“No, that’s…” Half of me is laughing, especially because Jon really would get a kick out of this, but the other half is about to die of embarrassment. I thought we’d covered it, but we haven’t even scratched the surface. “No, that’s Jon Non Jovi.”

  He puts the mugs down on the table. “That’s what I said. Jon Bon Jovi.”

  “No, that’s Jon Non Jovi.”

  “That’s…” He scrunches his brow tight as he drops onto the couch. “Do you have a speech impediment in this reality?”

  “No, I don’t have a speech impediment. That’s…” Jesus, kill me now. On a heavy breath, I force myself to come clean. “That’s Jon Non Jovi, not Jon Bon Jovi. Non Jovi is his band, and he’s a Bon Jovi cover artist.”

  “He’s a…” If God doesn’t strike me down, this silence will. He’s got those piercing eyes on me again, tearing my last defences to shreds. “You didn’t just say what I thought you said.”

  “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

  “Me make it any harder?” he exclaims dramatically. “What the fuck is going on in this reality?”

  “Nothing! He has a cover band. He has a Bon Jovi cover band, and we had a thing, and I followed him around the world. And that’s it. That’s the horrible real truth of what happened. I fell for a Bon Jovi cover artist and spent all my money on him. But you know what? They’re very popular, actually. Best Bon Jovi cover band there is. They sell out every show.”

  “You’re telling me that’s not…” He slaps his open palm over his eyes. “I really thought that was him!”

  “You see how good he is? He looks exactly the same! He sounds exactly the same. It’s honestly his whole existence.”

  “What’s his real name, then?”

  “Nigel.”

  “Fucking Nigel?” But he’s grinning from ear to ear, and he’s laughing, and as though it’s an automatic and undeniable response, I am too.

  “Fucking Nigel. But you can’t ever call him that or he’ll lose it.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “He almost died when you said that about their relevance.”

  “I know.” His smile is sly and conspiratorial when he adds, “It was fantastic.”

  “It was not!” But I’m cackling out my half-assed protest. “He has a delicate artists’ temperament, and you almost sent him spiralling right before his show.”

  “Good. Serves him right.”

  “Maybe,” I concede. He shoves a mug towards me, and I pick it up without thinking. “But not the people who’ll go see him tonight. He means the world to them. And you know, the world needs that sort of thing right now. Escape. Make believe.” I bring the drink to my lips and take a sip, only to be assaulted by pure sugar—caramel, hot, medicinal—all of it welling up on my tongue like some kind of pre-diabetic volcano of raging sweetness that makes me spit it violently back into the mug. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s Coke.” He stares at me with both eyebrows severely lowered, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “I know it’s C—it’s hot!”

  “Of course it’s hot! How the hell do you drink your Coke?”

  “Cold?”

  “Cold!” he just about yells at me. “That’s disgusting, August!”

  “No, this—this is⁠—”

  “Don’t you dare say this is disgusting.”

  “This is disgusting!”

  “This is… Oh my god. I’ve had just about enough of your universe already, with your too much coffee, and you dating rock stars, and you and your…” He waves his hand back and forth as if he’s indicating… pretty much all of me. “All this about you, with your muscles and your perfect skin, and you not even realising…”

  A sharp wisp of air sucks over my teeth. I have absolutely nothing to say to all that, so it sits thickly, swirling in my chest, until he cuts back in with a loud and blusteringly humorous, “And if you dare tell me no one drinks hot Coke in this universe, I think I’ll lose it entirely. I can’t take one more thing. It’s only been two days with you, and I can’t take another thing. Drink it.”

  “I can’t drink tha⁠—”

  “Drink it!”

  “No!”

  “Drink it now, or I’m leaving. Leaving this whole universe. Somehow. I’m going to go, open a portal to some superior dimension, and⁠—”

  “Fine! Look. I’ll drink it.” The words are out of my mouth before I even know what I’ve done, and half a second later he’s shoving the mug at me.

  Brown and warm, the bubbles are enormous and slow moving.

  Then August. His smile’s still sly, but confident. Encouraging.

  Is he making fun of me? Maybe this is a joke.

  “Cheers?” He grabs his mug and taps it against mine, and with that simple action, I’m left with no choice. You can’t not drink after a cheers. It’s basic etiquette.

  I lift it to my lips. But this time, I’m prepared for the sweetness. The thick and syrupy texture of it. The bubbles are gentle, not the fizzy onslaught of cold Coke. And I hate to say it, but⁠—

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he provides for me. And he’s so pleased. It’s like last night when he bought me that two-hundred-year-old beer. And it’s like when he saw me this morning, when he was waiting outside my flat. Or when I saw him. Or whatever conjunction of happenings that was that made me stop dead on the stairs when I came across that smile. Some sweet and excited energy radiating from him, so refreshing.

  Refreshing like an ice-cold Coke.

  But comforting like a hot Coke.

  And in what must be a matter of seconds, I realise I’d forgotten all about Jon and how upset I was. August’s here now, and he’s taken all my attention, all my affection. And even though he’s found out my terrible secret, he’s genuinely so non-judgmental about it. Which is funny, because I’ve been judging myself over this for so long now. “It’s really nice. Not what I expected.”

  The second half of that sentence has his gaze intensifying on me. “What did you expect?”

  My mouth feeling a little dry, I take another sip. “I didn’t know to expect it at all, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry I gave you a shock.” His eyes are soft behind those cute glasses, like his voice. I wonder if he can tell that my heart’s beating this fast.

  Is he talking about the same hidden topic I’ve slipped onto, inadvertently and automatically? Because it’s not as though I can say what I’m thinking to him. That I find him delightful. Attractive. Totally different from everything else in my world. “It all worked out okay.”

  Head down, what I’m sure is a light flush on his cheeks, he shuffles up the couch, closer to me. He reaches out, and just for a second, I think he’s going to touch me—wrap his long fingers around my thigh—and my muscles barely contract in time to stop myself shifting forward in the hope of meeting him.

  Just as well, too, because he’s only bringing his mug along with him.

  This is so embarrassing. I would literally kill to have him touch me like that. Not sure who, but I could imagine up a substantial hit list if I could get those fingers where I want them in exchange.

  My mind’s going places it shouldn’t be.

  I don’t want to, I can’t get feelings for myself, of all people. It’s utterly ridiculous for a start, but all that stuff he was saying about my universe not being big enough for the two of us…

  My heart slips loose as the words spill from my lips. “Exactly how long are you here for?”

  That hand I wanted wraps tighter around the mug, and his eyes remain down. It takes him too long to answer.

  Why? Doesn’t he know? Or is he maybe… not wanting to tell me?

  When he finally says it, it comes on a sigh. “Unless I can fix things, not long.”

  “Not long like, a few more hours? Or not long as in… a year?” My voice comes weak on the last word, like I’m asking for an extension on an assignment I haven’t even started.

  He smiles at that, but it’s an equally weak smile. A sad one. “I don’t know exactly.” The very last answer I wanted. The limbo of answers. The will he, won’t he of answers. “But if I could just figure this out, if I had someone to bounce ideas off, to find what I’m missing in all of this…”

  My heart’s back in my throat, big and constricted, so that I can barely speak around it. “If you could?”

  “If I could… maybe things wouldn’t have to end that way.” There’s a flash, a distinct sparkle of light in his eyes as they meet mine, then they drop to my thigh and linger there. I could swear his fingers loosen on his cup. And this time I do move forward to the edge of my chair, my body begging like a whore for the slightest brush of his hand.

  But it remains on his cup, the slight shift of his jaw the only reaction to my desperate movement, if he even noticed it.

  Christ, I hope he didn’t. Why do I have it so bad for this guy? I’m embarrassing myself. I need to stop. He’s probably dying to get away from me⁠—

  “Will you come and cast your eye over the equations?”

  I know nothing about maths. Absolutely nothing. I can’t help at all. “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I know it’s a long shot. I mean, you’re me, so presumably you might miss all the same things I seem to be missing.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.” Or I might miss it all because I have literally no idea what he’s on about. But suddenly the idea of him explaining the complex maths of quantum physics to me is about the sexiest thing I can imagine. I hope he keeps his glasses on when he does it. Will he roll his sleeves? Does he have a private office with a big sturdy desk?

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I don’t care. I’m going with him. I’m going with him, and I’m going to do maths with this man so hard it hurts.

  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.