’s come to mean to me.
He climbs on top of me, and I could just about lose it right now.
August. Beautiful August, the weight of him, his perfect body, here in my lap.
Two hands on my cheeks, kissing me. My hand strokes him more firmly as he raises himself into the rhythm.
I want him just like this. I want him close and all the weight of him pressing into me.
I want his arms around my neck, and I want him imprinted on my soul. I want to take him with me.
I lunge forward, hand wrapped around his neck, pulling him against me, as though I could ever get close enough. He reaches into my hair and closes a fist, and I need more of him. I need all of him, and… “August?”
His breath is fast, and it’s in between kisses that he mumbles out, “Mmmm?”
More kisses, and Christ I hate myself for doing this. “August. You know…” More kisses, and if he doesn’t stop that rhythm against me, I’m going to come right now. “Listen, stop.”
“What’s wrong?” He slows a little, lets his kisses drift to my cheek, like that’s any less of a turn-on.
I take his cheek with my palm. “You know I’m going, right?”
He stills, lips swollen from kissing, hair mussed, cheeks pink, a picture of sex. “Aha.”
“And so you know this can’t be… This can’t become more.”
“You don’t want me to catch feelings.” His expression is astute, intelligent, to the point. But with some spark of amusement right at the back of his eyes. “I thought we already covered that.”
“Yep. I just don’t want you to think I’d go if I didn’t have to. But I can’t stay. This can’t change anything. So…”
His head tilts to the side, hair shining, lit golden from behind by that orange lamp of his.
Does he have any idea how sexy he is?