The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

epilogue

What do you do when you're given a second life?

A lot of things, apparently.

Take an exam you haven't studied for. Kiss the prettiest boy you know. Go home—because you can call it that now—and hug all your loved ones, who hug you back just as tight even though they don't remember you were ever gone. Help your foster dad cook dinner and watch a show with your little brother and try not to stare at him the entire time because how did he grow so much?

Kiss the prettiest boy you know. Hang posters on the walls and banish the duffel bag you've been keeping near the door to the back of the closet. Study. Go to the library. Find that you still work there and apologize for the days you've missed (you're instantly forgiven and even get your mug back).

Kiss the prettiest boy you know. Ride your motorcycle to the next big town to go shopping for prom. Duck into the bookstore and marvel at all the new-to-you releases. Lie very still in the middle of the night and feel your lungs expand and contract over and over as you breathe into the quiet, no ocean sounds at all.

Kiss the prettiest boy you know. Watch his last game, front row this time, and grin back at him when he waves with both hands. Go round to his best friends' house and find out you're shit at Fifa but not terrible at Just Dance. Laugh until your ribs hurt, and then some more.

Kiss the prettiest boy you know. Chop your hair to shoulder length on a whim and then have your foster mum fix it (you now have curtain bangs that get in the way more often than not. Your boyfriend takes to carrying hair clips in his backpack for when you inevitably get irritated with them. Your hair now feels seventy percent less dead, but he still chuckles every time he gets his hands in it, which, astonishingly, is often).

Stand in front of the mirror and study the silver in your nose, feeling something bittersweet. Look at university websites and calculate distances, then convert them into hours (Four hours is so far, Ollie.) (We've conquered death, you big baby. I think we can conquer a train ride.). Kiss the prettiest boy you know.

Look up, and find yourself in July.

Oliver doesn't know where June went; it seems to have stolen away, quick as a thief, and taken with it the last of his fears. In the beginning, he kept glancing suspiciously up at the sky, turning that one line from King Henry—Why, thou owest god a death—over in his head as he waited for some kind of celestial reckoning to reclaim him once and for all.

But the other shoe never dropped. Days turned into weeks turned into a month, and Oliver's existential dread slowly returned to its baseline level (which, given his disposition, is of course still high. These days, he tries to subscribe more to carpe diem and not exclusively to memento mori.)

Despite the shift in mindset, his style remains as it has always been. It's possible that it grows even more Victorian-vampire-haunting-an-abandoned-castle-esque, now that he has access to more than three articles of clothing and a few traded accessories.

Exhibit A: his prom outfit.

Finn's jaw drops when he first spots Oliver outside the crowded school gym. Oliver himself feels a little short of breath watching him approach. Whether that's because of the suit Finn is wearing (a deep midnight blue; Oliver helped him pick it out, for once making a strong case against classic black) or because of the corset restricting Oliver's airflow is uncertain.

He had Gabby help him lace it, which took up a good deal of their afternoon. It's worth it though, he thinks. He's wearing it over a black lace blouse with a high collar and a dark green skirt that cuts off a few inches above his platform boots. His hair, he's pinned up, letting only his curtain bangs frame his face.