Dating Hugo was like being on a Sizzler ride. It was thrilling and nauseating and often felt like I couldn’t catch my breath, or see what was right in front of me. We were moving too fast.
We’d been dating for just under a month when he asked me if I wanted to go to Big Sur with him.
I was wary—of him, his past, and the paper—I knew our time was limited, and I could also see the strength of my feelings, how quickly they were growing. I wanted Hugo all the time. His presence, his attention, even his approval. I found myself often embellishing anecdotes from work I thought he would find charming, or doing research about topics he’d mentioned just to impress him. I wanted him to laugh, I wanted to be the person who made him open his mouth and say yes. With Hugo it felt a little like I’d won a prize—but one that I was always in danger oflosing. I wanted to keep him, which meant, I wanted to keep his attention. In those early, hazy days I would forget—for very long stretches of time—where this was all headed.
I had never been super attached in love. I’d experienced heartbreak only once, in college. We met our junior year, and were together for two years and two months. Long enough to fall in love. Long enough to think it might not matter. But of course, it did.
I boarded Murphy at Wagville, packed a bag, and Hugo picked me up in a black Ferrari for our weekend away.
“Seriously?” I asked when I saw him.
“I’m just trying it out,” he said. “Embarrassing?”
“Deeply.”
Hugo got out and came around to my side. He surveyed the car. “I agree.” Then he turned his attention to me. “Hi,” he said. “Damn, I missed you.”
Being with Hugo felt like having the sun shining down on you and you alone. When I was with him I felt wrapped in this vortex of warmth—like a greenhouse of flowers in full bloom. Everything was hot and bright and growing.
“Hi.”
He kissed me. Swooped down and planted one on my lips, and then my cheek, and then back on my lips. He squeezed me closer to him. It made me giggle. I giggled with Hugo. I could never remember giggling before. It felt moronic. It felt precious—like I was something to be held and tended.
“Ready?” he asked.
I handed him my overnight bag. He’d told me to pack light, and I had—now I saw why.
Hugo put my bag in the trunk of the car, which was in the hood—and tiny, about two feet by three. The bag just fit.
I climbed inside, and he closed the door for me, then got in himself.
He then gestured to the center console. Two takeaway coffee cups sat in their containers. “Yours is the one in front,” he said. “Decaf cappuccino, extra foam.”
I felt something inside my chest lift. “Yes.”
“The radio is your responsibility,” he said. “I have no taste in music.”
This I hadn’t heard before. We were still getting to know each other. I loved discovering the details. Every single thing I learned about Hugo felt worthy of notation and study—there was no filler. He would lean his head closer to me when I touched the back of his neck. If you asked him a question, the response you normally got was “absolutely.” He would only wear V-neck shirts if they were in gray. He was meticulous about his hair. He never texted with emojis.
“What does that mean?” I said. “You have no taste or no interest?”
He glanced at me as he turned on the engine. “Astute. What’s the difference?”
I thought about it. “Are you saying if you had interest you’d have taste?”
Hugo pulled onto the road. I saw the side of his face curl up. “My ego is not that big.”
I cleared my throat and clicked on the radio. “Yes, it is.”
The drive took us five hours flat. Hugo drove fast, pushing one hundred on the freeway. By the time we got to the coast I barely noticed as he flew around the turns.
“Look over my shoulder,” he said. “This is some of the most beautiful stretch of road in the world.”
The ocean crashed to the left below us, and the cliffs—increasingly more jagged—made me feel like we had crossed over into Ireland. Somewhere foreign and magical where it was always winter. About an hour in, my cell phone lost service. I held it out to him.
“Just you and me,” he said. “Any regrets?”
“You without a phone?” I said. “I cannot think of anything better.”
