“What will you do,” he says, “if they say no?”
She knows right away what he means. “I’ll keep trying,” she says matter-of-factly. “I already have an appointment with the dean of admissions about transferring.”
“You do?”
“Yup. Four o’clock on the first day of classes. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll go back again the next day. And the next. And if they still won’t let me try again, I’ll make another film, and then another, until there’s one so good they have to listen.”
The look on Hugo’s face is one of admiration. “I wish I loved something the way you love filmmaking.”
“You want to travel.”
“I want to escape. That’s not the same.”
Mae shrugs. “It looks the same in the end.”
On the board above the doors, the time for their train changes: another delay. Hugo takes a long sip of his coffee, then leans his head back on the leather couch with a sigh. “I couldn’t write the letter.”
“Well, luckily, we’ve got thirty-four more hours on a train, so…”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I tried to start it again, and I just—it all felt so flimsy. No matter what I said, it made me sound like a twit who can’t be bothered to go to uni even when it’s being offered up on a platter. I sounded like the worst possible version of myself, and honestly, I’m not even sure—”
“It’s just a hangover,” she says, and his eyes widen.
“I’m not—” he sputters. “I didn’t—”
“No,” she says with a smile. “I just mean…when I come up with a great idea for a film, it’s like being drunk. You know that giddy feeling you get when you’re psyched about something? It’s exciting because it’s all potential. But then you wake up the next morning and reality has sunk in. You start to wonder if the idea was really as good as you thought, and you suddenly see all the holes in the plan, and that high from the night before starts to crash. That’s the hangover.”
“Fine,” he says. “Maybe I’m a little hungover, then.”
A woman walking past with two small children shoots them a stern look before hurrying the kids along, and Mae and Hugo both laugh.
“All I’m saying,” she says, “is that only the best ideas usually survive the hangover. And I think yours is one of them. Don’t give it up without a fight just because you’re scared.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And that’s okay. It’s scary to think about doing something totally different. Especially something like this. To go off on your own for a year, leave your family behind, take such a big chance—I think it’s really brave. But it’s not gonna just happen. If it’s what you want, you have to make your own magic. Lay it all on the line.”
He tips his head to one side, his expression hard to read. “I will if you will.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, blinking at him. The way he’s looking at her so intently makes her heart pick up speed.
“Lay it all on the line.”
“I don’t—”
“You should be in it.”
“What?”
“Your film,” he says. “When you talk like that…well, you’re a bit inspiring. And that’s what you need here. It shouldn’t just be about other people’s stories; it should—”
“We’re not talking about me,” she says, suddenly flustered. “And it doesn’t matter what you think it should or shouldn’t be. It’s not your film. It’s mine.”
“I know that. All I’m saying is that you’re brilliant at what you do, and you’re also just brilliant in general. And I think if the film were a bit more personal—”
Mae stiffens, the word sending a ripple of doubt through her. She narrows her eyes at him. “What?”
“Just that maybe if it were more personal, it would resonate more.”
This knocks the wind right out of her. She stares at him for a second, trying not to let that show. “It’s literally a collection of personal stories,” she says, her mouth chalky. “Most of them about love.”
“Right,” he says. “Right. But it’s not exactly personal to you, is it? Of course, the substance is a bit different this time, but if you were to frame it with your own—”
“This time?” she says, and he freezes. Then his face goes slack, and a look of panic registers in his eyes, and Mae understands all at once what happened.
She glances at her computer, then back at Hugo, her mouth open.
“You watched it.”
He swallows hard. The guilt is all over his face; he doesn’t even try to hide it. “I’m so sorry. I just—”
Mae stands abruptly, her coffee sloshing in the cup. “I told you,” she says, her voice hard. “I told you I didn’t want to show you.”
“I know, it’s just—”
“And you went ahead and did it anyway?” Her face goes hot as she thinks about him watching the film, not sure if she’s more angry or embarrassed. Either way, it feels like the ground has disappeared beneath her feet. “I actually can’t believe you did that.”
Hugo scrambles off the couch, looking rattled. “I’m sorry,” he says, a little breathlessly. “I just—”
“What?” she snaps, then says it again: “What?”
“I really wanted to see it.”
She stares at him, stopped short by the unexpected honesty. “Why? Why do you care so much?”
“Because I wanted to know more about you,” he says, his voice rising so that two businessmen on the couch behind them half turn, flapping their newspapers. He takes a breath to steady himself before speaking again. “And I thought this might be a big piece of the puzzle, but then it turned out it wasn’t exactly—”
“What?” she asks, glaring at him.
“Nothing.”
“Hugo.”
He shifts from one foot to the other, eyes on the floor. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a puzzle piece after all.”
“What does that mean?” she asks in a cold voice. But something inside her is collapsing because she knows somehow what he’s going to say next, has been waiting for it since the moment this conversation started.
“Just that…it’s brilliant. But I suppose I thought there’d be more of you in it.” He lifts his eyes to look at her. “I figured it would be more personal somehow.”
Mae sits back down on the couch, trying not to look like she’s just been punched in the stomach. But that’s how it feels. It’s so much worse coming from him, which makes no sense because he doesn’t even know what he’s said. Not really. Garrett was being a critic, but Hugo—he was simply looking for Mae in her film.
And that’s why it hurts so much. Because he didn’t find her.
It feels like her heart—her careful, insufficient heart—has been trampled on, and when he sits down at the other end of the couch, she looks over at him wearily.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t listen to me. I’m not even a film person. And besides, I only watched, like, twenty percent of it.”
“Great,” Mae says. “Then I’m only twenty percent mad at you right now.”
He looks hopeful. “Really?”
“No!”
“I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”
She laughs, a brittle sound. “Well, it is. It might not have felt personal to you, but it’s very personal to me. I thought I was telling a story that meant something. I thought I was putting my whole heart in there, and it’s pretty awful to find out that’s not enough.”
“Mae—”
“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “You know what the worst part is? You went behind my back. I mean, how would you feel if I looked through your phone without asking?”
“Here,” he says, digging it out of his pocket and thr
usting it at her. “You can. You should. It’s only fair.”
Mae manages to catch the phone right before it slips to the floor. “I obviously wouldn’t do that. I just can’t believe you would.”
“I’m sorry,” he says miserably. “I’m an idiot. I know that. But I’d hate if this meant…”
“What?”
“It’s just…I like you,” he says, a note of desperation in his voice. “A lot. And this was so bloody stupid of me. But I’d be gutted if it changed anything between us.”
His phone, which is still in Mae’s hand, chirps once, then twice.
“I don’t know what this is to you,” he continues, his eyes locked on Mae’s. “But I want you to know that it means something to me. And that the last thing I’d want is for you to lose trust in me. Because I think maybe—” His eyes flick to his phone as it beeps again. “I know it seems mad, but I think maybe…”
“What?” she asks again, more impatiently this time.
He lifts his shoulders. “I think maybe I’m falling for you.”
Mae takes a sharp breath, her heart bobbling. She stares at him, too surprised to answer. Distantly, she hears an announcement that their train will begin boarding shortly, but it’s not until his phone makes another noise that she tears her eyes away, turning it over in her hand.
“Mae,” Hugo says, but she’s no longer listening.
She’s too busy reading the name at the top of the screen. It takes a moment for it to register, and when it does, she hands him the phone.
“It’s Margaret,” she says, standing up to gather her things. “She wants to see you tomorrow.”
Hugo’s head is a jumble as they board the train. Mae is the one who hands over their tickets to be scanned, who steers them to their compartment, who rearranges the bags in the luggage rack like puzzle pieces so that theirs will fit. He trails after her numbly, shell-shocked from the argument they’d just had and his confession at the end of it.
Mae won’t even look at him, and he doesn’t blame her.
He glances down at his phone, which is still clutched in his hand, and wonders how Margaret picked the exact worst moment to text. Does she have some sort of sixth sense, or is it just the universe conspiring against him?
He doesn’t need to open the messages to remind him what they say. They’re already burned into his brain:
Would love to see you when you get to SF.
I can meet you anywhere.
We need to talk.
I miss you.
Now he manages a smile as the attendant—a woman named Azar—squeezes past him and heads back down the hall to get other passengers settled. From the doorway to their compartment, he watches Mae dig through her bag. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a navy-and-white-striped shirt, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, and she hasn’t said anything in what feels like a long time. The actual space between them might be small, but to Hugo it feels like a million miles.
The conductor’s voice comes over the loudspeaker: “If you’ve just joined us in Denver, welcome. This is the California Zephyr, making stops en route to Emeryville. Breakfast is currently being served in the dining car, and the next stop will be Winter Park, Colorado, in a little over two hours. Enjoy the ride, folks.”
Mae grabs her camera bag. “I think I’m gonna go up and do some interviews.”
Hugo understands that he’s not invited, but he feels a rise of panic at the thought of her leaving when there’s still so much that needs to be said. She slings her bag over her shoulder and then looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to move away from the door.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. The train is moving now, the sunlight streaming in through the window. “I shouldn’t have watched the film. And as far as the other thing goes—”
“Hugo.”
“Will you please let me—”
“Can we do this later?”
“I just want to make sure you know that—”
“Please,” she says, and something about the way she says it makes him nod and take a step back from the door, his whole body humming with regret.
“Yeah,” he says. “All right.”
Her arm brushes against his as she whisks past him, and he wants to reach for her hand and try one more time. But instead, his heart sunk low, he simply turns to watch her head down the short hallway and up the narrow staircase.
When she’s gone, he slumps into one of the seats in their room and watches the landscape change as the train starts to climb into the Rocky Mountains. They pass rivers and ranches and fields of cattle, sheer rock faces, and streams dotted with fly fishermen, all of it slightly unreal, like something out of an old Western. Every so often, the brief darkness of a tunnel closes in around them, and it feels for a few seconds like there will never be light again.
In thirty-four hours, they’ll be in Emeryville, California, which is just across the bay from San Francisco. He was meant to arrive with Margaret, of course, then spend a couple of nights in a hotel near Fisherman’s Wharf before driving down to Stanford. When they broke up, he assumed she’d head straight to Palo Alto, and it occurs to him now that maybe the whole reason she’s in San Francisco is to see him.
We need to talk.
I miss you.
Without really thinking, he opens his phone and finds the last picture he and Margaret took together. They’d gone to Brighton for the day, and she insisted they take a selfie near the water. But as they did, a seagull flew so close to their heads that they both shouted and jumped away. Only its tail feathers made it into the corner of the photo; the rest was the two of them with their mouths open, half laughing and half screaming, Margaret’s blond hair streaming behind her as she started to escape toward the edge of the frame.
“Birdbrain,” she said, shaking her fist in mock anger.
Later she made him give her a ride on his back because the wedge sandals she’d insisted on wearing were hurting her feet. Then she complained about the food at the café where they had lunch, and had a strop when he wouldn’t leave the arcade until he beat his Skee-Ball record. They were both tense as they walked back to the train, annoyed with each other in the way they always seemed to be lately after spending a certain amount of time together. But then another seagull flew past, this one high above them, and Margaret frowned and muttered, “Birdbrain,” and that made them both dissolve into laughter all over again.
He pulls up her text messages.
Okay, he types, then slowly erases it.
To his surprise, a video call from Alfie pops up on the screen, and when he picks up, Hugo is even more astonished to see all five of his siblings jockeying for position in the frame.
“Hey, mate,” Alfie says, his face looming larger than all the others. “Just figured we’d ring you up to see how you’re getting on.”
Maybe it’s his fight with Mae, or maybe it’s just that he’s never been away from them for this long before, but the sight of their faces is overwhelming. To Hugo’s horror, he feels his eyes fill with tears.
“Don’t go falling apart on us now,” George says with a grin. “I thought you were meant to be this big world traveler.”
Isla, who is standing over George’s shoulder, beams into the camera. “He misses us.”
“Right, but who do you miss the most?” Alfie asks. “Like…we want rankings.”
“I miss all of you,” Hugo says, and he means it.
Poppy elbows Alfie aside, her braids swinging as she moves closer to the screen. “Is the other Margaret Campbell there?”
“Yeah, let us see,” Oscar says, craning his neck.
George peers over his shoulder. “We’d love to say hello.”
“She’s just over in another car right now,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, but they know him too well for this, and he can see their faces shift.
“Nothing. It’s fine. Or it will be.”
Poppy’s face shifts, and she looks at him more seriously. “You like her, huh?”
Hugo’s instinct is to laugh or make a joke, but he feels too worn down to pretend right now. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
“Knew it,” says Alfie.
“I know it’s a bit weird for you because of Margaret,” Hugo says, still talking mostly to Poppy, “and I didn’t exactly plan this. But I just—”
“Hugo,” Poppy says, tipping her head to one side the way she always does when she’s considering something. “If you like her, I’m sure she’s great.”
He lets out a breath. “She is. And I do.”
“Okay then,” she says, all business now. “Whatever you did, just apologize.”
Isla nods. “But not in that blustery, flustery way you usually do. Say exactly what you did wrong and be heartfelt about it.”
“And tell her how you feel about her too,” says Oscar, out of nowhere. They all turn to him in surprise, but he just grins. “What? I think it’s important to be honest.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” Hugo asks, and there’s a catch in his voice.
“It will,” says Poppy, and though she can’t possibly know that, there’s something so reassuring about it that he simply nods.
“Right,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Let us know how it goes,” Isla tells him, and the others bob their heads. All except Alfie, who clears his throat exaggeratedly.
“You know,” he says, “this wasn’t actually meant to be a group therapy session. We were ringing to let you know we made an appointment with the university tomorrow.”
Hugo frowns. “Why?”
“To tell them that it’s one for all and all for one,” George says, and when Hugo just stares at him, uncomprehending, he shrugs. “If they won’t let you take a gap year, then none of us will go.”
“What?” Hugo says, too stunned to think of anything else. He adjusts his grip on the phone and turns his focus on Alfie, who looks rather pleased with himself. “I thought I told you not to say anything.”
Field Notes on Love Page 17