Even in his dreams, the Pacific Ocean was never quite this color.
The dusty hillsides and rows of fruit trees have given way to sand dunes, the water flashing into view every now and then until, at last, they’re clear of anything but the shore. He wishes he could open a window and breathe it in, wishes he could run down to the surf and let the water rush over his toes, wishes the person beside him wasn’t a grim-faced executive with a laptop who keeps swearing every time he loses service.
He wishes it were Mae.
They come to a stop along the coast, and the conductor announces they have to wait here for another train to pass. The executive gets up and carries his laptop into the observation car, and Hugo yawns and shifts in his seat. This is the first time the trip has felt long, which is a bit silly, since it’s only twelve hours, and they’ve done much more than that in a day. But there are still seven hours to go, and he can’t help feeling restless.
It’s like the laws of physics are different now. Twelve hours with Mae is somehow shorter than twelve hours without her. Especially when that time is spent on the way to find her.
He supposes he should have some sort of plan for when he gets there, though he doesn’t know a single thing about Los Angeles aside from what he’s seen in films. But plenty of them are about showing up with nothing but a suitcase and a dream, so he figures at least he’s not the first idiot to try it.
All he knows is that Mae has a meeting with the dean of admissions at four o’clock on the first day of classes.
Which is today.
The train begins to move again, haltingly this time, and Hugo leans to look out over the cliffs. His phone jitters on the tray in front of him, a message from Alfie that says Miracles do happen. There’s a link attached, and when he opens it, Hugo finds himself looking at his mum’s blog, something that he usually tries to avoid.
Across the top, there’s the old sketch of the six of them, Hugo bringing up the rear. But he doesn’t mind it so much anymore. Not now that he’s found himself so far from the group. In fact, it makes him smile, seeing these younger versions of the six of them.
He skips down to the most recent post, which is dated from this morning:
Those of you who have been following this blog for a long time know that we used to compare Hugo—our sixth out of six—to Paddington Bear.
It started because of a coat he had, the kind with little toggles on it, and when he wore it with wellies, he looked just like the bear. But as the years went on and it became clear that Hugo needed a bit more looking after than some of the others—he was always getting lost or losing things, always lagging behind and daydreaming—the joke became even more apt.
This past week, Hugo has been traveling across America by train. It’s the farthest anyone in our family has ever wandered, and now, it seems, he might be about to venture even farther.
We never expected all six of our children to walk the same path. They’re too unique for that, and it will be a privilege to watch them decide what to do with their lives. (Except maybe Alfie, in which case it will be a nail-biter.) But we also never imagined one of them would branch off quite so soon. Maybe we should’ve known. And maybe we should’ve guessed which one it would be.
There will always be a part of me that wants to send him off with a tag that says Please look after this bear. But the truth is, he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. Hugo might be hopeless when it comes to keeping track of his wallet or his mobile or his keys. But those things don’t really matter in the end. What he’s managed to keep track of is much more important. He knows who he is and what he wants out of life.
Hugo was the last to arrive, and now he’ll be the first to go.
We couldn’t be prouder.
Hugo’s eyes drift up to the top of the screen as the train starts to move again. There’s been no reception for most of the trip, but now a few bars appear, and it feels to him like a sign. He looks at the time; it’s nine-thirty at home, which means his parents are probably side by side on the sofa, each of them reading a book, as they do every night before bed.
When they answer his video call, they both look surprised to be hearing from him.
“Hugo?” his dad says, his face too close to the screen. “Where are you?”
“I’m in California.”
His mum takes the phone. “Hugo, darling? We know all about what’s going on. Alfie showed us your letter to the university, and it was just so lovely, and I wanted to say—”
“Mum, it’s okay. I know.”
“I realize we’re not always the best listeners, but I wish you could’ve said all that to us. We all read it together, me and your father and Poppy and George and Isla and—”
“Mum.”
“No, listen. We didn’t understand before. But we can tell how happy you’ve been this week, and if this is what you want, then you should know we’re all behind you. They’re going to miss you next year, you know, even if they won’t exactly say it. And so will we. But if this is what you need to do—”
“Mum?”
She stops. “Yes?”
“Alfie sent me your blog post.”
“He did?”
“He did. Thank you. It meant a lot.”
“We should’ve listened to you more,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Hugo bites his lip. “I’m sorry too.”
“About what?”
“There’s something I didn’t tell you….”
His dad smiles. “About the girl?”
“You know?” Hugo asks, astonished.
“Alfie again,” Dad says. “He’s always had a bit of a big mouth, hasn’t he?”
Hugo laughs. “You’re not cross with me?”
“Consider us even,” Mum says ruefully. “Where is she now?”
“I’m on my way to see her.”
“I thought you were with her.”
“I was, but…it’s a long story.” He pauses. “I’ll tell you when I get home.”
Their faces brighten straightaway.
“It’ll be nice to have you back,” his mum says. “Even if just for a bit.”
Dad smiles, too, a smile that’s just for Hugo. “Yes,” he says. “We’ll be sure to have a plate waiting for you.”
The train rounds a bend, and the craggy coast comes into view again. The waves are tipped in white as they rush to meet the sand, and closer to the tracks, the scrubby grass ripples in the wind. It all looks so surreal, so wild and beautiful, that Hugo forgets about his parents for a second. When he hears them say his name, he turns his mobile around.
“Look,” he says, moving it so they can see the view.
His mum inhales sharply. “Wow.”
“I know.”
“It’s just so blue,” she says as Hugo presses the phone to the window. And for a long time, they stay there like that, the three of them watching together.
The moment she steps out of the airport shuttle, Mae instantly feels happier. There’s something about the air here, which smells faintly of flowers. The sky is a blinding, cloudless blue, and the palm trees rustle as the breezes sweep through them.
She’s standing across the street from the admissions office because her flight was late and her meeting starts soon and there’s no time to stop at the dorm first. Her boxes arrived there days ago, and she’s already heard from Piper—future roommate and imaginary travel buddy—that the room is tiny but nice. She can’t wait to see it.
Her backpack—which has been such good company this week—is slumped on the sidewalk next to her, and, looking down, she feels a surge of fondness for it.
It makes her think of home.
It makes her think of her travels.
It makes her think of the future.
But mostly it makes her think of Hugo, which is ridiculous because it was only
a week, and now that week is over. She’s the one dragging it with her into this new chapter like it meant more than it did.
She gives the backpack a little kick, and it topples over. Then, with a sigh, she stoops to grab it. But before she can, someone bends to help her.
To her astonishment, she looks up to see Hugo.
Her first instinct is to laugh because it’s so impossible. But then she sees the way he’s grinning at her, and she wonders if maybe it’s not.
Maybe it was always going to happen this way.
“I was literally just thinking about how annoying you are,” she says, and he looks amused.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I don’t hear anything at all, and then you just show up out of nowhere right as I arrive—wait, how did you even know I’d be here?”
“You told me,” he says. “Besides, who else would have a meeting with the dean on the very first day of classes?”
She’s still staring like she’s not totally certain it’s him. “I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you’d be halfway around the world by now.”
“Well, I’ve got to go back in a few weeks to do some interviews….”
“And then?”
“Exactly,” he says, beaming at her. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“No, that letter was all you. And it was amazing. But, hey,” she says, smacking him on the arm so that he laughs and ducks away, “why didn’t you write back about the film?”
“Because,” he says, “I thought it would be better to tell you in person.”
She frowns. “Tell me what?”
“How much I loved it.”
“You did?” she asks, brightening. They’re both smiling so hard that they’re on the verge of laughter. “Really?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t matter what I think.” His eyes are shining, and it makes Mae feel dizzy to look at him, makes her wonder if this is actually real. “It only matters that you loved it. And I can tell you did.”
“How?”
“I can just tell when you love something,” he says, and then she takes a step closer, and his arms are around her and their lips meet, and right then it doesn’t matter if this is a hello or a goodbye, if they’re making a memory or a promise, because they’re here together, and that’s enough for now.
“What?” he says when she pauses to look up at him.
She smiles. “I can tell with you too.”
Any field notes on gratitude have to start with my agent, Jennifer Joel, who has been such an amazing advocate and incredible friend over the years. I’m also enormously grateful to my editor, Kate Sullivan, for being so enthusiastic about this book from the start, and for making it better every step of the way.
I feel very lucky to be published by Delacorte Press, and I’m especially fortunate to work with Beverly Horowitz and Barbara Marcus, who are both so wonderful. I’m also very thankful to everyone there who had a role in turning this messy pile of words into a hard rectangular object: Alexandra Hightower, Judith Haut, Jillian Vandall, Barbara Bakowski, Colleen Fellingham, Tamar Schwartz, Alison Impey, Liz Casal Goodhue, Adrienne Waintraub, Kristin Schulz, Dominique Cimina, Kate Keating, and Cayla Rasi, among others.
As always, I’m grateful to everyone at ICM, especially Binky Urban, Josie Freedman, John DeLaney, Heather Bushong, and Nicolas Vivas. And to Stephanie Thwaites, Roxane Edouard, Georgina Simmonds, and Isobel Gahan at Curtis Brown. In the UK, it’s been a joy to work with Rachel Petty, Sarah Hughes, George Lester, Venetia Gosling, and Kat McKenna at Macmillan.
A great big thank-you to those friends who read early drafts or acted as sounding boards or just generally offered a whole lot of wisdom and support throughout this process: Jenny Han, Kelly Mitchell, Sarah Mlynowski, Jenni Henaux, Lauren Graham, Morgan Matson, and Anna Carey.
And lastly, to Dad, Mom, Kelly, Errol, Andrew, and Jack: the best bunch of train enthusiasts I know.
Jennifer E. Smith is the author of eight novels for young adults, including Windfall and The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight. She earned a master’s degree in creative writing from the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, and her work has been translated into thirty-three languages. She lives in New York City. Follow her on Twitter at @JenESmith or visit her at jenniferesmith.com.
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Field Notes on Love Page 23