Field Notes on Love(52)

He pauses for a moment before sending this last text, wondering if he should add an exclamation mark instead. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to do it.

Afterward, he goes for a walk, trying to unscramble all the thoughts that are whirling around in his head. He makes his way down to the river, past the station where they’ll be catching the train tomorrow morning, and the baseball stadium, which sits hushed and quiet beneath the late-afternoon sun.

The streets are lined with old warehouse buildings, and when he passes a western shop, he can’t resist stopping in to try on a cowboy hat. “I don’t think it suits me,” he says to the saleswoman, squinting at the too-tall hat, which makes him look like a cartoon character.

She scrutinizes him in the mirror. “Maybe you just need some boots too.”

He laughs at this, but it reminds him that he still has no money, so he stands outside on the street and texts his mum, who writes back immediately.


Hugo: The credit card didn’t show up in Denver.

Mum: Maybe it’s holding out for the beach.

Hugo: Very funny. Would you see if they’ll send one to my hotel in San Francisco?

Mum: Will do. Are you getting on okay? Do you miss us? Do you still have all your other belongings?

Hugo: Yes, yes, and yes.

     Mum: You’re loving it, aren’t you?

Hugo: I really am.



He wants to say more. Wants to tell her about his note to the dean and the disappointing response. But it doesn’t matter anymore; it’s already over, and telling her what he’s been thinking—how reluctant he is to return home—would only make her worry about him.

Instead, he sends one quick text to his dad: I miss you too. But not as much as I miss Mum’s cooking. Then he pulls up a map, trying to decide where to go next. But in the end, he’s too distracted for sightseeing, so he heads back to the hotel instead.

As he makes his way through the lobby, he spots Mae in one of the overstuffed armchairs, headphones in and computer balanced on her knees. For a second, he just watches her, the way she bends over the screen with a look of intense concentration, and he feels a surge of affection so strong that he isn’t sure whether he should be running to her or running away.

As he approaches, he’s startled to see that her eyes are filled with tears.

“Are you all right?” he asks with alarm. “Is your grandmother…?”

“No, she’s okay. Or she’s going to be.”

Hugo exhales, relieved. “Good. That’s…great.”

“I know,” she says, breathing out too. “I haven’t talked to her yet, but she’s going home with my dads tonight, and it sounds like she’ll be fine.”

“So why the tears?”

“Oh, I was just…” Mae laughs a little helplessly as she pulls out her headphones, then spins the computer so he can see the paused video. “I was listening to Ida.”

    “Ah,” he says, sitting down on the chair across from her. “That’ll do it.”

There’s a harpist playing in the corner of the lounge, and the last notes of a song vibrate out across the room. The small audience claps appreciatively, and Hugo joins in. When he turns back to Mae, she’s smiling at him.

“What?”

She looks sheepish. “I sort of missed you.”

“I sort of missed you too,” he says, his heart wobbling in his chest. He looks down at his hands. “I heard back from the university.”

“And?” she asks, but there’s something muted about it, and he realizes she already knows. She probably knew from the moment he walked up.

He shakes his head. “They said no.”

“That’s it?” she says, already looking slightly fearsome. “Just no?”

“They want all six of us for publicity purposes,” he says. “Which doesn’t surprise me, if I’m being honest. I just didn’t realize it was officially part of the deal, and I guess I was hoping they might—”

“That’s absurd. They’re not buying hot dog buns. You’re six different people with six different personalities.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes. “The problem is they’ve got themselves a good story now. And if you don’t want to be part of it, you’ve got to tell them a better one.”

“How do you mean?”

“What did you say in your email?”

    Hugo shrugs. “I asked if it would be possible to defer the scholarship.”

“That’s it?”

“More or less.”

“Good grief,” Mae says, rolling her eyes. “Next time please do not send a potentially life-changing email in the middle of the night without consulting me, okay?”

In spite of himself, Hugo laughs. “Okay.”

“Look, this is what I do,” she says. “I tell stories. And stories are magic. Trust me on this. You can’t just tell them you want to skip out for a year. You need to explain why you want to go. Paint them a picture. Tell them all the things you want to do. Tell them how much it’s killing you to just blindly follow the same path as all your siblings. Tell them you need a year to figure out who you are, and then you’ll come back a better, more focused person, and it’ll be a win for everyone.”