Field Notes on Love

by Jennifer E. Smith

  She blinks a few times, overcome by the memory of that rainy night. Each time she thinks of Hugo, her heart feels like it’s being wrung out, and she’s so distracted that she almost misses the next question.

  “So you got along well?” Pop asks, and when Mae gives him a blank look, he adds, “You and Piper?”

  “Oh,” she says. “Yeah.” It’s the kind of drawn out yeah that makes it clear she doesn’t know where she’s going next with this. Her mind begins to toggle through all the many things she could tell them about her future roommate: We’re best friends already or She was a total nightmare or It’ll be better when we’re in a dorm room and have a bit more space.

  But in the end, she can’t bring herself to lie.

  Maybe it’s because they’re planning a funeral right now, or because she missed them more than she thought she would. Maybe it’s the guilt of not having been here, or maybe it’s because of Hugo, whose absence she feels like a phantom limb. But whatever the reason, she finds herself saying, “Actually, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  They listen as the whole story comes spilling out—the post that Priyanka had sent her and the search for a Margaret Campbell; the video she sent to Hugo and the moment she met him at Penn Station—and when she gets to the part where they boarded the train, Dad is so red faced and Pop is so white faced that she stops. “Are you guys okay?”

  They stare at her.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. If I’d known this would happen, I never would’ve—”

  A muscle in Dad’s jaw is beginning to twitch. “What were the sleeping arrangements?”

  “What were the, uh…”

  “The sleeping arrangements.”

  “Well, we didn’t really have a choice on the train. But they were bunk beds, so…”

  “And what about off the train?”

  Mae squirms in her seat. “It sounds worse than it is.”

  “Try us,” Pop says flatly.

  “Hugo was going to give me the hotel rooms, but then he lost his wallet in Chicago, and we’d already shared the smaller room on the train, so it didn’t seem like such a big deal to—”

  “To what?”

  “We got a cot,” Mae explains, deciding it’s better to leave out any logistics beyond that. “It wasn’t a big deal. Honestly.”

  “So let me get this straight. You lied to us, went off on a cross-country train trip with a boy you’d never met before, and then shared a hotel room with him in a strange city?” Dad says in a strangled voice. “Sure. Yeah. No big deal at all.”

  Pop folds and then unfolds his hands. “Were you, uh…,” he says, braving a glance at Mae, then quickly lowering his eyes again. “You were…safe, right?”

  She groans. “Nothing happened. Not like that.”

  “Not like that?” Dad says, his eyebrows shooting up again. “So does that mean…something did happen?”

  “Look, it was just…I didn’t think you guys would say yes if you knew.” She ignores the matching expressions on their faces, which tell her she’s absolutely right, and keeps going. “But I needed to go. You were the ones who said I had some living to do, and it seemed like fate for this to just fall into my lap. It was never about him. The idea was to figure out my next film, and we were supposed to just give each other plenty of space. But then…I don’t know. Something happened. We really liked each other.”

  The worry has eased from Pop’s face, and he’s watching her now with a bemused smile. But Dad still looks slightly murderous. “I swear, if he touched a hair on your head…”

  “He did,” Mae says, trying not to laugh. “But really, it’s okay. He’s a nice guy. You’d like him. And anyway, it’s over now.”

  “Good,” Dad says. “Because if I ever see this scoundrel—”

  Pop is full-on laughing now. “Okay, maybe we can take the whole overprotective father act down a notch here.”

  “It’s not an act,” Dad says, scowling. “She just spent a week on a train with some random kid. Oh god, he is a kid, right? How old is this guy?”

  “Eighteen,” Mae says. “Same as me.”

  Dad grunts. “Still.”

  “Okay,” says Pop. “I think that concludes the lecture portion of our program.” He waves a hand at the papers spread out on the table before them: information for the funeral service, a bill from the undertaker, printouts of various prayers and hymns. “As we’ve all been reminded, life is short. Mae, we would’ve preferred if you hadn’t lied to us. But you’re probably right that we would’ve said no. What’s done is done. I’m glad you had a good time. And that you met a boy you like, though as your dad, I confess I’m also happy that part of the adventure is over.”

  “Thanks,” Mae says, smiling at him gratefully. “I really am sorry. Though I kind of thought you’d have found out by now…”

  “How?” Dad asks, still shaking his head in an indignant way.

  “Because I told Nana.”

  “The one time she manages to keep a secret,” Pop says, but he says it fondly.

  Dad sighs. “At least tell me you got some inspiration out of all this.”

  “I did,” she says. “I think I might’ve even gotten a film out of it.”

  “And?” Pop asks.

  “And it might even end up being good.” She shrugs. “But what do I know?”

  “A lot,” Dad says with an intensity that surprises her. “Don’t forget that, okay?”

  She smiles at him. “Okay.”

  “So,” he says, “think you could give your old men a sneak peek?”

  Mae is unaccountably nervous as she pulls her computer out of her bag. She sets it on the table between them, and they scoot their chairs closer. “It’s not even remotely close to being finished,” she explains as she opens the file. “I still don’t have the shape of it yet. This is literally just a bunch of interviews, but it’ll give you an idea of what I’m hoping to do.”

  This isn’t the first time she’s shown them something at this stage. They’ve always been her test audience, eager to help and quick to praise. But this time she’s too anxious to look at them. Instead she cups her chin in her hands and stares hard at the screen, watching the reel of old friends who go by—Ida and Roy, Ashwin and Ludovic, Katherine and Louis—like she’s right back on that train again.

  “My biggest dream?” says a young woman named Imani, whom they interviewed outside the bathrooms late one night in the middle of Nebraska. “I already have it.”

  “What is it?” Mae asked, and the woman’s smile broadened.

  “Love.”

  Maybe it’s being in the house with her dads, right across from the empty chair where her grandmother used to sit. Or maybe it’s that Mae misses Hugo, the pain growing worse with each interview she watches, remembering the way he sat beside her, his eyes bright as he listened to all those stories. She’s watched these a dozen times, maybe more, but this time something is different. This time she understands—all at once—what the film is about.

  As it turns out, it’s not a story about love.

  It’s a love story.

  Her mind is so busy spinning as she thinks through what this means that by the time Hugo appears on-screen, she’s almost forgotten he’s part of it. She hasn’t watched his interview since she filmed it, hasn’t let herself, because she knows it will hurt too much.

  And she’s right. The minute she hears his voice, she feels her heart wrench.

  “But then I got on this train,” he says with that familiar smile of his, “and everything changed.”

  “Ooh, a Brit,” Dad says, then looks over at Mae, who is watching the screen with a frozen expression. “Wait, is that him?”

  She nods feebly, and they both reach for the volume button at the same time. “Turn it up,” Pop says, leaning forward to watch. Every so often, they
exchange a look over the top of her head, but Mae’s eyes are on Hugo. Behind him the desert whips by, the metallic sound of the rails providing a familiar soundtrack. Mae never realized it was possible to feel homesick for a train. Or, for that matter, a person.

  When the interview is over and the screen has gone black, Dad turns to her. “He’s in love with you,” he says, looking at her in surprise.

  “What?” she says, shutting the computer. “No.”

  “He is,” Pop says with a grin. “It’s obvious.”

  Dad is still staring. “And you’re in love with him too.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “You ran away and fell in love with a boy on a train,” he says, his voice full of wonder. Then he laughs. “Nana would be so proud.”

  Hugo wakes early, the light dull around the edges of the curtains. To his disappointment, there are still no texts from Mae. But he has one from Margaret suggesting a coffee shop just around the corner, and he marvels at the coincidence until he remembers that she knows exactly where he’s staying because she was meant to be staying here too.

  As he walks to meet her, he’s oddly jittery. It somehow feels both like a first date and like he’s cheating on someone, and by the time he reaches the coffee shop—a small storefront with a few wicker tables out front on a quiet street—Hugo is wishing he were anywhere else. Briefly he considers doing a U-turn and skipping this altogether. But then he sees Margaret waving to him from the window, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, takes a deep breath, and walks inside.

  “It suits you,” Margaret says, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing a dress he’s always loved—a pale blue that matches her eyes—and her perfume is so familiar that it gives him a jolt.

  “What does?”

  She winks at him. “Travel.”

  Hugo runs a hand over his hair, unsure whether she’s teasing him. “Who would’ve thought sleeping on a train would be so comfortable?” he says. Then his face starts to burn because of course he’d been sleeping there with Mae, and of course she doesn’t know that, and this whole thing feels like a terrible mix-up and there’s no one to blame but himself.

  “Better you than me,” Margaret says. “I looked up the compartments, and I reckon I would’ve felt like a hen in a chicken coop in those beds.”

  “I suspect there’s a joke in there about pecking me to death,” Hugo says.

  She laughs. “No pecking before coffee.”

  Once they’ve ordered, they carry their mugs to one of the tables outside. It’s still early, and the street is mostly empty, just a few people out running or walking their dogs.

  “When did you get here?” Hugo asks, warming his hands on the mug.

  “A couple of days ago. Turns out it’s pretty quick by plane.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “So how was it?”

  “Honestly?” Hugo says. “You would’ve hated it.”

  “But you loved it. I can tell.” She blows on her mug, scattering the steam, and Hugo flicks his eyes away. It feels so intimate, watching her lips form a perfect o like that, a reminder of how many times he’s kissed them. There’s a part of him that still wants to, though whether out of love or sadness, longing or nostalgia, it’s hard to be sure. She takes a sip, then looks up at him. “What about her?”

  “Who?” he asks, then immediately hates himself for it. Margaret was part of his life for a long time; she knows when he’s hedging. Besides, they’re broken up now. It’s not against the rules to have feelings for someone else. So why does it feel that way?

  She gives him a disappointed look. “Hugo.”

  “Yeah, okay. Was it Poppy or Isla?”

  “Neither. It was Alfie. I ran into him at Tesco before I left.”

  “Should’ve guessed,” Hugo says with a sigh. “He’s always had the biggest mouth. I suppose I should just be grateful he’s managed not to let it slip to Mum and Dad.”

  “They don’t still think that I’m—?” she asks, looking uncomfortable.

  “No,” Hugo says quickly. “It’s just—you know how they are. They weren’t too keen on this trip in the first place. And once I realized about the ticket—”

  “What about it?”

  “The package was booked under your name, and they wouldn’t let me change it. So I needed someone else to come or I wouldn’t have been able to go at all.”

  “Wait,” she says, and her face darkens. “Does that mean you had some girl pretend to be me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So what, then?”

  Hugo swallows hard, realizing how bad this will sound. But he doesn’t have a choice. “I, uh…I found another Margaret Campbell.”

  “You what?”

  “I really wanted to go,” he says helplessly. “And they wouldn’t change it. So I didn’t really have a choice, did I? Alfie and George helped me write up—hold on.” He stops short. “Did you think I just invited along some random girl a couple weeks after we broke up?”

  She’s looking at him like he’s a complete idiot. “Well, didn’t you?”

  “No—not like that. I needed someone with the same name. It was just for the tickets and the hotel reservations and all that. I picked someone who wasn’t—I found this eighty-four-year-old from Florida called Margaret Campbell.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’re in love with an eighty-four-year-old?”

  “No,” Hugo says so loudly that the two women at a nearby table turn around. He lowers his voice. “No. She got bunions.”

  Margaret looks like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “So you found a younger version?”

  “Yes. No. Not like that. It was just about the name,” he says again. “It wasn’t supposed to be—” He pauses, frowning at her. “Wait. Who said anything about love?”

  “Alfie.”

  “I’m not in love with her.”

  “Alfie said, and I quote, ‘Can you believe our man Hugo is gallivanting around America with some new bird he’s in love with?’ ”

  Hugo puts his face in his hands and groans. “I’m so sorry. You know he’s a complete git. He was probably just trying to make you jealous.”

  “Well,” Margaret says, giving him a level look, “it worked.”

  He blinks at her, taken aback, though he knows he shouldn’t be. This, of course, is where they were headed all along. The problem is that he still doesn’t know how to feel about it.

  Margaret starts to reach for his hand across the table, then changes her mind and rests it on the handle of her mug instead. “Look, I have no idea who this girl is. Do I think it’s a bit odd that you’ve gotten involved with someone who has my same name? Yes. Very. But that’s neither here nor there right now. The point is that I’ve been thinking about us a lot these last few weeks. And when I heard you were taking a gap year—”

  “I’m not.”

  She frowns. “But Alfie said—”

  “Alfie says a lot of things,” he tells her with a smile.

  “Well, when I heard that, I thought maybe you were coming out here for more than just a few days. I thought you were coming to stay.” She shakes her head. “It’s silly, I know. We’re broken up, and you were with another girl anyway, but I just—I suppose I just wondered if there might be a second chance for us.”

  “Margaret.”

  “We let things slip. I know that. But you’re the only one I’ve ever loved, Hugo. And maybe it’s because of all these big changes, or maybe it was just knowing you were so far away this week, but I missed you.”

  Once again she moves as if to take his hand, then realizes what she’s doing and stops. But this time, Hugo meets her halfway. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. The truth is
, he’s not, really. It’s more habit than anything else. For so long, she was home to him. And now he doesn’t know what she is.

  “There’s no gap year,” he says gently. “I’m heading home tomorrow, so nothing has really changed.”

  This isn’t true. At least not for Hugo. Everything has changed. Just not in the way that Margaret was hoping. But he doesn’t tell her that.

  “What happened to make you go back?”

  Hugo twists his coffee mug in circles on the table. “It was too complicated with the scholarship.”

  “Ah,” she says, understanding immediately. “They want all six of you. That’s rubbish, Hugo. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s probably for the best,” he says, and then he looks up at her with a sheepish grin. “I lost my wallet somewhere around Chicago.”

  She laughs. “Of course you did. But you would’ve been fine. You’re not as hopeless as you think you are. It’s just that you’ve never had to manage by yourself before.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You have a dad who’s used to shepherding seven-year-olds, and a mum who literally records every move you make, and five brothers and sisters to follow around. And you had me. You’ve never really had to look after yourself before. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t do it.”

  He smiles at her. “Thanks.”

  “Honestly, I’m impressed you were even thinking about it. I never would’ve expected you to—”

  “What?”

  “Go after what you want,” she says, looking almost apologetic, and Hugo stares down at his mug with a pang of guilt. Because he hasn’t done that. Not really. “What changed?”

  Mae, he thinks, though he doesn’t say it. But they know each other too well for this, and he can see the flicker of hurt in her eyes.

  “Ah,” she says. “Right.”

  “I’m really sorry, Margaret.”

  There are twin spots of pink on her cheeks, which is what happens when she’s trying not to cry. But she lifts her chin anyway. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re happy.”