He nods sheepishly and wheels around again.
But it only takes him a couple minutes to return.
“I don’t have any money,” he says, and Mae hands over her credit card.
“Buy yourself something nice,” she jokes, but he doesn’t even manage a smile.
She frowns at the back of his gray sweatshirt as he heads into the shop again, wondering what’s wrong. Nothing really happened last night—they watched a terrible TV movie and then fell asleep—but maybe that was it? Maybe he was hoping for more. After all, he had a girlfriend for almost four years, which is practically a lifetime. It’s entirely possible that he expected to do more than just cuddle when sharing a bed with a girl. He didn’t seem upset, though. Maybe a little distracted. But then, they both had things on their minds. Besides, he was the one to fall asleep first, snoring so loudly that Mae had to keep turning up the volume before eventually giving up and switching off the lights.
When he comes back, he’s holding two paper coffee cups, the words You Go written across the side of one of them, which makes her laugh. He hands over hers, then sinks onto the couch, his eyes on the clock as he swigs from the cup.
“You okay, You Go?” she asks with a grin, but he only nods.
With a shrug, she reaches for her phone and finds a text from Priyanka, who has been checking in about Nana: Any updates? Just as she’s about to write back, another message pops up, and her heart lifts at the sight.
Nana: So you’re not the only one who had a big adventure.
Mae: Hi! How are you feeling??
Nana: I’m fine. Heading back home with your worrywart parents today. I tell you what, though…I’m going to miss these doctors. They won’t stop flirting with me.
Mae: Sounds about right.
Nana: How’s the train?
Mae: Just about to get back on.
Nana: And how’s the boy?
Mae: Very cute.
Nana: And how’s my favorite granddaughter?
Mae: She misses you. A lot.
Nana: I miss her too.
Afterward, Mae feels calmer, the muscles in her shoulders finally relaxing. It doesn’t matter that she already heard from her dads; she needed to hear from Nana herself. And now that she has, the world feels right side up again.
She sips her latte while scrolling through video files on her computer, trying to figure out what the shape of this film will be. The interviews are coming along well—they’re moving and emotional and so very real—but she isn’t sure yet how to string them together in a way that will make the film feel like a cohesive piece, rather than a collection of random parts.
She doesn’t realize Hugo is watching over her shoulder until he sneezes, and then she whirls around, startled by how close he is, his face just inches from hers. She can see the astonishing length of his eyelashes and a little bit of stubble near his jawline, which he must’ve missed while shaving. She has a sudden urge to touch it.
“Could I ask you a question?” he says, and she nods, curious. His eyes are golden brown in the column of daylight from the giant windows above them, and there’s a groove in his forehead as he frowns at the computer screen. Looking at him, she feels such a strong swell of—what? Fondness? Attraction?
Maybe it’s just that she’s starting to miss him already.
“What will you do,” he says, “if they say no?”
She knows right away what he means. “I’ll keep trying,” she says matter-of-factly. “I already have an appointment with the dean of admissions about transferring.”
“You do?”
“Yup. Four o’clock on the first day of classes. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll go back again the next day. And the next. And if they still won’t let me try again, I’ll make another film, and then another, until there’s one so good they have to listen.”
The look on Hugo’s face is one of admiration. “I wish I loved something the way you love filmmaking.”
“You want to travel.”
“I want to escape. That’s not the same.”
Mae shrugs. “It looks the same in the end.”
On the board above the doors, the time for their train changes: another delay. Hugo takes a long sip of his coffee, then leans his head back on the leather couch with a sigh. “I couldn’t write the letter.”
“Well, luckily, we’ve got thirty-four more hours on a train, so…”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I tried to start it again, and I just—it all felt so flimsy. No matter what I said, it made me sound like a twit who can’t be bothered to go to uni even when it’s being offered up on a platter. I sounded like the worst possible version of myself, and honestly, I’m not even sure—”
“It’s just a hangover,” she says, and his eyes widen.
“I’m not—” he sputters. “I didn’t—”
“No,” she says with a smile. “I just mean…when I come up with a great idea for a film, it’s like being drunk. You know that giddy feeling you get when you’re psyched about something? It’s exciting because it’s all potential. But then you wake up the next morning and reality has sunk in. You start to wonder if the idea was really as good as you thought, and you suddenly see all the holes in the plan, and that high from the night before starts to crash. That’s the hangover.”
“Fine,” he says. “Maybe I’m a little hungover, then.”
A woman walking past with two small children shoots them a stern look before hurrying the kids along, and Mae and Hugo both laugh.
“All I’m saying,” she says, “is that only the best ideas usually survive the hangover. And I think yours is one of them. Don’t give it up without a fight just because you’re scared.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And that’s okay. It’s scary to think about doing something totally different. Especially something like this. To go off on your own for a year, leave your family behind, take such a big chance—I think it’s really brave. But it’s not gonna just happen. If it’s what you want, you have to make your own magic. Lay it all on the line.”
He tips his head to one side, his expression hard to read. “I will if you will.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, blinking at him. The way he’s looking at her so intently makes her heart pick up speed.
“Lay it all on the line.”
“I don’t—”
“You should be in it.”
“What?”
“Your film,” he says. “When you talk like that…well, you’re a bit inspiring. And that’s what you need here. It shouldn’t just be about other people’s stories; it should—”
“We’re not talking about me,” she says, suddenly flustered. “And it doesn’t matter what you think it should or shouldn’t be. It’s not your film. It’s mine.”
“I know that. All I’m saying is that you’re brilliant at what you do, and you’re also just brilliant in general. And I think if the film were a bit more personal—”
Mae stiffens, the word sending a ripple of doubt through her. She narrows her eyes at him. “What?”
“Just that maybe if it were more personal, it would resonate more.”
This knocks the wind right out of her. She stares at him for a second, trying not to let that show. “It’s literally a collection of personal stories,” she says, her mouth chalky. “Most of them about love.”
“Right,” he says. “Right. But it’s not exactly personal to you, is it? Of course, the substance is a bit different this time, but if you were to frame it with your own—”
“This time?” she says, and he freezes. Then his face goes slack, and a look of panic registers in his eyes, and Mae understands all at once what happened.
She glances at her computer, then back at Hugo, her mouth open.
“You watched it.”
He swallows hard. The guilt is all over his face; he doesn’t even try to hide it. “I’m so sorry. I just—”
Mae stands abruptly, her coffee sloshing in the cup. “I told you,” she says, her voice hard. “I told you I didn’t want to show you.”