Chapter Two
On the way home, I pull my Toyota Corolla to the side of the road to avoid totaling it. My chest pounds so hard I’m certain my lungs are two seconds from collapsing. Barely seeing through the tears blurring my vision, I press my palm against my mouth, resisting a scream. My fingers shake around the steering wheel. I squeeze tighter. Try to even out my breathing. Nope. Doesn’t help. My arms tingle and shake.
At least I made it out of there before I broke down into uncontrollable sobs. If nothing else, I can be grateful for that. Finally letting go of the steering wheel, I lay my head back and shut my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.
No. No. No.
I slam my palm against the passenger seat. Maybe I should start listening to those silly superstitious warnings—like being careful what you wish for. I wanted to touch him, to have a chance to see. To see if maybe this time, the ending wouldn’t break my heart.
And then I got what I wanted. I saw the end. Our tragic end.
He’s going to love me. No guy has ever said that to me before. I’m going to love him. An idea I can’t wrap my head around.
Then he’s going to die.
Smacking my hand against the seat again, I let out a hoarse sound, anger fueling my body. Griffin, this guy I don’t know at all, is going to bleed out somewhere while I cling to him desperately, and I can’t do a single thing to change it.
The only other time I’ve seen such a vivid death was back when I was ten, but I don’t know who the boy was or when I would meet him again. Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing up. It’s a vision that’s haunted me ever since.
My visions always become reality, even if I try to change them. Like in my vision about Brad Harold. When we met in the eighth grade, I saw him telling me I was a giant skank. I was mortified, so when he hit on me two years later—repeatedly—I denied him. If I didn’t date him, didn’t sleep with him, he would have no reason to call me a giant skank. But of course, this happened anyway. Turns out, me turning him down was what made him talk shit, thus creating the rumors that students continued to whisper throughout junior year. Did you hear? Quinn Easterly is a giant skank.
And then my freshman year, touching Danny Caudwell’s hand led to a vision of him screaming at me, calling me stupid and other horrible things. So I didn’t date him. But then a couple months later, I saw him in the hallway with Elizabeth—the girl he dated instead—and he was screaming at her. Just like in my vision. Walking away didn’t stop the future from coming true. It only took me out of the equation.
Walking away won’t save Griffin, either.
Tears stream down my face. I taste salt on my lips and wipe my cheeks, forcing myself to blink in hopes of stopping the tears. Crying won’t change things.
If I hadn’t gone to the museum today, I never would’ve met Griffin, never would’ve seen him—seen that.
But much like the future, I can’t change the past.
After ten minutes of sitting on the side of the road with my blinkers on, I take in a solid breath and release it. With one last swipe under my eyes, I put the car in drive.
In only a few minutes, I’m back home. I’ve got to keep it together. I can’t deal with Grandma Ruth’s questions tonight. She knows all about my “abilities,” because the curse has been passed down to the females in my family for nearly a century. No one knows when it began, and no one’s curse is quite the same as anyone else’s. I’m convinced I got the shortest stick possible. But I’m so not ready for the horrendous conversation with Grandma about my latest vision. Not yet. For now, I don’t even want to think about it.
After shutting off the engine, I check my face in the rearview mirror. My eyes are red and a little puffy, but nothing that can’t pass for allergies. Nope, definitely wasn’t crying over a heartbreaking future with a boy I don’t even know.
Once inside the apartment, I shut the worn, squeaky door, sighing, leaning against it. I’m grateful not to see my grandma and quickly head for my room upstairs. But she pops out of her bedroom at the top of the landing, wearing a bright pink blouse, her short silver hair perfectly curled.
“Quinn.” She smiles widely, the way she always does. “How was the museum?”
I do a slow shuffle up the stairs, toward my room. “Uh, good. It was good.”
“Find that inspiration you were looking for?”
I stop at the top of the landing. “Maybe.” I lift one shoulder, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m going to take photos tomorrow afternoon, I think. Probably hit up a park or something.”
She nods, adjusting her flowery blouse as she steps closer. “I’m sure you’ll get some good photographs for your portfolio.”
I hope so. I need more for that scholarship, and so far, my portfolio is severely limited. If I don’t get picked, a college degree will be next to impossible. I can’t afford it without help. Mom and Dad didn’t leave much money after they died in a car wreck, and Grandma has never made a whole lot as a librarian. That’s the reason she downsized from her three-bedroom home to this two-bedroom apartment after she received custody of me. I know she’s tucking some money away and has social security benefits, but it won’t be nearly enough to get me into the college I want. It probably won’t even be enough to get me into the community college for more than a year. My own position at the local library isn’t incredibly lucrative, and I somehow don’t qualify for enough student loans to cover tuition.
Though that’s not currently my biggest concern.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she says. “I’m making meatloaf.”
This would normally thrill me. No one makes meatloaf like Grandma Ruth. It could win an award, it’s that good. But anxiety has made a home within my rib cage, and not even award-winning food can get rid of it.
I nod at her, keeping the false smile on my face. I look away and pull my hair up and off my neck—a distraction from the way my skin tingles, the way my arms and legs are leaden from adrenaline.
Before my grandmother can continue a conversation or get a closer look at my puffy eyes, I slip into my bedroom, then shut the door behind me.
Collapsing onto my blue bedspread, I shut my eyes for a few minutes, hoping for a moment of peace, but it doesn’t work. When I open my eyes, I flop over and observe the collection of my photographs hanging on the wall. They’re all taped to a giant board that’s nearly as wide as my ancient black dresser, with that one drawer that won’t shut all the way. The photos depict a variety of subjects. Some friends, some strangers. A few buildings, a handful of landscapes. Some black-and-white, some bright, shining colors. If I squint, the collection becomes a blur of shapes and colors. Contemplating my photo board usually brings a sense of calm, but not today.
I lie there for a long while, trying to force the frightening images out of my head, but all I can see is blood streaming onto the muddy ground, Griffin’s cold hand in mine.
I try closing my eyes, but open or closed, I still see him die.
My gut roils. A distraction. I need one. Badly. I can’t bear the thought of touching my camera or editing any of the photos waiting for me on my laptop. Books are out of the question, too. I so don’t have the focus to read words right now. And movies? My collection is mostly chick flicks, and that’s absolutely not happening.
After a five-minute pity party, I text Olivia, my best friend. Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock on my door right before it swings open.
“Quinn!” she says, drawing out the vowel in my name, a smile brightening her expression. She throws her arms out. “I think I’m in love! He is so dreamy.”
Olivia speeds over to my bed and plops down before I can fully process what she said.
A perfect distraction.
“Whoa, wait.” I raise one brow. “When did you get a boyfriend? I didn’t even know you liked anyone right now.”
Her brown eyes widen behind
black-framed glasses while she holds out for dramatic pause. Since we’ve been friends, I’ve learned a thing or two about Olivia. One being her undying love of drama. But more importantly, our end doesn’t happen until we’re old and gray. She won’t disappear after college. Won’t break my heart. Won’t abandon me. She’s the only person I know of so far who won’t leave me.
Finally, she says, “We’re not dating yet.”
“I’m…so confused.” When Olivia giggles but doesn’t explain, I add, “Get on with it,” and I shift closer.
“I met a guy. A hot guy. A totally hot, older guy. Oh! And he’s sweet.”
“And you think you’re in love?”
“I so could be.”
Despite my emotional state, I laugh. She’s always crushing over someone new. Crushing and gushing.
She laughs, too, and my despair is lifted a little, like a flower warmed by the sun. Olivia transferred to Vermont High two years ago, and the only reason we became friends was because I tried out for the school production of The Wizard of Oz—upon Grandma’s insistence. And when I—holy crap—actually got a part and attended the first rehearsal, I realized I knew no one. Olivia knew no one, either. So we, the outliers, naturally drifted toward each other. And we stuck.
“Don’t go raining on my parade now,” she says. “His name is Jack. He’s a sophomore at WSU. He’s, like I said, a total hottie. He’s gonna be the next guy I fall in love with.” Her sigh is dreamy, and she’s got an expression to match.
Olivia has always been interested in guys. Always fawning over this one or that one. I tried to join in. Wished I could join in. But by the time we met, I already knew there’d be no happy ending for me.
I’ve known that since Billy, the first boy I kissed, when I was fourteen. The time a kiss sparked my visions of the end. It was in a game of spin the bottle, and I’d been crushing on him for a while even though we’d never touched before. When his lips met mine, they were wet and warm, and the kiss wasn’t all that great, but I saw a five-second snippet of what would happen. He was going to tell me he didn’t feel the same way about me that I did for him.
Three weeks later, that’s exactly what happened.
Love is sometimes a giant disappointment. Olivia, however, loves love. The idea of love, anyway. I’m not convinced she knows what love really is, though. I sure as hell don’t.
But I got a taste of it tonight in that vision.
Don’t think about that now. “Where’d you meet this guy?” I ask, crossing my legs and leaning back against my mass of pillows.
“This is the best part… I met him at a poetry slam. Last night. At Therapy Café.” She gives me an eager look, waiting for my explosion of excitement.
I’m having a hard time matching her level of enthusiasm, but I do my best to appease her. She deserves an explosion of excitement, and I’m a crap friend for not being able to give it to her. “That’s really cool. So, did you finally face your fear and get behind the mic this time?”
She frowns, her pink lips tightening. “Er, no. But he did. And oh, his poetry was like magic. Pure magic.”
“Is that so?”
“As close as you can get to it.” Olivia scoots farther onto the bed, that dreamy, glazed look still in her eyes. “He’s so adorable. Thin and tall, beautifully dark hair, and his voice—it’s amazing to listen to.”
I nod, ensuring my lips don’t downturn. Even though my best friend always brightens up my day, it’s hard to smile when everything she’s saying, and the way she’s saying it, is everything I will never have, and it won’t be long before she sees through my facade. It’s in these moments I wish I could tell her the truth. Wish I didn’t have to lie about this part of me. Amazing as she is, she’d never believe me. She thinks superpowers are overrated and won’t entertain the idea of ghosts. I’d say psychic visions fit into her “do not exist” category.
“That’s great, Liv,” I say.
“Aaaand we’re going on a date this weekend. I can’t wait for you to meet him!”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that? You just met last night.”
“Pshh.” She wraps her black hair into a knot across her shoulder. “You know I have to get my best friend’s approval ASAP. You’re my second brain, remember?”
“Of course,” I say, though there isn’t much effort behind my words.
Olivia frowns. “Hey, um, is something wrong?”
I shake my head. “I’m just tired. Stressed out. That’s all.” So much for being distracted. But who was I kidding? I’m treating my vision like it was some terrible nightmare I’m about to wake up from. It will come true.
“What’re you stressed about? It’s the middle of June. The weather is gorgeous, the sun is out.” Olivia flings a hand toward my bedroom window that’s covered by curtains, as if to prove her point. “So, what’s up?”
I swallow, quickly thinking up a lie. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m still worried about these photographs.” At least that last part is true.
“You? Come on, you take amazing photos. You’re gonna be famous one day, I know it. You’ll nail your portfolio and get that scholarship. It’s all you ever talk about. It’s all you’re ever doing when you’re not hanging out with me. Someone who wants something as badly as you want this is bound to get it. You can stop worrying, okay?”
“You know that’s not true. Wanting something so much is nothing more than wishful thinking.”
“But you’re doing something. You’re not just sitting around, wishing and hoping. I might not be able to see the future, but my inner senses tell me it’ll come true. I know it. I believe in you. Your grandma believes in you, too. But you’ve got to believe in yourself.”
“What are you today, a fortune cookie?” Her words only remind me of Griffin and how I need to do something. This vision is different than any other—he’s going to be murdered. And I can’t just let that happen to someone just because I don’t know them.
Yet. I don’t know him yet…
That’s it. I need to find him. Then, if I can avoid scaring him off with my rusty flirting techniques, I can learn more about him. I’ll never be able to find out who his would-be murderer might be if I know nothing about Griffin.
“Fortune cookies never come true. They’re hardly even fortunes. I’m way better than one of those. I tell only the truth.”
My gaze drifts to the ceiling. Wishing does no good, though I can’t help but wish I could have visions for other people—like seeing whether or not this new guy in Olivia’s life will last. I’d be an outstanding fortune-teller. Some kind of futuristic love guru. I might become rich, a millionaire who lives in a huge house, buys my grandma a perfect home, and then finds a way to coexist with my curse.
Yeah, right.
There would be no possibility of coexisting. Because if I could see Olivia’s future love life, and it was something terrible, how would I be able to tell her?
Olivia’s phone rings. “Speaking of tall, dark, and handsome.” She wiggles it in the air. “I’ll put him on speaker. Just for a minute. I haven’t told you about his amazing voice. So deep. So sexy.” She winks before answering. “Hey, Jack! I’m here with Quinn, so don’t say anything you wouldn’t want my best friend to hear.”
Jack chuckles. “Noted. Thanks for the warning. Hey Quinn.”
I clear my throat and say, “Hey. I’ve been hearing lots about you.”
Olivia makes a face, unapproving of what I just said. She turns off the speaker phone and says to Jack, “I’ll call you back later, okay? My best friend needs a little TLC, and I can’t deny her that.”
“Come on.” She hangs up the phone, hopping off my bed. “I don’t like seeing your pretty face so sad.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Just stressed out and—”
“Either way”—Olivia holds out her hand toward me—�
��you look like you could use some coffee.”
Her comment makes me smile. “But it’s not Sunday.”
“Our coffee ritual doesn’t have to be contained to Sunday. Coffee happens when coffee needs to happen.”
I nod. It’s that kind of philosophy that keeps her on a first-name basis with every barista within thirty miles.
“Awesome! We can go find a park or something and pet puppies and wander around until you stop with that frowning business.” She waves her hand in a circular motion by my face. “What do you say?”
“Sure. Let’s go.” The ounce of normalcy might put me in the right state of mind to figure out how to stop Griffin’s death.
Chapter Three
The next day, I decide I need Grandma Ruth’s advice, no matter how hard this is to talk about. Someone’s life is in danger; this is too big to handle on my own. She’s the only person who might understand, the only person who can help me deal with what happened—with what’s going to happen.
My anxiety reaches its peak when I find her downstairs on the couch, book in hand. She looks up, waiting for me to say something. When I fidget, saying nothing, her brows pinch together. “Is something wrong?”
“I… I need to tell you something.”
“All right, dear. Why don’t you sit down?” She pats the seat next to her.
I don’t feel like sitting, I feel like pacing. But I sit anyway.
“Sweetheart, you’re so pale,” she says, leaning in for a closer look. “Tell me what’s wrong.” When I don’t respond, her face morphs into something like concern. “This is about a vision, isn’t it?”
Right. Grandma Ruth has always been the see-too-much type. Nothing gets past her.
Twisting my fingers in my lap, I stare at the floor. Finally, I say in a voice entirely too low, “This wasn’t like the other ones. It— They’re always bad, but this was…horrible.”
“I know it’s hard to see things that don’t always make sense. Being young, being a teenager, trying to work your way around this curse.”
To Whatever End Page 2