The Dead Boy's Guide To Second Chances

13. schrödinger's unrequited crush

TWELVE MONTHS AND ONE WEEK PRIOR TO THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

Needless to say that, like most serious afflictions, Oliver's ailments did not vanish on their own. A few days after the trip to London, the symptoms had only worsened. They ranged from somewhat uncomfortable to deeply mortifying; sudden stumbling over his words due to too much direct eye contact; heart palpitations like he'd just run a great distance when he hadn't moved an inch; flushing all shades of crimson for no reason at all.

Also, apparently, delusion.

Because as October ran its course, a new thought planted itself in Oliver's head: the idea that, maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that Finn O'Connell wasn't straight. It was almost definitely wishful thinking; a projection on a blank screen that simply didn't know to shatter his hopes.

Sometimes, Oliver thought he preferred the uncertainty. There was a sense of comfort in roaming the gray area of Finn O'Connell's undisclosed sexuality—Schrödinger's unrequited crush, if you will. You don't know what you can't observe. You can't get your heart broken if you never get explicit confirmation of heterosexuality.

Other times, Oliver wanted nothing but to look inside Finn's head. Like that afternoon. Finn was sitting cross-legged on the librarian's desk, his hair still dripping onto the windbreaker he'd put on after practice, a flush high on his cheeks.

In a weak effort to save himself from a heart attack, Oliver had removed himself from his immediate vicinity and had instead retreated to one of the nearby shelves, putting returns back into their respective places. Usually, he found this exercise soothing, almost meditative. Not when Finn O'Connell was chattering away only a few feet away.

"There's a Halloween party at James's place this weekend, did you know?"

Getting on his tiptoes to reach the second-highest shelf, Oliver said, "The blonde James or the shredded James?"

There was a brief pause. "Er, the last one. Our goalie."

A well-loved Whitman slid neatly back in its place. Oliver fetched the next one from the box he'd set down next to the step ladder. As he did, a thought flashed in his mind: if Finn were to stand on the first rung of the contraption, he would be at the perfect level for Oliver to kiss him. With more force than necessary, Oliver shoved the ladder aside.

Not for the first time, he wished that life were like a play. Then, the mere presence of the step ladder would've been a clue cheekily placed there by some director. What was it that Chekhov had said? One must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn't going to go off. One must never place a step ladder in Oliver's path if it wasn't going to be conveniently used to make out on.

Good lord. Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face, careful not to smudge his eyeliner. He was Macbeth tormented by visions, only instead of ghosts he was experiencing homoerotic fantasies at every corner. And he hadn't even killed anyone, for fuck's sake.

"You should come."

The sound of Finn's voice made his head snap up again. Glancing over his shoulder, he found the root of all evil smiling sheepishly at him.

"What?" he stupidly asked.

"To the party," said Finn. "Or do you have other plans?"

Did Oliver have other plans? Like keeping a shred of his sanity? A little bit of dignity, perhaps? No matter—his mouth was already forming the damning sentence. "Sure. I'll come."

"Nice." Finn's grin spread, cheeks dimpling. "What are you gonna dress as?"

"Er. Vampire?" Oliver ventured.