“I still want your help,” he assures me. “I should… I could really use someone to… go over the maths with.”

  “I’m terrible at maths.” And even if I’m laughing on the outside, as usual, I’m dying inside. I don’t want him to know how hopeless I am, at maths or at anything else. I don’t want him to see my flat on the inside. I don’t want him to know how bad things are for me. And I really don’t want him to know that I’m such a useless fuckup.

  “I don’t believe that. You’re the most like me that…” He stumbles over his words, hacking out a fake-sounding cough and winding a hand in the air before finishing, “that a person could be. Obviously. Because you’re me.”

  “Kind of.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  What? “What?” Those words came out of absolutely nowhere.

  “Just wondering,” he says casually, “if I’m taking you away from anything…”

  Taking me away from anything?

  He’s not flirting, calm the fuck down.

  “No. Um. I was seeing someone, but… that blew up. A little while back.”

  “What a shame.” Why is he smiling like that? Why did he say it like that?

  I’m probably imagining it.

  “Yeah, it was… It needed to happen. Did you ever have a thing where you knew it wasn’t right, and you just kept going? Waiting for the stars to align or something?”

  “Not really. That’s not how stars work.”

  “No, I don’t mean like… I know that.” He walks on, waiting for me to talk, so I mumble out, “It was never going to work. I think I was just… flattered that someone like him liked me.”

  His eyes are sharp but brief on me, that smile wider and accompanied by a scoffing sound. “What are you talking about? You’re gorgeous.”

  The surprise of the comment shoots a lead weight straight to my foot, and failing to lift it, it collides with the edge of a cobblestone, sending me tripping forward. His arm shoots out to catch me, and we two come to a dead stop in the middle of this late-night Victorian street scene. It would probably feel romantic if I weren’t keenly aware that I’m here with myself. But even then, there’s a strange breathlessness that tightens my chest. Nineteenth-century air?

  The corner of his lips is still upturned, but his voice is a little softer now. “Sorry. I hope that’s not weird coming from me. From you. Sort of. You probably don’t think the same thing about me.” But before I can even attempt to disagree, he walks on, talks on, face turned away from mine so I can’t read his expression. “You’ve put in the effort with your looks, you know? Going on runs. Exercising in the park. Doing karate.”

  “Just how long have you been watching me?” is the best I can manage at the unexpected shift in conversation.

  “Not long. A few days. Maybe… closer to a week.”

  “Only a week, huh?”

  Ignoring my sardonic reply, he waffles on. “It shows. All that exercise you’ve been doing. You’ve got beautiful skin. And I guess you got your eyes lasered?”

  “I did.” Feeling slightly overwhelmed, both at the compliments and the reminder he’s my actual stalker, I hasten to add, “But now that I see those glasses on you, I’m kind of regretting it.”

  Maybe I just needed those frames all along? He does look really good in them.

  He also ignores my return compliment. “And you’re not all pasty and white like me, from spending all day in the lab. You’ve got that nice tan—that sun-kissed glow about you.” His eyes dip down to my hoodie. “I bet you’ve got abs and everything.”

  A laugh slips out, and I just know I’ve gone pink again. This guy could be so good for my ego. If he weren’t me. If I didn’t know better. It’s sweet that he’s trying to big me up, but we both know he’s just being nice. I wish I were like this with myself more often.

  I’m not inclined to interrupt his flow of compliments, and thankfully, he’s not quite done. “I’m just saying, anyone should be proud to have you on their arm.” Then a few beats of silence, followed by a lowly mumbled, “I hope next time, a bit of flattery won’t be enough to make you throw yourself away.”

  Well, this is embarrassing. Because judging by the beat of my heart, apparently that’s all it takes…

  No.

  Yourself from a parallel universe is not hitting on you.

  Stop being weird.

  “He’s… very charismatic, is the thing.” Yep. Talk about the ex. Not the diabolically smart, confident, and surprisingly kind version of yourself that’s walking about in those slutty glasses. “And a lot of people want him. And he chose me. And that felt good. For a while.”

  “What do you mean ‘for a while?’”

  “Well…” Maybe not such a good idea to talk about the ex. All of a sudden, that evening Victorian air feels suffocating. “The thing about him was… he chose other people too.”

  August slows his pace. I wish there were a rock I could crawl under. He’s giving me one of those scrutinising looks of his, and I’m so embarrassed. I don’t want him to think less of me over this. He shouldn’t have to know he’s this much of a loser in another life.

  “I knew what I was getting into,” I vomit out. “He’s not like other guys. He never pretended to be. He was… always going to need more than one person. And I knew that going into it. And that was stupid of me. Maybe. But…” He’s still looking. Jesus. “It wasn’t really cheating, or anything like that, because I knew about it. You know? It wasn’t like he tried to hide it.” God, this is getting worse and worse. Why isn’t he saying anything? “It was open, is what I mean. An open relationship. I guess.” I need to stop rambling. He needs to speak. I cannot handle the weight of this silence. “So it was all fine. And above board. Um… And I’m fine. All fine now. Definitely fine.”

  Yeah. Sure. You’re doing a great job of showing that.

  Finally, thankfully, he soothes my blathering with, “You thought you were going to be alright with that?”

  Thank Christ. “Yes. I did.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “No.” Way to reveal the truth in about a millisecond. “It was complicated.”

  Shoes on cobblestones, pregnant echoes as I wonder what he’s thinking, then, “Sometimes you have to find things out the hard way.”

  That’s it?

  That’s all he says.

  I’ve felt so bad about this for so long that I’ve never told anyone. Not a single soul who wasn’t involved. And my own answer, straight from my own lips, is… simple acceptance? “You don’t think that’s bad?”

  “No. Why would I?” His feet strike the road, punctuating the stretching night silence. “Unless, for some reason, you didn’t think that was going to be the situation?”

  That hits like a knife. He can see it. He can see how stupid I’ve been. I drop my chin, but I know it can’t hide me from the moonlight. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  “It matters if you’re sad about it.”

  “I’m not.” I am. But for some reason, I don’t want him to know that. It’s not just because I’m ashamed. I feel the desperate need to clarify my feelings, not for myself, but for him. “Or… maybe I am sad, but I’m not sad that it’s over. I’m just sad in general, I guess. Because I still like him.” And before I know it, I’m very pointedly blurting out, “As a friend,” maybe a little too loud and a little too hurriedly. “He-he’s really nice. And he didn’t mean for things to be like that. And maybe if I’d had a thicker skin⁠—”

  “Then maybe you’d be at home right now wondering who he’s out with?”

  That nausea. It’s still so close to the surface. It’s still me, alone in my flat, just like he said. So many endless nights spent exactly that way.

  But August snaps the isolated, ill feeling in half with, “It’s a good thing you’re here with me instead.”

  He looks over, and my heart’s in my throat. I know he can’t mean that the way it sounds, the way my body’s reacting to it. But after all those nice things he said, after this whole night that’s been so… strangely magical.

  A blast of cold wind shifts the hair about his temple. It’s like looking into a mirror, but it’s also not. He is different to me. He’s got a strength about him, in the tightly drawn curve about his cheekbones, in the way he holds his jaw with a certain defiance. I get a weird sense of safety in his presence, while I know full well I would never rely on myself like that.

  Why is he so different when he’s so familiar?

  “Look around,” he says, and I realise how caught in the moment I am—that I’m staring at him in the middle of the street like he’s… like he’s my date.

  It’s the hot flush in my cheeks that makes me turn away even faster than his suggestion, but the second I do… there are the streetlights, bright and electric. There, the driveways and cars. The road beneath us is paved, and the winter wind rips through me like shards of ice.

  “We got spring for a few hours,” he says, watching me wrap my arms around myself. “But now we’re back in a London winter.”

  “We are.” A stupid comment from an overwrought mind. I didn’t even notice the change. I was too busy looking at August.

  It’s August now, who—so much more intelligent than me—says, “Keep warm.” And when he reaches both arms around my neck, when he moves closer, I don’t feel like I’m on the street at all. I feel like I’m floating. I feel like I’m disparate particles in the air, nothing but electrical currents holding me together, pushing me apart, pulsing every atom, as I wait.

  And hope.

  August pulls the hood of my sweatshirt up, then runs his hands down my arms, rubbing my biceps for nothing more than warmth.

  I could die.

  I think I’d like to die now.

  “Your place is just around here.”

  I know that. I know where I live. Sort of. Yet I follow him like a lost lamb. Just as quiet as one.

  The shift back to my time is another sort of magic. A reassuring one. But a cold one. No spring air, no scent of horses, no taste of malty caramel ale from a copper tankard that probably doesn’t exist anymore. And soon, no intimacy. Nothing but the frigid reality of my flat and my life.

  The thought grips me at the throat, and I’m sinking, trying for some conversational lifeline, when he throws out, “Would you come do maths with me tomorrow?”

  Yes!

  But overriding my overkeen response is the truth. “I’m not good at maths.”

  He palms that off with a light, “Then will you hold my Coke while I do it?”

  Good lord, I think I actually giggled.

  Shoot me now.

  “Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll hold your Coke.” Fucking idiot.

  “Can I get your number?”

  “My…” We’re in front of my place already. It’s dark and miserable, and the wind out here is bone-chilling. I can’t even explain how badly I want to be back in eighteen forty-four, walking the streets with… me.

  Instead, I mechanically pull out my phone, ready to text the digits to him. But he says, “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Really?” My mind’s fumbling to put the pieces together about what exactly his situation is. We haven’t even talked about it. I know so little about him. I’ve just let this all fall into place, as though it’s any shade of normal. “How can I get in touch with you if you don’t have a phone?” Obvious first question to ask.

  It makes him smile a little wider, and I realise he’s barely stopped smiling all evening. Not since the time slip. “I’ll call you. From the place I’m staying. There’s a landline.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  He looks away, and that weird feeling repeats on me. Like he’s keeping something from me. But he says, “I’ll take you there. Tomorrow.”

  And just like that, the worry evaporates. Again. “Alright.”

  “Then maybe somewhere tomorrow night? A change of scene after all the maths.”

  Stop it.

  Stop thinking like that.

  He’s just killing time.

  He can see how big my smile is. I’ll just look at my feet for a bit. Ah, this is so embarrassing. “Okay. You’ll give me a call?”

  “Your number?”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Oh, yeah. Let me get a pen.”

  “No, it’s alright. Just tell me. I’ll remember it.”

  A fond warmth settles in my chest. “No, you won’t.”

  “Genius brain. Try me.” I don’t believe him, and I guess he can see that from my one quirked eyebrow, because he says, “If I forget, I know where you live.”

  “Yeah. You do. Which is something we should probably talk about tomorrow.” One of so many things. So many questions I have. So much that I’m almost inclined to invite him in, except that my place is awful. So instead, I rattle off my number. Once. He nods and starts to back away.

  The thought of going inside is so depressing. Maybe that’s what makes me call out, “You’re not going to disappear, are you? To some other dimension?”

  “Parallel universe?”

  “Yeah. One of those.”

  He shakes his head, digging his hands into his pockets. “No. I’m here for a while.”

  “For how long?”

  He pauses, and just there in the sulphur light of the street lamps, he’s got that sadness about him again. Only for a moment. Until his fresh smile melts it. I feel like he’s trying to reassure me when he replies, “For a while. I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Alright.”

  I don’t want him to go.

  But he does. He does it with a small nod and a final meeting of the eyes that makes me think he’s feeling a lot like I am.

  All in black, in the dark of night, even with real and bright modern streetlights, he’s gone in seconds.

  My flat’s just as grim as I knew it would be. But somehow smaller. Damper. Emptier.

  Crushingly lonely.

  Pathetic.

  I like that version of me. I like the me who has a real career. Who wears nice clothes. Who has gold jewellery to exchange for a beer. Who’s smart and funny and successful. Who has amazing adventures.

  How did I end up here? Do I even have that potential? Or did I miss out on whatever arrangement of particles would have made me as clever as him, as… dashing.

  Did I just refer to myself as ‘dashing?’

  Jesus Christ, what am I even thinking?

  Rather than use the heating, I opt for a shower. I’ve been desperate for one all day. It feels so good to be warm again, steaming water washing off last night’s sleep, along with all the tension of the day.

  I must have looked awful in front of him, all creased and lazy. And him so put together. So handsome in his glasses…

  Shut up, shut up, shut up!

  Dry off. Get dressed. Get into the freezing cold bed.

  Alone.

  This is fine. Tomorrow, I’ll… look for jobs again, I guess.

  And something will turn up.

  And one day, I’ll make something of myself.

  And one day, maybe I’ll be more like that. More like him. More confident, more handsome, more⁠—

  My phone’s vibrating.

  My heart’s sinking.

  It’s almost definitely Jon looking for a late-night hookup.

  It always is. No one else ever calls these days, but especially not at two a.m.

  I shouldn’t answer. The fucker hung up on me earlier.

  But what if he’s worried? What if he’s on his way over, drunk? And he wakes Mrs Huang?

  Fucking hell.

  I reach over, tap the green icon, and bark out a too-loud, “What?!”

  “Did I wake you?”

  It’s him.

  It’s August.

  He remembered my number, and he called. Already. “No! No. Sorry. Um…”

  “I thought it would be on silent if you were sleeping.”

  Yeah, that’s what a smart person would do. Not be on call for their ex. “I’m awake.” Obviously. Fucking cringing over here.

  “August, I just wanted to say…” His voice is so gravelly and deep, like he’s half asleep. Maybe he’s in bed. In bed, thinking of me. Like I was thinking of him. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

  “No. Don’t be. No, I-I really had the best time I’ve had in ages.” Oh my god, I sound so desperate. Why is my heart beating like this? “It was… It’s not every day you go to the past.”

  Wow. Very impressive observation, August. Keep charming him with your enviable intelligence and wit.

  “I just wanted you to know I had a great time with you.”

  Oh my god.

  Oh my god.

  No. I’m reading too much into this.

  But why does that feel so good?

  Because you’re an attention-starved fuckup.

  “But I know it’s a lot,” he goes on, as I grip my phone with needy fingers. “And I need you to know, if you want me to leave you alone, I will.”

  “No. I don’t want that.”

  “Because I don’t think it’s fair, the way I dumped all this on you. And⁠—”

  “I like maths.” Shut up. “I mean, I like science.” Shut THE FUCK UP. “And I would like to do maths and science with you.” S H U T U P. Why am I like this? “I mean, help you. If I can. At all.”

  “Would you really?”

  “Please.” Did you just say please? “You know, if I can. If-if that would help. That I do maths.” Please stop.

  “August?” His voice is so calm when he says my name that I choke on my attempt to speak.

  “H-ck-hmm?”

  “I want to see you. First thing.”

  “First thing?”

  “First thing.”

  Oh, my heart. “Okay. First thing.”

  “I hope you sleep well.”

  I’m never going to sleep again. “You too.”

  “Goodnight, August.”

  “Goodnight, August.”

  He’s gone. Again.