Field Notes on Love(19)

Another announcement comes over the speakers, more urgent this time, and it stirs him to action. “Ready?” he murmurs as he adjusts his pack, but when he looks up again, she’s several steps away, moving through the crowds toward the platform.

“Ready,” she says over her shoulder, but he can barely hear her.

She’s already on her way.





The minute they step onto the train, Mae feels it like a bubble in her chest: a sense of exhilaration so light and airy that she suspects she could float all the way to California.

It doesn’t matter that she lied to her dads. Or that her grandmother can’t keep a secret. It doesn’t even matter that her strategy of regarding Hugo as nothing more than a human train ticket has already been complicated by the very fact of him standing beside her.

She’d looked him up, of course. She wasn’t an idiot.

But whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t what she found: a disarmingly good-looking Brit who was biracial and extremely tall and apparently somewhat famous for being a sextuplet, of all things. As she sifted through the articles and blog posts and family photos, Mae was surprised—and a little alarmed—by how excited she was to meet him, even though she already knew what this was. She needed a ticket. And he needed a girl named Margaret Campbell. That’s all.

But now, here he is, no longer pixilated or imaginary, no longer just an email address and a crazy idea. Instead, he’s a person with an adorable accent and a kind smile, who has to bend a little to get through the door of the train as he climbs aboard.

An attendant named Ludovic leads them down a narrow hallway toward their compartment. “We only have a couple of dinner seatings still available, so I suggest you make a reservation now.” He checks his notebook. “Six-thirty or nine?”

    Hugo and Mae exchange a look.

“Six-thirty is great,” Mae says to Ludovic, who marks the time down.

When they reach their compartment, they all three form a knot around the door. Mae’s first instinct is to laugh. Beneath the large window, two blue-cushioned seats face each other, so close it’s hard to imagine how their legs will fit in the space between. Around them are various shelves and compartments and hooks, but that’s about it. The whole thing is no bigger than a coat closet.

Beside her, Hugo is frowning. “I don’t get it.”

“What?” Ludovic asks.

“Where are the beds?”

“The seats fold down,” he says, reaching up to a slanted board above the window and tugging on the silver handle. It falls open to reveal the top bunk, which is maybe ten inches from the ceiling and comes with what looks like a cross between a net and a seat belt.

“What’s this?” Mae asks, pointing to the straps.

“I think it’s so you don’t fall out,” Hugo says. She must look stricken by this, because he’s quick to add, “Don’t worry. I’ll take the top.”

She peers up at him incredulously, the long legs and lanky torso, the way his dark hair is nearly brushing the ceiling.

“I’ll manage,” he says good-naturedly. “I’m half pretzel.”

“Well,” says Ludovic, “I hope the other half is sardine.”

And then, without another word, he turns and walks back down the hall, leaving them at the door of their tiny room.

“A bit cozy, isn’t it?” Hugo says, and then his face flashes with panic. “I only meant cozy like small, not like—”

    “It’s okay,” Mae says, charmed by his earnestness. “As long as you’re not a serial killer, we’ll be totally fine.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I swear. Though I suppose that’s what a serial killer would say too.”

She smiles at him. “I guess I’ll just have to trust you,” she says, stepping inside and dropping into one of the seats. They’re still stopped beneath Penn Station, so the enormous window beside her is mostly dark, and she can see Hugo’s reflection in the doorway. “You can sit, too, you know.”

“I was just thinking that I hadn’t thought to ask if you’re a serial killer,” he says, but he’s already taking the seat opposite her. His legs are so long that their knees brush against each other, and Mae feels it like a bolt of electricity.

“I wouldn’t say serial,” she says, and he looks slightly startled. “Just kidding. The only thing I’ve ever killed is a spider.”

He grins at her. “Whenever I find one, I take it outside in a cup.”

“You do not,” she says, but even as she does, she’s thinking that it’s probably true. How odd it is to have known someone for all of twenty minutes and still feel so sure of this.

“What if I were to kill it and then its friends and family came back for revenge?” he says very seriously. “I can’t take that sort of risk.”

She laughs. Beneath them the train stirs, a low rumble that vibrates up through their feet. Their eyes meet, and there’s a hint of a smile in Hugo’s, an excitement that matches her own.

“Last chance,” she says, and he looks confused.

“For what?”

“Second thoughts.”

“None for me,” he says. “You?”