Chapter 29 Hugo
Hugo’s head is a jumble as they board the train.
Mae is the one who hands over their tickets to be scanned, who steers them to their compartment, who rearranges the bags in the luggage rack like puzzle pieces so that theirs will fit.
He trails after her numbly, shell-shocked from the argument they’d just had and his confession at the end of it.
Mae won’t even look at him, and he doesn’t blame her.
He glances down at his phone, which is still clutched in his hand, and wonders how Margaret picked the exact worst moment to text. Does she have some sort of sixth sense, or is it just the universe conspiring against him?
He doesn’t need to open the messages to remind him what they say. They’re already burned into his brain:
Would love to see you when you get to SF.
I can meet you anywhere.
We need to talk.
I miss you.
Now he manages a smile as the attendant—a woman named Azar—squeezes past him and heads back down the hall to get other passengers settled.
From the doorway to their compartment, he watches Mae dig through her bag.
She’s wearing ripped jeans and a navy-and-white-striped shirt, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, and she hasn’t said anything in what feels like a long time.
The actual space between them might be small, but to Hugo it feels like a million miles.
The conductor’s voice comes over the loudspeaker: “If you’ve just joined us in Denver, welcome.
This is the California Zephyr, making stops en route to Emeryville.
Breakfast is currently being served in the dining car, and the next stop will be Winter Park, Colorado, in a little over two hours. Enjoy the ride, folks.”
Mae grabs her camera bag. “I think I’m gonna go up and do some interviews.”
Hugo understands that he’s not invited, but he feels a rise of panic at the thought of her leaving when there’s still so much that needs to be said. She slings her bag over her shoulder and then looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to move away from the door.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. The train is moving now, the sunlight streaming in through the window. “I shouldn’t have watched the film. And as far as the other thing goes—”
“Hugo.”
“Will you please let me—”
“Can we do this later?”
“I just want to make sure you know that—”
“Please,” she says, and something about the way she says it makes him nod and take a step back from the door, his whole body humming with regret.
“Yeah,” he says. “All right.”
Her arm brushes against his as she whisks past him, and he wants to reach for her hand and try one more time. But instead, his heart sunk low, he simply turns to watch her head down the short hallway and up the narrow staircase.
When she’s gone, he slumps into one of the seats in their room and watches the landscape change as the train starts to climb into the Rocky Mountains.
They pass rivers and ranches and fields of cattle, sheer rock faces, and streams dotted with fly fishermen, all of it slightly unreal, like something out of an old Western.
Every so often, the brief darkness of a tunnel closes in around them, and it feels for a few seconds like there will never be light again.
In thirty-four hours, they’ll be in Emeryville, California, which is just across the bay from San Francisco.
He was meant to arrive with Margaret, of course, then spend a couple of nights in a hotel near Fisherman’s Wharf before driving down to Stanford.
When they broke up, he assumed she’d head straight to Palo Alto, and it occurs to him now that maybe the whole reason she’s in San Francisco is to see him.
We need to talk.
I miss you.
Without really thinking, he opens his phone and finds the last picture he and Margaret took together.
They’d gone to Brighton for the day, and she insisted they take a selfie near the water.
But as they did, a seagull flew so close to their heads that they both shouted and jumped away.
Only its tail feathers made it into the corner of the photo; the rest was the two of them with their mouths open, half laughing and half screaming, Margaret’s blond hair streaming behind her as she started to escape toward the edge of the frame.
“Birdbrain,” she said, shaking her fist in mock anger.
Later she made him give her a ride on his back because the wedge sandals she’d insisted on wearing were hurting her feet.
Then she complained about the food at the café where they had lunch, and had a strop when he wouldn’t leave the arcade until he beat his Skee-Ball record.
They were both tense as they walked back to the train, annoyed with each other in the way they always seemed to be lately after spending a certain amount of time together.
But then another seagull flew past, this one high above them, and Margaret frowned and muttered, “Birdbrain,” and that made them both dissolve into laughter all over again.
He pulls up her text messages.
Okay, he types, then slowly erases it.
To his surprise, a video call from Alfie pops up on the screen, and when he picks up, Hugo is even more astonished to see all five of his siblings jockeying for position in the frame.
“Hey, mate,” Alfie says, his face looming larger than all the others. “Just figured we’d ring you up to see how you’re getting on.”
Maybe it’s his fight with Mae, or maybe it’s just that he’s never been away from them for this long before, but the sight of their faces is overwhelming. To Hugo’s horror, he feels his eyes fill with tears.
“Don’t go falling apart on us now,” George says with a grin. “I thought you were meant to be this big world traveler.”
Isla, who is standing over George’s shoulder, beams into the camera. “He misses us.”
“Right, but who do you miss the most?” Alfie asks. “Like…we want rankings.”
“I miss all of you,” Hugo says, and he means it.
Poppy elbows Alfie aside, her braids swinging as she moves closer to the screen. “Is the other Margaret Campbell there?”
“Yeah, let us see,” Oscar says, craning his neck.
George peers over his shoulder. “We’d love to say hello.”
“She’s just over in another car right now,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, but they know him too well for this, and he can see their faces shift.
“Why?” Isla asks cautiously. “What happened?”
“Nothing. It’s fine. Or it will be.”
Poppy’s face shifts, and she looks at him more seriously. “You like her, huh?”
Hugo’s instinct is to laugh or make a joke, but he feels too worn down to pretend right now. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
“Knew it,” says Alfie.
“I know it’s a bit weird for you because of Margaret,” Hugo says, still talking mostly to Poppy, “and I didn’t exactly plan this. But I just—”
“Hugo,” Poppy says, tipping her head to one side the way she always does when she’s considering something. “If you like her, I’m sure she’s great.”
He lets out a breath. “She is. And I do.”
“Okay then,” she says, all business now. “Whatever you did, just apologize.”
Isla nods. “But not in that blustery, flustery way you usually do. Say exactly what you did wrong and be heartfelt about it.”
“And tell her how you feel about her too,” says Oscar, out of nowhere. They all turn to him in surprise, but he just grins. “What? I think it’s important to be honest.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” Hugo asks, and there’s a catch in his voice.
“It will,” says Poppy, and though she can’t possibly know that, there’s something so reassuring about it that he simply nods.
“Right,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Let us know how it goes,” Isla tells him, and the others bob their heads. All except Alfie, who clears his throat exaggeratedly.
“You know,” he says, “this wasn’t actually meant to be a group therapy session. We were ringing to let you know we made an appointment with the university tomorrow.”
Hugo frowns. “Why?”
“To tell them that it’s one for all and all for one,” George says, and when Hugo just stares at him, uncomprehending, he shrugs. “If they won’t let you take a gap year, then none of us will go.”
“What?” Hugo says, too stunned to think of anything else. He adjusts his grip on the phone and turns his focus on Alfie, who looks rather pleased with himself. “I thought I told you not to say anything.”
“I thought you knew I had a big mouth,” Alfie says with a shrug. “Besides, it was George’s idea.”
George smiles ruefully. “Listen, if this family were a cake—”
“Seriously?” Poppy says, rolling her eyes.
“Do I get to be the sugar in this metaphor?” asks Alfie.
“Well, now I’m feeling a bit peckish,” says Oscar.
“All I’m saying,” George continues, “is that I like it when we’re all together. But I also want you to be happy. And I can see that you are. So we want to help.”
Hugo blinks a few times, dangerously close to tears. “That’s…” He shakes his head. “That’s incredibly generous. But I can’t let you do it.”
“It’s okay,” Oscar says. “We’ll only be bluffing.”
“Yeah, if they say no, we’ll back off,” Isla tells him. “It’s not like we have any other options at this point, and the rest of us still want to go. But we figured a show of solidarity might help with your situation.”
Hugo shakes his head. “What if they call your bluff?”
“We’ll sort it out,” says Alfie. “It’s worth a shot, though, yeah?”
Hugo tries to picture it, the five of them trooping into the university council’s office, laying out their demands, arguing on his behalf.
They’re all looking at him with different expressions—Poppy is determined, and George is protective; Isla is concerned, and Oscar is interested, which for Oscar is a massive compliment.
Alfie, of course, is just puffed up with pride at the good deed he’s currently doing.
Hugo has always been able to read them better than anyone, and with each of them, he knows this is a show of love.
But he also knows he can’t let them do it.
“You’re all amazing,” he says, his voice filled with sincerity. The truth is, he feels a bit undone by all this. “And it means the world to me. But it’s not your job to sort this out.”
“It’s no trouble,” Isla says. “Honestly.”
Poppy nods. “We just want you to be happy.”
“I will be,” Hugo says. “I don’t mind coming home. Not really. I’ll travel next summer instead. Or on holidays. It’ll be fine.”
“That’s rubbish,” Alfie says. “You want to go. I know you do. So why not let us try?”
“No,” Hugo says a bit more firmly. “Just—please don’t do anything. I love you guys for offering, but it’s fine.”
Isla looks at him skeptically. “I think that must be a record for the most times anyone has ever said fine in a conversation.”
The connection wavers, their faces going frozen on the screen. Then, just as quickly, they’re back.
“Hugo?” Poppy says. “I think we’re losing you.”
He manages a grin. “Never.”
“I think she meant the connection, mate,” Alfie says, and both Poppy and George reach over to punch him.
“I know,” Hugo says as the image flickers again. “Look, I should go. The service is a bit dodgy between stops. But thank you again. Really. You’re the best.”
“Who, me?” Alfie says.
Hugo laughs. “All of you. I’ll see you in a few days.”
“It won’t be so bad, Hugo,” says Poppy, but before he has a chance to find out which part she’s talking about—the apology to Mae or the end of the trip, the return home or the start of uni—the video cuts out.
There’s a speck of dirt on the window, and Hugo watches it move up and down as they pass fields of horses and cattle, sheep and goats. At a crossing, a rancher leans out of his pickup truck to watch them rumble by, and beyond him a field of wildflowers ripples in the wind.
After a few minutes, he slips his phone into his pocket and stands up.
Mae is in the observation car, sitting alone at one of the tables. Her head is bent over her camera as he slides into the booth across from her.
“That’s Mr. Bernstein’s seat.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Bernstein,” she says. “We’re in the middle of an interview. He was just telling me about proposing to his wife before he went off to Vietnam.”
“For the war?”
“No, for vacation.” She looks up at him. “I’m kidding.”
“Listen,” he says, “I’m sorry about before.”
She gives him a steady look. “Which part?”
“All of it,” he says.
“You don’t have to be sorry about Margaret, you know,” she says, fiddling with the lens of her camera. “You have every right to see her. There’s a lot of history there, and—”
“I know,” he says. “But I am sorry about the film. I shouldn’t have watched it. Full stop. I betrayed your trust, which was an awful thing to do. And I’m also sorry about—”
“Hugo.”
“Look, I know I probably shouldn’t have said it like that.
But I want you to know it wasn’t a mistake.
That’s how I feel. I like you, Mae. A lot.
This week has been incredible because of you, and I swear—” He stops abruptly, looking up at the old man in too-high trousers who is suddenly hovering over him.
“You must be the assistant director,” Mr. Bernstein says, shaking his hand. “Are you going to ask some questions too?”
Hugo finds himself nodding.
Mr. Bernstein looks pleased. “Well, what would you like to know?”
“I’d like to know,” Hugo says, then turns back to Mae, “if you feel the same way.”
“About what?” Mr. Bernstein asks, clearly confused.
But they both ignore this. Mae is staring at Hugo, whose heart has lodged itself somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. He digs his fingernails into his palm as he waits for her to say something. But her expression is impossible to read.
A year seems to go by.
Then another.
Oh god, Hugo thinks. What have I done?
Mr. Bernstein is still watching them, and Hugo can feel his face heating up. Beneath them the train sways as they move deeper into the red, jagged mountains, which rise on either side of them like the landscape of some strange and distant dream.
And maybe that’s all this is, anyway: a dream.
Maybe arriving will be no different from waking up.
With each second that passes, he becomes more and more certain this was a terrible mistake, a colossal disaster, an absolute bollocks of an idea.
But then her foot finds his beneath the table, and when he looks up at her, she’s smiling.
His heart loosens itself again, a cork coming free from a bottle, and he’s so overcome with relief that it’s all he can do to stay upright. He raises his eyebrows at her, and she nods, a movement so slight that it would be hard to catch if you weren’t looking for it.
Hugo grins back at her from across the table.
“So are we doing this or what?” Mr. Bernstein says, looking from one to the other, and Mae laughs, still looking right at Hugo.
“I guess we’re doing this,” she says.