Field Notes on Love(47)

Sometime just before dawn, Hugo wakes with a start. The light behind the curtains is dull, the train jostling beneath them. One arm is draped over Mae’s shoulder, his nose buried in her hair. He doesn’t remember her climbing into bed with him, but it somehow also feels like she’s always been here, curled beside him in this tiniest of spaces.

She’s breathing softly, whistling a little each time she inhales, and he disentangles himself carefully, reaching for his mobile, which he tucked beneath his pillow. The glow of the screen brightens the room, and he turns on his side to keep from waking Mae. It’s just before five a.m., which means it’s late morning back home. He finds a text from his dad with a picture of the breakfast table. In it, there are seven plates piled with bacon and eggs and toast, and one empty one in the middle. Come home soon, it says. We miss you.

Hugo lowers his mobile, filled with a clawing despair.

A quote flashes into his head from a Samuel Beckett play he read in his literature class this year: I can’t go on, I’ll go on.

The words had chimed at something in him even then, but now they feel like a drumbeat, and he opens his mobile again to write to Alfie, a test balloon that sets his heart beating wildly.


Hugo: What if I didn’t come back?

Alfie: Ever??

Hugo: No, I was thinking more like a gap year.

Alfie: I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss.

Hugo: I’m not.

Alfie: Wow. That would be like the complete opposite of pulling a Hugo.

Hugo: Do you think Mum and Dad would kill me?

Alfie: Yes.

Hugo: But after that, they’d be okay with it?

Alfie: As long as you get your arse to uni at some point.

Hugo: George would never forgive me.

Alfie: You know how he is. He just likes to keep the flock together. But I’m sure he’d come around eventually.

Hugo: Maybe.

Alfie: Yeah, maybe.

Hugo: It’s a bit mad, isn’t it?

Alfie: I don’t know. It kind of makes sense. Your heart was never in it.

Hugo: It’s in this.

Alfie: So you’d give up the scholarship?

Hugo: Hopefully just defer it for a year.

Alfie: Better check to make sure we’re not a package deal. Five out of six isn’t bad, but you know they might not see it that way.

Hugo: I wouldn’t go ahead if it messed up anything up for the rest of you.

Alfie: But you really want it?

Hugo: I really, really want it.

Alfie: Then I hope they say yes.



    Hugo rests the phone on his chest, watching it rise and fall in the gray light. He feels caught somewhere between asleep and awake. Before he can think better of it, he’s searching his contacts for a name: Nigel Griffith-Jones, Chair of Council, the University of Surrey.

When Hugo’s finished with the email, he thinks of the text from his dad again, the empty plate among all those fuller ones. Then he takes a deep breath and hits Send.

Hours later, when Mae begins to stir, Hugo is still awake. He’s staring at the ceiling, feeling slightly frozen, paralyzed by what he’s done. She twists to face him, her hair tangled but still smelling like lavender from the hotel shampoo, and rests her hand so casually on his chest that he relaxes again.

“Did I snore?” she asks, yawning.

“Only…a lot.”

She laughs. “You’re not so quiet yourself. How long have you been up?”

“A while,” he says, and there must be something odd in his voice, because she lifts her head to look at him. The edges of the curtains are laced with light, and her eyes still look sleepy and unfocused.

“What were you doing?”

“Some planning. Some worrying. Some thinking.”

“About?”

He wonders if she can feel his heart pounding underneath her hand. “About possibly taking a gap year.”

She stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he says, allowing himself a small smile. “I emailed someone on the university council to see if it’s possible to defer the scholarship. I want to be sure before I get my hopes too high.”

    “Your hopes are already high,” she says, looking at him fondly. “Have you told your family yet?”

“Just Alfie. George will hate it. And my parents will think that I can’t manage on my own or that I’ll just be skiving off. But this wouldn’t be a lark. I’d obviously love to see some of the world. But it’s so much more than that.”

Mae rests her chin on his chest, listening.

“I want more time,” he says, and there’s a catch in his voice. “It’s always been easier for the others somehow. To be themselves and part of the group. But being here this week—it’s made me realize that I need space to sort that out for myself.” He reaches over and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I know you’re not a detour person—”

Her forehead crinkles. “What do you mean?”

“Only that you know exactly what you want,” he says. “Which is a good thing. But I think maybe this can be too.” He traces a finger over the back of her hand, deep in thought. “Did I ever tell you my mum used to call me Paddington? Getting lost was my specialty.”