Page 71 of The Unlikely Heir
“Did it survive?” I ask.
He nods. “By the time I got to secondary school, it was taller than me.”
“Let’s go check and see if it’s still there,” I say.
The frown is back on Oliver’s face.
“Why not?” he says.
He directs our driver to pull over.
It appears we’re giving our security team a few challenges this evening. I can see their bewilderment as they get out of their cars and Oliver tells them about our planned adventure.
Unexpected stops don’t exactly make security teams sing with happiness.
But after we get the all-clear, Oliver leads the way down a path alongside the soccer pitch, old leaves crackling under our feet.
The hassle is worth it because when we reach the twenty-foot oak tree that dwarfs all the other trees around it, crunching robust acorns under our shoes, Oliver stares up at it, and for a moment, I glimpse that tenacious little boy who was so determined that his seedling would survive against all odds.
“Pretty sure that’s the best metaphor for your life standing right there,” I say softly.
Oliver turns to look at me. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
We’re silent as we walk back down the path. We’re walking side by side, so close it would be easy for me to stick my hand out, to snag his hand in mine. But I keep my arms plastered to my side.
My eyes snag on a park bench near the entrance. I really don’t want my time with Oliver to end.
“You want to sit here for a while?” I ask hesitantly as we reach it.
“Sure.”
Oliver and I sit next to each other on the park bench. Our shoulders brush, and my heart races.
Someone as handsome as him shouldn’t be allowed to mix with mere mortals. It’s not fair.
Oliver stares out across the dimly lit soccer pitch.
“I used to trudge across these fields, this skinny kid with big ears, a kid without a mum or dad, struggling with my sexual identity.”
“Imagine what that kid would say if he could see you now,” I say.
Oliver gives a low chuckle. “If someone had told me that one day, I’d be prime minister and sitting on this bench talking to the Prince of Wales, I don’t think I would have believed them.”
“And yet here we are,” I say.
“Here we are,” Oliver echoes.
His eyes meet mine, and we just stare at each other.
My heart thuds under the weight of Oliver’s unwavering gaze.
I tilt my head back to look at the night sky. But because we’re in London, where light pollution reigns supreme, there are no real stars to be seen.
Instead, I focus on one of the nearby streetlamps and the haze around it. It’s beautiful in its own way, another reminder of the hidden beauty in this world.
“I never imagined when I saw the coverage of your election that you’d one day become my best friend,” I say.
It’s true. Me at twenty-two, sitting in my small apartment, watching on TV the handsome, confident man on the steps of 10 Downing Street with his gorgeous husband. Could I have ever imagined our lives would overlap in this way?
