Page 25 of Beyond the Hedge Maze

As soon as the words truly sank in, his heart fractured. Oliver inheriting the estate only meant one thing—Ben had died. He knew how painful that must have been for Oliver. He knew how hard it was to lose a parent.

“I’ll do it,” Jesse blurted. “I’ll go.”

Charlotte glared at him like she was plotting his death, while both Simon and Arthur looked surprised that he’d jump on the opportunity. They could take their disengagement and shove it—this job was his.

He recalled the conversation he’d had with Tanvi shortly after graduation, how he had decided to let Oliver go without a fight. But this changed everything. He didn’t believe in coincidences. He was being called back to Chapman House.

Chapter 12

Oliver

Ten Years Ago

He nudged the toe of his trainer against Jesse’s thigh. “Sit still.”

“Sure thing, cariño.”

Oliver could feel the flush spread across his face. He didn’t know what that word meant, but he knew how it felt when Jesse said it.

The pair sat on the edge of the fountain, the statues casting a looming shadow over them both as he ducked behind his sketch pad. He hoped Jesse hadn’t noticed him blushing, that he’d assume instead the pink tinge on his cheeks was from the heat of the day.

Oliver’s grandfather had extended an invitation to Jesse and his father to stay with them at Chapman House while they were in England, but Jesse’s father had refused and insisted that they would be more comfortable at the small bed and breakfast in the village. So, every mid-morning after their respective breakfasts, the boys would meet at the entrance of the maze.

Secretly, Oliver was happy their days began and ended in the maze. He had always known it was a magical place, and maybe it was just teenage superstition, but he worried Jesse wouldn’t find him as interesting in the real world. The real world was where he had been bullied and had parents who were wholly disinterested in him and his life.

Some days, all they did was talk. Hours and hours of conversation about anything and everything. Oliver would regale Jesse with the stories his grandfather had told him about the muses, and Jesse had taught him the rules of American football, drawing Xs and Os in the gravel around their feet.

Other days, they communicated through music, huddled together sharing their headphones, trying to convince the other of why their favorites were superior—Jesse was partial to whatever pop hit was on the radio, while Oliver lived and breathed sad British punk. But for the last few days, Oliver had been drawing. Specifically, drawing Jesse.

The pestering began on their second day together. Jesse had dramatically stated that he’d make a better model than internet printouts, and that Oliver should draw him instead. He joked that maybe one day he’d make a career out of it, modeling for artists, and that had only intensified Oliver’s blushing.

At the start of their project, Jesse insisted he remain stoic. In his opinion, emboldened by the one singular trip he had taken to the Art Institute of Chicago, a subject should avoid smiling to look both “mysterious and important.” Unfortunately for Jesse, Oliver was in charge, and had already made the decision to draw Jesse’s expression that he liked best: a goofy grin that showcased all his teeth. Not at all mysterious or important, whatsoever.

Jesse leaned over the sketchbook. “I’m not sure you’ve captured the true essence of my left eyebrow.”

Oliver fondly shook his head and jammed his foot into Jesse’s thigh again. “Hush, you.”

It didn’t matter that Oliver had wanted to draw Jesse since the second he first saw him. He never would have been the one to suggest the idea. Like any other obsessed and tortured teenage boy, he would wait until Jesse went back to America and try drawing him from memory as he wept like his lover had gone to war. But eventually he caved, unable to resist the way Jesse’s hazel eyes locked onto his own, eyebrows wiggling, joy emanating from every pore.

Jesse had taken the end of Oliver’s shoelace and was lightly trailing it up and over Oliver’s ankle bone. Distracted, he stopped drawing and watched the movement from above the rim of his glasses, mesmerized. He could feel his whole life changing as this boy, the one who mirrored the portrait resting on his lap, drew invisible shapes across his skin.

He wanted to drown in it, this feeling, but then he remembered the rest of them. The other boys. The ones who liked to give him their full and undivided attention, only when no one was watching.

“I’m gay,” he blurted out. The words left his lips so quickly that Oliver didn’t have any time to overanalyze them. He didn’t want to hide who he was with Jesse.

The shoelace fell, and with it Oliver’s hopes and teenage dreams for the tanned skinned boy with the autumn-colored eyes and toothy grin.

“I figured,” came Jesse’s absentminded reply.

Oliver swiftly closed his sketchbook and stood, nearly knocking his bag into the fountain. He knew it was too good to be true. “Oh, you figured. Well, I figured you should know. In case it bothers you.”

Haphazardly, he stuffed his things into his satchel, knowing he was being overly dramatic. But those feelings of inadequacy he harbored were rising to the surface, and he wanted to bolt before Jesse saw them. Before he saw the absolute worst of him.

Jesse’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, a fistful of pencils tumbling to the ground. “Oliver, what’s happening right now?”

Oliver grumbled to himself and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose where they had slowly slipped down. He refused to meet Jesse’s stare, and kicked one of the pencils at his feet. “I’m being stupid.”

“That makes two of us.” Jesse’s fingers uncurled from his wrist, and he intertwined them with Oliver’s.