Field Notes on Love(73)

Afterward, he thought about sending it to Mae, but he didn’t. What he told himself was that she had more important things on her mind. Which is why he shouldn’t bother her. And why she hadn’t been in touch. But the truth was that the past week felt to him like a dream, and Hugo still wasn’t sure he’d woken up yet.

His worry was that maybe she had.

Instead, he sent it only to Alfie, with a note that said, If this doesn’t work, I’m with you guys. But I had to try one more time.

Now, as he sees the name Nigel Griffith-Jones pop up on his phone, he fumbles it, knocking his glass over in the process so that the fizzy drink goes spilling all over the bar.

“Sorry,” he says to the bartender, who shakes his head as he reaches for a rag. “I’m so…”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s too busy reading the email, his eyes skipping over the words.


Dear Mr. Wilkinson,


Thank you for your follow-up letter. While we were looking forward to having all six of you with us for the start of our autumn term—have in fact been looking forward to it for quite some time now—we appreciate the case that you’ve made. We recognize that university might not be the right path for everyone and that—as you pointed out in your letter—you are, of course, six different people and not a single unit.

As such, we’d like to offer a compromise. We’re willing to defer the scholarship as long as you’re willing to join us for a few days to take part in the publicity we’ve arranged for the start of term. The idea would be for you to talk about your upcoming gap year and how you’ll be joining us next autumn instead. We feel certain the late Mr. Kelly would approve, so if that sounds acceptable, then we’ll see you next month. And we’ll be excited to hear more about your travels when you join us the following year!

Sincerely,

Nigel Griffith-Jones

Chair of Council University of Surrey





Hugo throws his arms up and lets out a whoop, knocking over the basket of chips. The bartender groans.

“Sorry,” Hugo says again, jumping off his stool to start sweeping them up. But he’s barely paying attention. His mind is going in a million different directions. He should tell his brothers and sisters. He should start narrowing down where he’ll go. He should tell his parents. He should book a flight. He should tell Mae.

    More than anything, he wants to tell Mae.

A little boy has wandered over from a nearby table, and he stares at Hugo as he picks up the chips. Hugo looks up at him with a grin, practically bursting.

“Guess what?” he says. “I’m going to travel the world.”

“Well, I’m going to eat a taco,” the boy says, then runs back over to his table.

Hugo lifts a chip in his direction. “Cheers to that.”

As he stands up again—feeling light-headed and a little dizzy—his eyes land on a map of California on the wall near the cash register. There’s a blue star toward the bottom, the words printed neatly beside it: Los Angeles.

And just like that, he realizes he already knows what his first stop will be.





Later, once all the guests are gone, the three of them collapse onto the couch amid a sea of empty wineglasses and dirty plates.

“Well,” says Pop, putting an arm around Dad, who leans against him, “I guess that’s it, then.”

Dad sighs. “She would’ve hated those crab puffs.”

“Yeah, but she would’ve loved the petits fours.”

“And your eulogy.”

“Yours too,” Pop says, giving him a kiss. “Though she would’ve killed you for telling that story about the donkey.”

“It’s a great story,” Mae says, and they both look over as if they forgot she was there.

“Didn’t we already send you off to college?” Dad asks with a grin.

Mae laughs. “Yeah, but it didn’t take.”

Her phone buzzes in her hand, and when she sees that it’s an email from Hugo, she sits up, feeling the steady drumbeat of her heart pick up speed.

Dad raises his eyebrows. “Is that him?”

“About time,” Pop says. “What’d he say?”

“Yeah, what’s going on?”

Mae looks up, still smiling an alarmingly stupid smile, to find them both watching her expectantly. “I’m, uh…gonna go upstairs for a bit.”

“Say cheerio for us,” Dad teases, waving as she hurries out of the room. But Mae barely notices. She’s already opening Hugo’s email.

    All it says is this: How can I ever thank you?

Below that, he’s forwarded a note from someone at the University of Surrey, and her heart lifts as she reads it.

He actually did it.

She laughs, filled with a sudden joy, because she knows how much he wanted this, how much it means to him. And she wishes more than anything that they were together. (Though hasn’t she been wishing that all day?)

She moves on to the letter he sent, the one she’d pushed him to write, feeling giddy that it worked. Near the end, he wrote:


Someone recently told me that if you want something badly enough, you have to make your own magic. You have to lay it all on the line. And most of all, you have to be brave. When you grow up as one of six, it can be hard to say what you want. But that person was right. Which is why, no matter what ends up happening, I had to write this letter. Because some things are worth fighting for—and this is one of them.