Field Notes on Love(39)

    “Whoa,” he says as she joins him. He points to a dark stone with words carved beneath it. “That’s from the Great Wall of China.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow.”

“And look,” Hugo says, getting even more excited. He shuffles to the left, where there’s another stone, this one white and uneven. “The Colosseum.” His eyes dart up and around to all the many other rocks embedded in the building. “And the Alamo! Saint Peter’s! Bloody hell…that’s from the Berlin Wall.”

Mae is trailing after him as he skirts the building, his head tipped back to take it all in. He’s aware that he sounds like a lunatic, but he can’t bring himself to care. All these places, all these tiny pieces of the world assembled right here in front of him. His mouth has fallen open as he scans through them: bits of the Arc de Triomphe and Westminster Abbey and the Taj Mahal, rocks from Antarctica and Yellowstone and even the moon. The moon!

“This is incredible,” he says quietly, peering at a stone taken from the Parthenon. He turns to Mae. “How did I not know about this? How is it not the first thing people tell you to do in Chicago?”

She laughs at his enthusiasm. “I don’t know. I never heard of it either. But it’s pretty cool.”

“No, Mae,” he says in a stern voice. “The pizza last night was pretty cool. So were the waffles this morning. But this? This is something else entirely.”

Their train is only a few hours away, and there’s so much more of the city to see, but Hugo insists on staying until he’s had a chance to look at each and every stone, pacing the perimeter of the building in a daze. When they finally leave, his mind is still busy with it, the idea of all those different places gathered like that, the way the whole world could be contained in a single building.

    He feels a little giddy as they make their way farther along Michigan Avenue. It’s a beautiful day, the sky shot through with silver, the heat just starting to lift. As Mae darts into a shop, Hugo’s mobile begins to buzz in his hand. He waits outside to read his siblings’ texts as they arrive one after another:


Alfie: Hey, Hugo. I bet George will bake you fresh scones every morning if you agree to live with him….

George: Sod off, Alfie.

Alfie: Just trying to help you out, mate.

Isla: You were the last one to share a room with him, Alf.

Alfie: So?

Oscar: So now he’s gone off us.

Alfie: So?

Poppy: Good lord. Connect the dots, man.

Alfie: Hey! I’m a delight.

Isla: Not the first word that comes to mind.

Alfie: Is that because the first word is genius?

Isla: Do you really want me to answer that?



Hugo’s stomach twists, the guilt settling over him. He wants to tell them it’s not about George. It’s not about any of them. But he knows that’s not entirely true. How is it possible to miss someone—to miss five someones—and still be so outrageously happy to be away from them?

    A new message appears, this one separate from the group:


Poppy: Don’t worry about George. Really. He’ll be fine either way.

Hugo: You think?

Poppy: I realise this isn’t always easy, but you should just do what you want.

What I want, Hugo thinks, looking up at the clouds.

He stares at the phone for a second before writing: I don’t want to go back.

Then he erases the letters one at a time, his heart beating very fast. He didn’t even realize he was thinking that, but the words feel solid and heavy in his mind.

I don’t know what I want, he types instead, but his face is burning because he’s not so sure that’s true.


Poppy: Well, don’t wait too long to work it out.

Hugo: Thanks, P. You’re the best.

Poppy: I don’t know about that, but I’m at least better than Alfie, right?

Hugo: Top three, for sure.



When Mae comes out of the shop, he gives her a smile and starts to follow her up the street, but his mind is still turning over the words in his head: I don’t want to go back. He tries his best to stuff the thought down again, but now that it’s out there, sunlit and exposed, it’s difficult to tuck away.

At the end of Michigan Avenue, past the old stone water tower, there’s a thumbnail of beach. Sitting in the shadow of the towering Hancock building, right at the end of one of the busiest shopping streets in the world, it’s a strange sort of oasis. They cross the street and walk out onto the sand, which is soft and glittering—full of people, and crowded with towels—then pick their way to the edge of the green-blue lake. It’s rough today, a reminder of last night’s storm, and Hugo holds his trainers in one hand as he inches closer to the water. When it rushes over his feet, he shivers.

    “It’s freezing,” he says, delighted, and Mae steps in too. She takes out her camera, turning in a circle to capture the water below and the sky above and then the sun glinting off the buildings behind them. She laughs as a wave splashes her legs, licking at the edges of her dress, and the sound of it makes Hugo feel light. Glancing down, he spots a piece of sea glass half-buried in the wet sand and stoops to pick it up, thinking of the stones on the building, each marking a spot on the globe. He tucks it into his pocket, happy to have captured a sliver of this day, this city, this moment.