Page 13 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

The first thing Oliver noticed when he took Jesse’s hand was that it was warm.

Oliver was perpetually cold, no matter the time of year, and for the last hour he’d been out of the sun, shaded by the hedges. He had chosen that spot specifically so he wouldn’t be bothered. It was secluded and far off the path from the center or exit of the maze. He’d be able to sketch in peace without his grandfather looming over his shoulder, asking a million questions about what he was working on.

The second thing Oliver noticed about Jesse was his hair. It was glossy, nearly black, and fell in effortless waves around his face. He’d hoped to grow his own hair out over the summer, but knew he’d only manage an inch or so before having to tidy it back up to a shorter style before term. His eyes were hazel, mostly brown, but there were flecks of green around the pupil. In some places they combined to create a muted orange—shades of autumn, Oliver thought.

The warmth from Jesse’s hand spread up Oliver’s arm and settled into a flush high on the apples of his cheeks as he realized they had been shaking far longer than what was socially appropriate. He could feel the lovely heat quickly turn to sweat as his nerves picked up. Quickly, he let go and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

They stood staring at each other, and Oliver was surprised and confused to find that he didn’t mind the quiet appraisal. He wasn’t in any rush to stop looking at Jesse, and it felt heady the way he was being looked at in return.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been attracted to another boy, but he’d been outed early on at school, clouding his interactions with any classmate he thought he might one day fancy.

It felt like every straight boy he talked to regarded him with skepticism, like they had to hold him at arm’s length, lest his gayness rubbed off on them. Then there were the boys who weren’t out and would seek him out behind closed doors. They’d treat Oliver like an experiment. He didn’t blame them for being afraid, but he wasn’t interested in being someone’s secret.

“Do you live here?”

“How old are you?”

Their words topped over each other, each rushing to speak when they realized they had been quiet for too long.

Oliver cringed. How old are you? What kind of an opener was that?

Jesse either had the common courtesy to ignore Oliver’s awkwardness or simply didn’t notice, happily answering the question. “Fifteen, but I turn sixteen in October. You?”

Oliver relaxed. “I am as well, although my birthday is next March. I do live here—well, I live here between terms. I attend Eton College.”

“Ahh, I’ve heard of Eton. That’s where they send all the future kings to school, right? Are you guys royalty or something, cause that would really answer a lot of questions about the castle.”

“Castle? What castle?”

Jesse rolled his eyes, but Oliver could thankfully tell it was playful. “You know, that big castle that you apparently live in.”

“That’s—that’s not—” Oliver sputtered. “That’s absurd. It’s our family home, it's not a castle.”

Jesse grinned, a toothy smile that showed nearly every one of his teeth, and Oliver couldn’t stop his lips from curling up in response. “Whatever you say. I also go to one of those boring prep schools, but in Chicago.”

Oliver’s brain quickly tried to summon any knowledge at all on United States geography, and failed. He must have taken too long to reply, because Jesse stepped back in. “It’s uh, in the middle. Sort of depending on what you’d call middle, I guess. I could show you on a map. We’re a pretty big city. Lots of sports. Um, you’ve heard of Michael Jordan?”

This is where the conversation would be derailed, Oliver knew it. That seemed to be his perpetual luck—finding the athletes or the athlete adjacent types attractive, yet knowing nothing about sports. It certainly hadn’t worked out for him at Eton. “Sorry, I’ve never heard of him. He’s an American football player?” Oliver guessed.

Jesse’s jaw dropped, and Oliver knew right away that it was the wrong answer. He prepared himself for the outrage, the hysteria of a teenage boy when you didn’t know their sports idol.

To Oliver’s surprise, Jesse quickly pivoted, shutting his mouth at record speed. “Cool, cool, not a sports guy, that’s fine.” He gestured to Oliver’s shirt. “What’s Oasis?”

It was Oliver’s turn to conceal his shock. He didn’t think there was a person on the planet who hadn’t heard of Oasis. But instead of letting his bewilderment show, he quickly took a page from the other boy’s book. “Not a music guy then, that’s fine.”

Jesse grinned, and Oliver’s stomach swooped.

“So, you’re an artist?” Jesse asked as he walked around him to the abandoned blanket and iPod where his sketch pad was resting.

A protest quickly spilled from his lips. “I’m not an artist. I draw sometimes, and paint, but I’m not a real artist or anything.”

Jesse picked up his sketch pad, and the urge to snatch it from his hands was overwhelming. Only Jesse didn’t open it. He plopped down on the blanket, keeping it firmly closed on his lap.

“I think everything you just said is the exact definition of being an artist.” Jesse patted the space next to him, and like a moth to a flame, Oliver went. Tentatively, he sat next to this outspoken boy who wasn’t at all bashful to sit next to a stranger on a small patchwork blanket. “What do you like to draw?” Jesse asked, holding out Oliver’s sketchbook.

It was like the floodgates opened for Oliver. How many lunches had he spent by himself quietly drawing and hoping someone, anyone, would come up to him and strike up conversation?

Oliver smiled, real and bright, dimples on full display, his shyness deteriorating in an instant. “Well, typically I like landscapes—”