Field Notes on Love(33)

They went back to the station earlier, but nobody had turned in a missing wallet. Afterward Hugo had emailed his parents to borrow money. “The only good thing,” he said grimly, “is that it’s late there. So there’s very little chance of them ringing back till tomorrow.”

Mae thinks again of her own parents and her promise to call them. But she hadn’t been counting on sharing a room with Hugo, and she feels a wave of exhaustion at the thought of lying to them. Again. So instead she sends another text, promising to try them in the morning.

It’s still early, not even nine-thirty, but as soon as she sits down on the bed, Mae realizes she wants nothing more than to put on her pajamas and curl up under the covers. She’s just not exactly sure how to get from here to there. A bellhop has brought up a cot for Hugo, but it’s still sitting near the door, folded in half like an oversized taco. Their backpacks are leaning against each other outside the bathroom.

Hugo walks toward the bed, and Mae sits up straighter. He stops on the other side of it, leaning over the ocean of white sheets between them, and smiles at her in a way that only makes her heart beat faster.

“So,” he says, “what do you reckon we should do now?”

The question hangs in the air for a few seconds while Mae tries to think of an appropriate response.

“?’Cause I was thinking,” he continues, “that maybe we get into pajamas and put on a film.”

“Yeah?” she says, still unsure about the logistics of all this. But then he walks over to the cot and starts to wheel it into the space between the foot of the bed and the dresser, and Mae—grateful for something tangible to do—hurries over to help him set it up.

    When they’re done, they take turns changing in the bathroom, and it’s less weird than Mae thinks it will be, walking back out into the room in her pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that says The Future Is Female. Hugo gives her a friendly smile, then heads in to put on his same gray shirt and rubber-ducky pajamas from last night. He shuts the lights off before crawling onto the cot, and from where she’s propped against several pillows in the bed, Mae points the remote at the screen behind him.

“Let’s watch something frightening,” Hugo says as the thunder crashes again. “It feels like that sort of night, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not really a scary-movie kind of person.”

“But you’re a film buff.”

“A film buff who also happens to be a giant chicken.”

“Maybe a comedy, then,” he says. “Just not anything sad. We haven’t known each other long enough for you to see me cry.”

He’s only joking, of course. But still, Mae tries to remember the last time she cried during a movie. Whenever she watches something with Nana or Priyanka or even her parents, she’s the one passing the box of tissues, and she can’t help wondering what that says about her.

She flips through the channels, stopping when it lands on an old film.

“Murder on the Orient Express?” Hugo says, half laughing. “I thought we already established that nobody was murdering anyone on the train this week.”

“That’s fine with me, but Sidney Lumet would probably find your version a little boring.”

“Who’s Sidney Lumet?”

    Mae sits up. “Network? Twelve Angry Men? Dog Day Afternoon?”

“Nope, nope, and nope.”

“You haven’t seen any of them?” she asks, indignant. “What movies do you like? I guess I should’ve probably asked this before I got on a train with you.”

“Definitely seems more important than the serial-killer question,” he agrees. “I’m almost afraid to tell you this, but I’m not a huge movie person. I don’t mind going to the cinema here and there, but I’m never that fussed about what I see. I suppose I prefer to watch TV or read books.” There’s a short silence, and then he says, “Are you going to throw me out now?”

She laughs. “I was thinking about it.”

“For what it’s worth, I’d be delighted to watch your film.”

“Not an option.”

“Why not?”

“Because…,” she says, searching for an answer. “Because now that I know what we’re working with here, there are a whole lot of other movies you should see before my rejected audition film.” She turns up the volume on the TV. “Starting with Murder on the Orient Express.”

As they watch, Hugo keeps shifting around on the cot, which creaks and groans beneath his weight. Eventually, he sits up so that his head is blocking the entire screen.

“Uh…,” Mae says, and he scrunches down again.

“Sorry. It’s just…I’m too close. It’s hard to watch.”

She glances over at the sprawling bed and the stack of pillows beside her. “You can sit up here if you want,” she says, trying to sound breezy. “Just till the end of the movie.”

“Yeah?” he asks, sitting up again.

    Mae swallows. “Yeah.”

The bed is so big that her half barely dips when he climbs on. There are several pillows between them, but they’re still careful to keep to the edges, both with their arms folded across their chests, eyes fixed on the TV—though Mae can no longer concentrate on the mystery unfolding on the screen, not when Hugo is so close.