“She’s sleeping now, but I’ll tell her you called.”
“I should be there,” she says, which is true, truer than Pop even knows. If she hadn’t lied to them, if she hadn’t gotten it into her head that she needed an adventure, she’d still be there right now. The knowledge of this is like a weight on her chest, and she takes a jagged breath. “I should be home with all of you.”
“It’s fine, kid,” Pop says. “Really.”
But still, she’s hit by a wave of guilt so strong her legs feel a little shaky. “I could get on a plane tonight,” she says, spinning in a circle, taking in the blur of old buildings and distant mountains. “There must be tons of flights from Denver. I could make it back by—”
“Mae,” Pop says, and she stops short. “She told me you’d say that.”
“She did?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to tell you to stop worrying and enjoy the trip.”
Mae is quiet for a moment. “Should I? Stop worrying?”
“Honestly? I’m still working on that myself. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s to do what Nana says.”
“But you’ll check in with me, right? And let me know if anything changes? I’m getting on another train in the morning, and I’ll be in San Francisco the next afternoon. But I could jump off somewhere along the way if you guys need—”
“Mae, honey, it’s okay. We’re going to take her back upstate with us tomorrow, and then she just needs to rest. We’ve got it covered here. Really.”
She bites her lip, but the knot in her chest has started to unwind. “Okay. Well, make sure to tell her I love her. And Dad too.”
“I will.”
“And you,” she says. “Obviously.”
He laughs. “I obviously love you too.”
Hugo sits at the bar of an Irish pub, watching a football match on the fuzzy television that hangs above the shelves of liquor.
“Go on,” he says as the Chelsea striker drives the ball up the pitch. It’s stolen by one of the Liverpool defenders, and he groans. “Bloody hell.”
He nearly texts George, the other big football fan in their house. But then he realizes he still hasn’t written back to the group message about housing from last night, and the reminder makes his stomach churn.
When the match is over, he asks the barman for the Wi-Fi password and finds that an email from Nigel Griffith-Jones arrived hours ago, just after they got off the train. Hugo takes a long swig of his drink before opening the message.
Dear Mr. Wilkinson,
Thank you for the note inquiring about your scholarship to the University of Surrey, but I’m afraid we cannot agree to defer it at this time. As I’m sure you know—and will see if you refer to the original agreement with the late Mr. Mitchell Kelly—this offer has always been contingent on having all six of you attend the university together. In accordance with his wishes, we’ve organised a great deal of publicity surrounding your upcoming matriculation. Because of these special circumstances, I’m sure you can understand why we must insist you all begin in the same academic year.
If there are other factors I should be aware of with regards to this request—any medical or mental health reasons, for example—please do let me know, and we can talk further. Additionally, if you’d like to consider the possibility of all of you starting in the next academic year instead of this one, that’s something we can discuss. But as it stands now, I’m afraid that if you were to refuse to comply with the terms of your scholarship, certain contractual provisions mean we’d have to reevaluate the other five as well.
Please feel free to call my office with any questions. Otherwise we’re looking forward to having you and the other members of the Surrey Six with us this autumn!
Sincerely,
Nigel Griffith-Jones
Chair of Council University of Surrey
Disappointment blooms inside Hugo, and for a while he just sits there, his future closing in around him again. For a brief moment, it had been all dusty train stations in far-flung towns, endless blue oceans, and mountain vistas. Now, once again, it’s something smaller than that: interviews in which the six of them explain how much they love being at uni together, a tiny room shared with George, dinners at home on the weekends.
It’s like a light has been switched off, and where there was just a series of brilliant colors, there’s now only black and white.
His first instinct is to text Mae, but she has bigger things to worry about right now. He knows this is no great tragedy, being forced to go home and attend a top-notch university for free. So instead he writes to Alfie: No go.
A few minutes later, the reply comes through:
Alfie: What did they say?
Hugo: All for one and one for all.
Alfie: Sorry, mate. It’s rubbish sometimes, being a musketeer.
Hugo: It could be worse.
Alfie: How?
Hugo: We could be septuplets.
Alfie: Or octuplets.
Hugo: Did you tell any of the others?
Alfie: No.
Hugo: Don’t, then.
Alfie: It won’t be so bad, you know.
Hugo: I know.
Alfie: You can travel next summer. Or after we graduate. The world isn’t going anywhere.
Hugo: I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?
Alfie: See you soon.
He opens a new message, then heaves a sigh before writing to George:
Hugo: I call top bunk.
George: Really? You’re in?
Hugo: I’m in.
George: Brilliant! It’ll be fun. Trust me.
Hugo: Can’t wait.
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.”