Field Notes on Love

by Jennifer E. Smith

  “Hey,” he says, giving her a kiss as they begin to walk. “How’d it go?”

  “What?”

  “The film. I thought you were gonna watch it.”

  “Oh,” she says flatly. “Yeah. It didn’t help.”

  “Really? Still no idea what went wrong?”

  “Nope. And the not knowing is basically killing me.”

  Garrett stops and turns to her. “What if I watch?”

  “No way,” Mae says, continuing past him. “Not a chance.”

  “But I’m a film critic.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Having a Twitter account doesn’t make you a film critic.”

  “Fine, but I will be someday,” he says, jogging to catch up to her. “So I can give you an honest opinion. And you already trust my taste, so—”

  Now it’s Mae’s turn to come to a stop. “I don’t, actually. You have terrible taste. Everything you like is overwrought and pretentious. Plus, all your favorite directors are men, which really sucks.”

  “That’s not my fault,” he says, but there’s a spark in his eyes, because he loves a good debate. They both do. “It’s the industry’s. Besides, it could be a good thing that we have different tastes.” He pauses. “Obviously, the admissions board did.”

  She glares at him, and he holds up both hands.

  “All I’m saying is that you need answers, and I have opinions.”

  They’re nearly to the river now, picking their way down the hill toward the maple tree where they’ve spent the better half of the summer bickering about movies and kissing until their lips were swollen. When they get to the bottom, Garrett drops down in their usual spot, but Mae remains standing. She fishes her phone out of her back pocket and pulls up the video file.

  “Here,” she says, holding it out to him.

  “Really?” he says as he takes it. To Mae, it feels like handing over a tiny piece of herself.

  Be gentle, she wants to say, but she doesn’t, because she’s tougher than that.

  The film is eighteen minutes long, and Mae can’t bear to sit there while he watches, so she walks along the edge of the muddy river until it’s time to circle back again. Garrett’s head is still bent over the phone, but he looks up when she sits beside him, his expression hard to read.

  “Well?” she asks, sounding much too casual.

  “Technically speaking,” he says, “I think it’s brilliant.”

  Mae frowns at him. “Meaning?”

  “You’re an awesome filmmaker,” he says, his face serious. “I don’t know how you managed some of those camera angles. And that transition near the end? You’re really, really talented, and this is really, really impressive.”

  She can feel the next word coming as surely as if he’d already spoken it. “But?”

  “You want me to be honest?”

  “I do,” Mae says, her mouth dry.

  Garrett’s forehead creases. “Well, it’s just…it’s kind of impersonal.”

  “Impersonal?” she repeats, caught off guard. She’d been prepared for a thousand other criticisms. But impersonal definitely wasn’t one of them.

  Of all the films she’s ever made, this one is closest to her own life. Someone else did the acting—a girl from school who’d been the star of every play and was eager to use it for her audition reel—but the rest of it was Mae, her story laid out for anyone who wanted to see.

  “It’s about a girl with two dads who lives in the Hudson Valley,” she says to Garrett, an edge to her voice. “What could be more personal than that?”

  “I know it’s about you,” he says. “That’s really obvious. The problem is that it doesn’t feel like you.”

  “Well,” she says stiffly, “maybe you don’t actually know me.”

  Garrett looks surprised. “Maybe I don’t. But that’s not really my fault, is it?”

  Mae almost wants to laugh, but it gets stuck in her throat. Nobody has ever accused her of being mysterious before. In fact, she’s never had a problem speaking her mind. When she was eight, she showed up at a town hall held by her congressman and gave an impassioned speech in defense of gay marriage. When it was finally legalized in the state of New York, she sent him a postcard that read No thanks to you. Once, she broke up a fight between two boys on the street and ended up with a black eye of her own. And every so often, she likes to wander into the comments section of her favorite film channel and write impassioned rebuttals to all the idiots who feel threatened by female remakes of their childhood favorites.

  She is not exactly a wallflower.

  Garrett squints at her, trying to figure out his next move. “Come on, Mae. We both know you’re not the best at—”

  “What?” she demands.

  He hesitates, then shrugs. “Letting people in.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “See?” he says. “If you can’t even allow yourself to be introspective in this conversation, how are you ever gonna do it in your films?”

  There’s a hint of arrogance in his face as he says this, and for a second, Mae can see what her dads have been talking about all summer. But then his expression softens again, and he reaches for her hand, and she steels herself for whatever he’s going to say next, which is probably that she really shouldn’t be steeling herself against anything at all.

  “You’re obviously super talented. But the difference between a good film and a great one has nothing to do with jump cuts and cool techniques. It’s about showing people who you are.”

  Mae opens her mouth to argue with this, but he hurries on.

  “We both know you have a lot to say,” he tells her, offering a smile even as she untangles her hand from his. “You just have to get out of your own way and actually say it.”

  “I did,” she says.

  Garrett shakes his head. “You didn’t. Not yet.”

  “But—”

  He holds up a hand. “Just think about it for a while before telling me I’m wrong, okay? The point of criticism is to help you get better, and that’s all I’m trying to do.”

  “Fine,” Mae says with some amount of effort. “Then…thanks. I guess.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says magnanimously. He glances down at her phone, which he’s still holding. “Oh, and Priyanka texted while I was watching. I tried to swipe it away and accidentally opened the link she sent.”

  Mae’s head is still swimming with thoughts about the film, but she reaches for the phone and stares blankly at the screen, which is open to an unfamiliar social media platform.

  “Apparently some kid is looking for a Margaret Campbell to go on a train with him,” Garrett says, leaning forward to look. “Crazy, right? That’s so close to your name.”

  “It is my name,” she mutters, already skimming the message.

  He shrugs. “I’m sure it’s just some creepy fifty-year-old trying to meet someone.”

  Mae bristles at this, though she’s not sure why. He may be right. But there’s something about the tone of the message that makes her believe it.

  “I wonder who’ll go,” he says. “It would be such a weird thing to do.”

  “Would it?” she asks, looking up.

  “To go off with a complete stranger?” he says, looking at her incredulously. “Yeah. Besides, the trains here are the worst. Eurail is really the way to do it. I think I’m gonna start with Amsterdam next month.”

  “Cool,” Mae says, but she’s hardly listening. She’s too busy reading the post again. So if your name is Margaret Campbell and you’re interested in a bit of an adventure…

  Garrett watches her for a moment, and something in his face shifts. “You’re not actually thinking about this,” he says, and though it started out as a question, it lands flat-footed and certain, a statement meant to convey how ridiculous that would be. “A week on a
train with some random dude?”

  “You’re not jealous, are you?” Mae teases, but the expression on his face tells her that she’s right. She inches forward so that their knees are touching and gives him a serious look. “I thought we decided—”

  “We did,” he says quickly. “But now that I’m leaving, I just…”

  “I know,” she says, though she doesn’t. Not really. She thinks again of the way Priyanka had felt about Alex’s departure, the hours of crying and the constant texts flying between them, the two of them desperate to bridge the sudden distance. Mae feels none of that with Garrett, and his words bob to the surface again: We both know you’re not the best at letting people in.

  She feels a prickle of something unfamiliar, something a little like doubt.

  “I guess you’re right,” he says, but he’s looking at her as if hoping she might disagree with him. “I’m leaving for Paris next week, and you’ll be in California, and it’s not like we were ever…” He fumbles for the right word, unable to find it, while the options scroll through Mae’s head: long-term, compatible, serious, in love.

  She closes her eyes for a second, trying to muster up something bigger than what she’s feeling now, which is a mild sadness at the thought of saying goodbye. But when she peeks around it, there’s nothing more.

  “It was a really great summer,” she says, taking his hand.

  He nods. “I guess now it’s time for the next thing.”

  They look at each other for a moment, and then Garrett’s eyes brighten a little.

  “We still have a few hours, though,” he says with a grin, and when he leans in, Mae kisses him back automatically. But her mind is miles away, already busy thinking about the next thing.

  Hugo knows he can’t pick this girl. He can’t. He only just broke up with his girlfriend, and he’ll be sharing a small space with whomever he chooses, and there’s simply no need to make it more complicated than it already is. He knows this. He does.

  But that doesn’t stop him from watching her video for a third time.

  “Here it is,” says a voice behind the camera as the shot pans out to reveal a long row of boxy storefronts on a quiet street. “This is where I’ve lived my whole life.”

  The way she says that last part, the intensity behind the words—that’s what stopped him cold the first time he watched.

  She answers his questions as she walks around the town, but it’s not an ordinary video. It’s like a little movie, the shots changing swiftly from one frame to the next. At the end, she turns the camera to reveal a round white face with a dusting of freckles across her nose. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her eyes are a bright blue behind her glasses.

  “My name is Mae Campbell,” she says with a little smile. “And as you can probably tell, I’m in desperate need of an adventure.”

  There’s a soft knock at the door, and Hugo is quick to close out the video on his screen. A moment later, his dad steps inside with an armful of laundry.

  “I heard there was a sock emergency,” he says, tossing the laundry onto Alfie’s bed.

  “I think we’re well past emergency.” Hugo spins around in his chair. “He’s been wearing the same manky old pair since Thursday.”

  “Why doesn’t he just borrow some of yours?”

  “Mine aren’t as lucky, apparently.”

  “Ah,” Dad says, sitting down beside the pile on Alfie’s bed. There’s a ghost of a beard along his jawline, and he runs a hand over it, looking at Hugo with a serious expression. “You know, I wanted to talk to you. I was thinking more about what you said at dinner the other night. The truth is, I was an only child, and all I ever wanted was—”

  “—a big family,” Hugo finishes.

  Dad laughs. “I suppose it’s possible I might’ve told this story before.”

  “A few times,” Hugo says, but he doesn’t really mind. Dad’s father died when he was little, and his mum worked three jobs to keep them afloat. At night, with only the TV for company, he would play a game with himself, imagining a house full of brothers and sisters.

  “We had eight plates, for some reason,” Dad says, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I suppose you had to buy them as a set. I used to wedge them onto our tiny table and pretend we were about to have a big dinner together. Which was obviously a bit pathetic. But it’s the reason I like to set the table now.”

  “You never told me that part before,” Hugo says, and Dad smiles at him. It seems impossible that a man with six kids could have a smile specific to each one, but he does.

  And this one is Hugo’s.

  “It still feels like a gift to have a person for each plate,” he says, reaching out to place his hand over Hugo’s lighter one. “And you should know I’m going to miss setting yours while you’re away.”

  Hugo nods, slightly overcome by this. “Now I’m feeling a bit guilty that we’re all leaving next month,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Six plates in one go.”

  “That’s different. You’ll be right up the road. I’ll keep them handy for weekends.” Hugo’s face must shift, because Dad gives his shoulder a little pat as he stands to leave. “Everyone grows up dreaming of something different, Hugo. And that’s okay. It’s what makes life so interesting.”

  Alfie comes crashing through the door then, dropping his rugby kit and falling onto his bed in the manner of a dying man.

  Dad shakes his head, but he looks amused as he points to the scattered laundry. “Clean socks for you.”

  “Cheers.” Alfie sits up and peels off his old ones, which are damp with sweat. “Might be time to retire these.”

  “Please don’t let us get in your way,” Dad says, winking at Hugo, then closing the door behind him.

  Once they’re alone, Alfie motions at Hugo’s laptop. “So what’s new in the world of crackpots and freeloaders?”

  “They’re not—”

  “How do you know one of these girls isn’t planning to steal your identity or something?”

  “I don’t,” Hugo says with a shrug.

  Alfie frowns. “What’re you gonna do if Mum and Dad find out?”

  “They already said I could go.”

  “Right, but not with a stranger. Hard to imagine they’ll be too keen on that.”

  Hugo ignores this, returning to the in-box they set up yesterday. He sifts through the emails that have come in so far, way more than he would’ve expected at all, let alone in twenty-four hours. When he gets to the most recent one—Mae Campbell from Hudson, New York—he pauses for a second, trying and failing not to be so delighted at the thought of her video. He’s saved by a new email coming in. At the dinging sound, Alfie vaults off his bed and throws himself onto Hugo’s, still in his sweaty clothes.

  “What’ve we got?”

  Hugo opens it to find a message from Margaret P. Campbell of Naples, Florida, who is eighty-four years old. In the picture she included, she’s on a roller coaster, her halo of stark-white hair whipped back by the wind. She’s smiling a huge, gold-capped smile.

  “This is definitely the one,” Hugo says, only half joking.

  “Only you,” Alfie says, “would invite an eighty-four-year-old woman on holiday with you.”

  “It’s not a holiday,” Hugo says. “It’s a business arrangement. They get a ticket, and I get a train ride. Besides, she doesn’t look like the type to nick my wallet. Or my identity.”

  Alfie wrinkles his nose. “What kind of snacks do you reckon she’ll bring? Prunes?”

  “Stop being such an ageist,” Hugo says, shoving his brother until he tips off the bed and onto the floor with a yelp. Alfie remains sprawled there like that, staring at the ceiling, while Hugo reads the rest of Margaret P. Campbell’s email:

  When I was a girl, I took the train from Florida to South Carolina with my father,
and ever since then, I’ve wanted to see the rest of the country by rail. But there was school and then a job and kids and family, and then my husband died, and my own health was poor, and it seemed like I must be too old for such a thing. But then my granddaughter sent me your letter, and even though I know she probably meant it as a joke, I can’t stop thinking about it. Because why not, right? And maybe more importantly, why not now?

  Why indeed, Hugo thinks.

  Alfie’s voice drifts up from the floor, where he’s lying on his back, staring at the crack in the ceiling that they long ago decided was shaped like a whale. “Did you mean what you said the other night?” he asks. “About wanting some space next year?”

  Hugo is quiet for a long time. “Yes,” he says eventually.

  “I didn’t know,” Alfie says, propping himself up on his elbows.

  “You don’t ever feel that way?” Hugo asks, twisting in the chair to face him.

  Alfie considers this. “I suppose I’d prefer to have my own room, but otherwise I like having you all around. Most of the time.”

  “I do too,” Hugo says. “It’s not that. It’s just…we never got a choice, did we? This is the time when most people move away from home and leave their families and start something new. But we’ve always known we’re going to Surrey together. We never really had any other options.”

  “Right, because it’s free.”

  “Not really. You know there are strings attached.”

  “If the problem,” Alfie says, his eyes gleaming, “is that you’re worried about looking like shite next to me at the photo shoot, I’m sure you can stand next to Oscar instead.”

  Hugo rolls his eyes. “Did you even read that schedule they sent? They’ve got us doing seven interviews the first weekend. Is that really how you want to start uni?”

  “You mean with a live stream of us moving into the residence halls?” Alfie says with a grin. “I quite like the idea, actually. Gives me a chance to show off how much I can lift.”