Page 16 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

“Things are fine. The paintings are great,” Oliver lied. “Only a month left now.”

He wanted to tell him the truth. Wanted to admit how unhappy he was at University, how lost he felt. When they spoke, he didn’t want to talk about his problems. He wanted to pretend everything was fine. His grandfather needed to focus on his health, not Oliver’s mundane college woes.

“The paintings are great,” his grandfather slowly repeated.

“Moving along nicely. How are you feeling? Rosie told me that you saw the—”

“Oliver, why haven’t you told me about Mr. Alvarez?”

Oliver sputtered. “Who? I-I-I don’t know anyone with that surname.”

There was nothing convincing about his attempt to dodge the question. His grandfather had been painfully aware of his infatuation with Jesse when he was a teenager; there was no chance he’d suddenly forgotten.

His voice was quiet and stern as he replied, “You’ve lied to me twice in a row now. Do you think I don't know when you're not being truthful?”

Admitting defeat, he grumbled, “When did she tell you?”

“I hear things.”

“You hear things because Rachel calls you and tells you them,” Oliver quipped.

Rachel and Isaac routinely stayed with Oliver at Chapman House in between terms, electing to only go back to Chicago during the summer. It was here that Rachel and his grandfather had formed a strong bond, and she took time out of her schedule and called him every Thursday evening—no matter how busy she was.

“He seems like a nice young man, Oliver. He was a polite boy, and I’ve been very impressed these last few years watching him row on the television. Rose thinks he’s very attract—”

“Nooooo. No, no. I’m not discussing this with you. You’re all meddlers.” His immediate reaction was to avoid this conversation at all costs, until he finally processed his grandfather’s words. “Wait, what do you mean you’ve been watching him row? I didn’t even know he was in the country, and you’ve been casually watching him on the telly?”

“I never miss the Boat Race.” Oliver sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Learning that his grandfather had been holding out information on Jesse was not what he had expected when he decided to call. “Oliver, life is so very short. I won’t pester you, but I think if you want to call him, you should. I have his father’s number somewhere here...”

How was it possible to simultaneously feel so mortified and yet so loved by one simple gesture?

“Thank you, I appreciate it. I’m sure I can find him online or something.”

That was the truth. Jesse had been incredibly easy to find online. His image was smattered all over Cambridge’s social media pages in the wake of their win against Oxford. From there, he had found Jesse’s personal social media, and had spent a ridiculous amount of time scrolling through his feed. There were photos of Jesse sweaty while rowing, sweaty while running, and wet from the champagne spray after a victory. He would obsessively scroll while taking extreme care not to accidentally like any of the photos.

He should have directly messaged him by now; nothing was standing in his way. But it had been an entire month, and Oliver was a coward. It was much easier to look at photos of wet Jesse rather than actually speak to him.

Oliver stood and started the walk back towards the studio as his grandfather redirected their conversation. “Let’s start over, shall we? How is the exhibition really going?”

Finally, Oliver let himself loosen up a bit and told his grandfather how he was actually doing. They talked through each piece, and Oliver took his grandfather’s opinions to heart, cataloging each one of them for the future. And when he returned to the studio after their call, feeling immeasurably better, suddenly the light from the artist next door was exactly what he needed.

Chapter 8

Jesse

Two Years Ago

“I’ll have a glass of cabernet, please.”

Jesse could envision the disapproving stare of his father without lifting his eyes from the wine list. It had been a long day, and while he knew one glass wouldn’t relax him completely—an impossible task with his father two feet away from him—he hoped it’d at least help.

Luis addressed the waiter. “I’m fine with water, thank you.” The waiter left, and his father cleared his throat. “The ceremony was nice.”

Nice.

No congratulations. No I’m proud of you or your mother would have been proud.

“Yeah.”