Field Notes on Love(65)

But not now. Not yet.

First, there is a step down from the train. One, and then another. Then there is the platform, and the weight of her backpack, and the door to the station. There is the back of Hugo’s head as she follows him, a sight now so familiar it makes her chest ache.

    One thing at a time.

This station isn’t grand, like the others they’ve been to, just a squat gray building that could as easily be a post office or a DMV. Mae follows Hugo’s backpack as he picks his way around the rows of metal benches. He hasn’t said much in the last hour; mostly he’s just been there, a solid presence beside her as she made arrangements and sorted out information. He’d known instinctively to hold her hand while she booked a flight and to give her space when she spoke to her dads, and underneath the fog of grief and shock and confusion, she’s grateful for that.

He pauses at the glass doors in the front of the building to make sure she’s still with him, then walks back out into the daylight. There’s a charter bus idling on the street, and a few cars waiting for people in the circular drive, but otherwise it’s quiet. Four o’clock on a Tuesday in the middle of August, and the world feels slow and sleepy.

Hugo sets his bag down beside a wooden bench, and Mae leans hers against it. But neither of them sits. Instead, they just stand there awkwardly, an unfamiliar space between them.

“Have you called for a car yet?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll do it now,” she says, but she’s hit by a wave of panic when she pulls out her phone. Because the minute she makes her request, there will be a clock to all this. A countdown. And Mae doesn’t feel ready for it.

Hugo looks relieved when she lowers the phone again.

    “I hate this,” she says, and for the first time in hours, they both smile.

“Me too.”

“It’s…rubbish,” she says, which makes Hugo laugh.

“Well said.”

She tips her head back. “None of this feels real. I wish we had more time.”

“I’m okay with it, actually,” Hugo says, but his eyes are shining. “I could use a bit of space.”

Mae laughs and steps into his arms. She presses her face against the soft cotton of his shirt, breathing him in. Don’t cry, she thinks again, because if she does, she knows, it might be a very long time before she stops.

“Would you like me to come with you?” Hugo asks, and she leans back to look at him in surprise. “I could, you know. It’s on the way home.”

For a second, she considers saying yes. She imagines falling asleep on his shoulder on the plane, introducing him to her dads, holding his hand at the funeral. There’s a whole long, dreary trip ahead of her, and the idea of taking along a bit of sunshine is more than a little tempting.

But she knows this is something she has to do alone.

“Hugo,” she says, putting a hand on his chest, “that’s probably the nicest offer ever.”

“But?”

“But you only have a couple more days before you have to go back. You should enjoy them.”

He presses his lips together so that his dimples appear, and it cracks Mae’s heart. “How will I enjoy them without you?” he says, then hurries on before she can argue. “I could change my ticket.”

    She smiles at him. “You don’t even have a credit card.”

“We’ll sort it out,” he says, though they both know it won’t happen. They’re just talking to talk now, knowing that when this conversation is over, so is everything else.

“I would’ve liked to see that bridge with you,” she says, twisting a piece of his shirt in her hand; before she can say more, he bends to kiss her, and it’s a good one, long and deep and sad and true. It’s an apology and a promise and a wish.

“I wanted to do that the moment I saw you in Penn Station,” Hugo says, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“You did not.”

“I did,” he says. “Thank goodness you didn’t have bunions.”

Mae smiles. They’re still holding on to each other, and though she’s aware of how dramatic it must seem to the other people waiting for their rides—though she can practically see the movie version playing out in her head, sappy music and all—she decides she doesn’t care. She’s not ready to let go of him yet.

It reminds her of what Ida said, about how young people think they’re the first to do everything: to fall in love and have their hearts broken. To feel loss and pain. She gets it now. Because it seems impossible that anyone has ever felt what Mae is feeling at this moment, a mix of emotions so specific it’s like she’s invented it, like they’ve invented it, the two of them standing here together at the end of a long journey, trying to figure out a way to say goodbye.

“Thank you for taking me,” she says, her voice thick. “This has felt like more than a week in the best possible way.”

“Thank you for coming,” he says. “I quite literally couldn’t have done it without you.”

A taxi pulls up the circular drive, and a man with a briefcase gets out. Hugo and Mae exchange a look, and then he lets go of her to lift an arm, and the driver nods as he steps out of the car. “Need help with the bags?”