Alfie: Hey, Hugo. I bet George will bake you fresh scones every morning if you agree to live with him….
George: Sod off, Alfie.
Alfie: Just trying to help you out, mate.
Isla: You were the last one to share a room with him, Alf.
Alfie: So?
Oscar: So now he’s gone off us.
Alfie: So?
Poppy: Good lord. Connect the dots, man.
Alfie: Hey! I’m a delight.
Isla: Not the first word that comes to mind.
Alfie: Is that because the first word is genius?
Isla: Do you really want me to answer that?
Hugo’s stomach twists, the guilt settling over him. He wants to tell them it’s not about George. It’s not about any of them. But he knows that’s not entirely true. How is it possible to miss someone—to missfivesomeones—and still be so outrageously happy to be away from them?
A new message appears, this one separate from the group:
Poppy: Don’t worry about George. Really. He’ll be fine either way.
Hugo: You think?
Poppy: I realise this isn’t always easy, but you should just do what you want.
What I want,Hugo thinks, looking up at the clouds.
He stares at the phone for a second before writing:I don’t want to go back.
Then he erases the letters one at a time, his heart beating very fast. He didn’t even realize he was thinking that, but the words feel solid and heavy in his mind.
I don’t know what I want,he types instead, but his face is burning because he’s not so sure that’s true.
Poppy: Well, don’t wait too long to work it out.
Hugo: Thanks, P. You’re the best.
Poppy: I don’t know about that, but I’m at least better than Alfie, right?
Hugo: Top three, for sure.
When Mae comes out of the shop, he gives her a smile and starts to follow her up the street, but his mind is still turning over the words in his head:I don’t want to go back.He tries his best to stuff the thought down again, but now that it’s out there, sunlit and exposed, it’s difficult to tuck away.
At the end of Michigan Avenue, past the old stone water tower, there’s a thumbnail of beach. Sitting in the shadow of the towering Hancock building, right at the end of one of the busiest shopping streets in the world, it’s a strange sort of oasis. They cross the street and walk out onto the sand, which is soft and glittering—full of people, and crowded with towels—then pick their way to the edge of the green-blue lake. It’s rough today, a reminder of last night’s storm, and Hugo holds his trainers in one hand as he inches closer to the water. When it rushes over his feet, he shivers.
“It’s freezing,” he says, delighted, and Mae steps in too. She takes out her camera, turning in a circle to capture the water below and the sky above and then the sun glinting off the buildings behind them. She laughs as a wave splashes her legs, licking at the edges of her dress, and the sound of it makes Hugo feel light. Glancing down, he spots a piece of sea glass half-buried in the wet sand and stoops to pick it up, thinking of the stones on the building, each marking a spot on the globe. He tucks it into his pocket, happy to have captured a sliver of this day, this city, this moment.
After a few minutes, Mae heads back up the beach, and Hugo follows her. They lie on their backs, arms thrown over their eyes, mouths filled with the gritty taste of sand. It’s itchy and hot and wonderful, and Hugo thinks he could stay here forever.
“We can’t both fall asleep, okay?” he says. “Otherwise we might miss our train.”
