“I know, it’s just—”
“And you went ahead and did it anyway?” Her face goes hot as she thinks about him watching the film, not sure if she’s more angry or embarrassed. Either way, it feels like the ground has disappeared beneath her feet. “I actually can’t believe you did that.”
Hugo scrambles off the couch, looking rattled. “I’m sorry,” he says, a little breathlessly. “I just—”
“What?” she snaps, then says it again: “What?”
“I really wanted to see it.”
She stares at him, stopped short by the unexpected honesty. “Why? Why do you care so much?”
“Because I wanted to know more about you,” he says, his voice rising so that two businessmen on the couch behind them half turn, flapping their newspapers. He takes a breath to steady himself before speaking again. “And I thought this might be a big piece of the puzzle, but then it turned out it wasn’t exactly—”
“What?” she asks, glaring at him.
“Nothing.”
“Hugo.”
He shifts from one foot to the other, eyes on the floor. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a puzzle piece after all.”
“What does that mean?” she asks in a cold voice. But something inside her is collapsing because she knows somehow what he’s going to say next, has been waiting for it since the moment this conversation started.
“Just that…it’s brilliant. But I suppose I thought there’d be more of you in it.” He lifts his eyes to look at her. “I figured it would be more personal somehow.”
Mae sits back down on the couch, trying not to look like she’s just been punched in the stomach. But that’s how it feels. It’s so much worse coming from him, which makes no sense because he doesn’t even know what he’s said. Not really. Garrett was being a critic, but Hugo—he was simply looking for Mae in her film.
And that’s why it hurts so much. Because he didn’t find her.
It feels like her heart—her careful, insufficient heart—has been trampled on, and when he sits down at the other end of the couch, she looks over at him wearily.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t listen to me. I’m not even a film person. And besides, I only watched, like, twenty percent of it.”
“Great,” Mae says. “Then I’m only twenty percent mad at you right now.”
He looks hopeful. “Really?”
“No!”
“I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”
She laughs, a brittle sound. “Well, it is. It might not have felt personal to you, but it’s very personal to me. I thought I was telling a story that meant something. I thought I was putting my whole heart in there, and it’s pretty awful to find out that’s not enough.”
“Mae—”
“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “You know what the worst part is? You went behind my back. I mean, how would you feel if I looked through your phone without asking?”
“Here,” he says, digging it out of his pocket and thrusting it at her. “You can. You should. It’s only fair.”
Mae manages to catch the phone right before it slips to the floor. “I obviously wouldn’t do that. I just can’t believe you would.”
“I’m sorry,” he says miserably. “I’m an idiot. I know that. But I’d hate if this meant…”
“What?”
“It’s just…I like you,” he says, a note of desperation in his voice. “A lot. And this was so bloody stupid of me. But I’d be gutted if it changed anything between us.”
His phone, which is still in Mae’s hand, chirps once, then twice.
“I don’t know what this is to you,” he continues, his eyes locked on Mae’s. “But I want you to know that it means something to me. And that the last thing I’d want is for you to lose trust in me. Because I think maybe—” His eyes flick to his phone as it beeps again. “I know it seems mad, but I think maybe…”
“What?” she asks again, more impatiently this time.
He lifts his shoulders. “I think maybe I’m falling for you.”
Mae takes a sharp breath, her heart bobbling. She stares at him, too surprised to answer. Distantly, she hears an announcement that their train will begin boarding shortly, but it’s not until his phone makes another noise that she tears her eyes away, turning it over in her hand.
“Mae,” Hugo says, but she’s no longer listening.
She’s too busy reading the name at the top of the screen. It takes a moment for it to register, and when it does, she hands him the phone.
“It’s Margaret,” she says, standing up to gather her things. “She wants to see you tomorrow.”
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.