Caught off guard, Mae studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Brilliant, if overly sentimental.”
“Right,” Garrett said, looking thoughtful, “except the sentimentality is intentional. Which is why I think it works.”
“Even well-intentioned nostalgia can be saccharine.”
“Only if it’s manipulative,” he argued, “which it’s not in this case.”
Mae squinted at him. “What are you, a film critic or something?”
“Aspiring,” he said matter-of-factly. “What are you, an expert in Italian cinema?”
“Aspiring,” she said with a grin.
Later, after several cups of coffee, they still hadn’t come to an agreement about the film, but they had managed to get into a heated argument about their favorite directors—Wes Anderson for her, Danny Boyle for him—and at least ten other film-related topics. Mae was in the middle of a rant about the lack of female directors when he leaned over to kiss her. Surprised, she pulled away, made a final point about how the statistics are even worse when it comes to women of color, and then kissed him right back.
It was never something that was meant to last, and that suited Mae just fine. Garrett lived in the city and was just at his family’s sprawling farmhouse for a couple of months before heading off to Paris, where he planned to study French cinema at the Sorbonne.
“In French,” he said that first night, and she knew then that he was all wrong for her. But his smile was dazzling and his hair was tousled just right and his taste in films was so ridiculously nostalgic that she was already looking forward to spending the next six weeks arguing with him. Which is pretty much what they did.
“You just like him because he’s cute,” Dad says. “But he has the personality of a croissant.”
Mae tilts her head to one side. “Do croissants have bad personalities?”
“I don’t know. I was just trying to think of something needlessly fancy.”
“How can a piece of dough be—”
“You know what I mean,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “So what did he say?”
“The croissant?”
“No, Garrett.”
“He says it’s impossible to make a great piece of art if you haven’t really lived.”
Dad snorts. “And I suppose he’s really lived?”
“Well, he’s been all over the place. And he grew up in the city. Plus, he’s going to the Sorbonne next year.”
“Trust me,” Dad says, “there are as many idiots there as everywhere else in the world.”
“Look, he’s not totally wrong,” Pop says more gently. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned after twelve years at the gallery, it’s that sometimes art isn’t a matter of skill or technique. Sometimes it is about experience. So maybe you’ve got some more living to do. But that’s the case with everyone, whether you’ve grown up in a big city or a small town, whether you’re going to school in Paris or not.”
Mae nods. “I know that. It’s just…”
“It’s hard,” Pop says with a shrug. “It is. But the hurt and rejection and disappointment? It’ll help you grow as an artist. And it’ll all be worth it when you finally get it right. You know that as well as I do.” He nods in the direction of her computer and gives her a small smile. “So what do you say? One more screening for old times’ sake?”
This time Mae relents, opening her computer before she can chicken out again. When she first showed them the film last fall, they were eating popcorn and joking around and bursting into spontaneous applause at some of the shots. But now the three of them watch in silence, and when it’s over, nobody says anything for what feels like a very long time.
Finally, Mae turns to where they’re both sitting on her bed, and they raise their eyebrows, waiting for her to speak first.
“The good news,” she says, “is that I don’t know what I’d do differently.”
“And the bad news?” Dad asks.
She shrugs. “I don’t know what I’d do differently.”
“You will,” Pop says like it’s a promise, and for a second, Mae can almost picture him as he once was, a struggling painter whose first show sold only two pieces, both of them to a young art professor who happened to be walking by, and who—as he always likes to say—was lured in by the brilliant yellows and greens but stuck around for Pop’s baby blues.
“And in the meantime,” Dad says, “I guess you’ll just have to do some more living. Which works out pretty nicely with this whole going-off-to-college thing.”
“I guess so,” Mae says, trying not to think about the course booklet on her desk, all the film classes she’ll be missing out on because of the math and science requirements, the hours she’ll have to spend writing essays on World War II and Shakespearean sonnets and behavioral psychology, when she could be learning how to be a better filmmaker.
“But before all that,” Pop says, “maybe you could set the table? If we don’t eat soon, your nana is going to have my head.”
Dad laughs. “Unless you’re still not over the Silverware Drawer Debacle of early June…”
“You’re the worst,” Mae says, but she doesn’t mind. Not really. In fact, she feels lighter already. The film is behind her now. And everything else is still ahead.
The travel company is impressively unhelpful.
“All bookings are nonrefundable—”
“Yes, and nontransferable,” Hugo says for the third time. “I was just hoping you might make an exception. See, my girlfriend booked the tickets, but we’ve split up now, and I’d still quite like to go, but—”
“Is your name Margaret Campbell?” asks the customer service representative in a flat, bored voice.
Hugo sighs. “No.”
“Well then,” she says, and that’s that.
Alfie and George are the only two at home that afternoon. Hugo explains his new plan to them, expecting a bit of support, but they both stare at him, gobsmacked.
“You’re a nutter,” Alfie says. “A complete nutter.”
George rubs the back of his neck, where his hair is cut into a fade. He still looks incredulous. “Even if someone was mad enough to actually agree to this, why would you want to spend a week with a total stranger?”
“Yeah, you’re always on about what a chore it is to share a room with me,” Alfie says. “Now you don’t mind being stuck in a train compartment for days on end with some random girl?”
“It would still be better than sharing a room with you,” George points out, and Alfie throws a rugby ball at his head.
“I’m a delight,” he says.
Hugo ignores them. He knows how it sounds, this makeshift plan of his. There’s only one real reason to do it: he wants a week on his own before starting uni in the company of his five siblings. Having to share that time with a stranger isn’t particularly appealing. But given the circumstances, Hugo doesn’t see a way around it.
“I still want to go,” he tells his brothers. “And this is the only way.”
In the end, they agree to help him write the post, and the three of them huddle around his laptop, cracking up as they spend the afternoon crafting the world’s strangest wanted ad. Though he had to reel Alfie in a bit—“I don’t think it hurts to be open-minded about the sleeping arrangements”—even Hugo has to admit the final result isn’t bad:
Hello there!
First of all, I realise this is a bit odd, but here we go. As a result of a breakup (that was not my idea, unfortunately), I’ve found myself with a consolation prize: a spare ticket for a weeklong train journey from New York City to San Francisco. The catch is that I can’t change my ex’s name on the reservation, so I’m sending this out into the universe in case there happens to be another Margaret Campbell who might be interested in rescuing my holiday and getting one of her own in exchange.
I know what you’re thinking, but I swear I’m not a nutter. I’m a fairly normal eighteen-year-old bloke from England, and I think most people would say I’m a nice guy (references available upon request).