“Grandma, no, it’s—” I run a hand through my hair and release a breath meant to calm me. “It’s not like the other visions. It wasn’t someone lying to me, cheating on me, or spreading rumors.”
She nods slowly, placing one hand on my arm. “So it wasn’t a romantic encounter?”
Grandma isn’t looking at me like I saw a ghost; she’s looking at me like I am the ghost. “No. I mean, not just romantic. This time, the end isn’t just bad or embarrassing, it’s… The guy I met yesterday, he—he’s going to die.”
She gasps, but quickly regains her parental composure. “Oh, Quinn. Oh.”
I nod, my eyes burning with the desire to cry. “I want to tell him. Maybe if he has some warning, he could—”
“Quinn…”
Frustrated tears threaten to fall. “But I have to do something! I can’t just let him die.”
“No,” Grandma says too loudly, too sharply. She clears her throat and says it again in a softer tone. “No. You can’t tell him. You can never tell anyone about what you see in your visions. Do you understand?” She pauses, holding my gaze until I respond with a nod. “It’s hard to carry all that knowledge around, isn’t it? To know things you shouldn’t?”
“It’s…awful,” I manage, yet it feels like an understatement.
“Exactly. We are the unlucky ones who must shoulder the weight. That is our duty. What kind of person would you be if you allowed everyone else to experience that burden, too?”
“It’s just that I think—”
“Wait, now. Let me finish.” She grabs my wrist gently and looks straight into my eyes. “Listen to me. Truly listen. What kind of life will this boy have if he spends the rest of it knowing how he’s going to die?”
A coldness works its way through my body. Grandma Ruth is right. I wouldn’t want death consuming Griffin day in and day out.
With a heavy breath, I let my head roll forward. There has to be a way—there must be a loophole or something. Surely no one has tried everything in their attempts to change the future. “I’m supposed to do nothing, is that it?”
“Not nothing. You can do whatever you choose. You don’t have to see this boy ever again if that’s what you wish. Whatever you do, dear, the outcome will be the same.”
I already knew this, but God, it’s still hard to hear.
“Have you ever seen someone die in a vision—watched the light leave someone’s eyes while…while…”
“You cannot change the future,” she adds. “The sooner you accept that, the better off you will be.”
“You make it sound like I bombed a chemistry test. Have you never seen something so gut-wrenchingly horrible before in a vision?”
She swallows visibly but sits a bit straighter. My mom never liked talking about the curse, and Grandma doubled down on her dislike after my parents died. “No. I’ve not seen anything like that.”
“But I’m supposed to go on eating and breathing, knowing he’ll die? Is that what you would do?”
She bristles. “Quinn. You can’t—”
“Can’t change the future, yeah,” I mutter, a pounding starting in my temples. That’s not how life works—that’s not how the curse works. “Not everything ends with happiness.”
She fidgets with a gold ring on her right hand and inhales slowly. “You’re right. But everything does end. Including the bad.”
Her words have me glancing sideways at her, feeling a sardonic desire to laugh. “Is that supposed to be uplifting or something?”
She smiles faintly. “What I mean is everything, good or bad, comes to an end. Like that old saying goes, this too shall pass. If you can learn to harness that thought process and become, in a way, unattached, you’ll find a way to accept things as they come. The good and the bad. You can learn to accept life as it happens, without fear that it will end. Because everything will end. Every single thing. But if you continue through your days worrying about that ending, you’re only wasting the possibilities of each unique day.”
“That sounds like a poorly written Hallmark card. Are you trying to say I worry too much?”
“In a way.” Grandma sets her book down on the coffee table and scoots a few inches closer to me. “I know you’ve had it rough. Losing your parents…well, that’s always hard, no matter how old you are. It’s even harder to lose them at such a young age. I can only imagine how it must be trying to navigate through life in this day and age, with only a rambling grandmother as company.”
I laugh weakly. “I do have friends, you know.”
“Sure. Exactly. But I see a lot of myself in you. I’ve raised a teenage girl once before, and trust me, your mother was a handful at times. She fell down a lot, but she always got back up. Somehow.”
Images of my mom, smiling and so, so alive, spin in my head. I breathe in slowly. “But she didn’t get her happy ending.”
Dying before age fifty is no happy ending.
“In a way, though, she did.”
I blink at Grandma, trying to force away the tears from welling in my eyes. “How in the world do you think that?”
She lays one of her hands against mine, squeezing lightly. Her touch is warm and rough, but I feel the meaning behind the gesture. “She loved your father deeply. She loved you more than anything in the world. Yes, her life was taken from her much too soon, but before she died, she got everything she ever wanted. She loved unconditionally and was surrounded by those who loved her in the same way. At the end of the day, no matter the awfulness of her death, no matter how much it hurt everyone else who had to go on living, I believe she did get her happily ever after.”
I’m unable to look at Grandma’s face. Unable to do anything but blink, not focusing on any one thing. “I miss her,” I whisper.
“Me too, dear. Me too.” She squeezes my hand again.
We sit like this for a long time before she whispers,“If I knew how to break the curse, I’d set you free. You know that, right?”
I nod. Walking away won’t save Griffin, but Grandma’s wrong if she thinks I’ll sit back and let a fate like that happen without even trying to stop it.
It’s been dark for hours, and I’m sitting on the porch in a rickety chair that should’ve been pitched years ago. The Ohio summer weather is pretty perfect for once, like Olivia had said. Not too hot. Not too cold. It’s almost a flipping miracle. But even so, the vision is fresh in my mind. Griffin’s desperate voice is in my ears like I’m stuck half inside the vision, half inside reality.
Grandma Ruth says there’s nothing I can do to change the vision, but I’m not ready to give up. If he’s going to die no matter what, some people might cut all ties with him now to prevent inevitable heartbreak, but what kind of person would that make me? After a few more minutes debating this silently, I decide I’d be the worst kind of person to say screw it and walk away.
And besides, I’ve already learned that taking myself out of the vision doesn’t stop it. He’d end up dying the same way in someone else’s arms, someone who doesn’t know what’s coming.
I tuck my legs beneath the chair. The other option—the moral option—is to keep Griffin close and hope for a miracle. Though there are so many unknown factors. How do you save someone without knowing who, why, or specifically when? The only time indicator I have is that it’ll be humid and raining. Oh, and that his hair will be shorter. But what if he cuts all his hair off tomorrow and that detail is pointless? It could be grown and get cut again a number of times before he dies. The weather could be humid and raining a month from now or a year from now.
Stretching out my legs and leaning my head back, I shut my eyes. In the absence of an immediate plan, my mind drifts to the photographs I’ve collected for my portfolio so far. I have four photos, maybe. A few others are possibilities…but they need to be perfect. I need at least eight scholarship-worthy photos. So maybe I have only two…
Guilt creeps in the longer I pretend to care about my scholarship more than Griffin. My heart shifts and thumps an erratic pace. When I think of him, I remember the vision so vividly, I can almost taste the rain in the air. I feel the agonizing despair of being powerless, of drowning in my own pain and sorrow.
The soft tinkling of music invades my thoughts. Guitar music.
My eyes snap open. Didn’t Griffin say he plays guitar?
It’s got to be coincidence. Guitar playing is common—cliché. Any one of my neighbors might own a guitar. In fact, I’d bet money that a handful of them do.
I scrub a hand down my face. Coincidences are something I don’t believe in.
My heart thrums, my palms slicken with sweat, and I take a deep breath, considering the possibilities of what might be around the corner. Maybe it’s some random neighbor.
Or maybe not…
I do what the only logical next step is. Stand and inch my way off the patio. I take another deep breath. Freshly mowed grass and the smell of earth invade my nose. All my senses are on high alert.
A few more hesitant steps later, I make a right around the corner of the nearby apartment building. Guitar music grows louder, the chords drifting through the air. After a few more cautious steps, I see a hunched form sitting on a neighbor’s patio. Guitar perched on his lap. The faint light from the streetlamps gives away his tall, broad form, and when I close the distance, I note longish locks falling over his forehead. Judging by the stack of broken-down boxes on his patio and the fact that I’ve never seen him around here before, I’m guessing he just moved in.
For minutes, I stand there, still as a statue, listening to the music and watching his head gently bob as his fingers gracefully strum the strings. Quick notes come from the guitar, and it’s like I’m listening to an encoded message, trying to understand the meaning.
Griffin lifts his head, uses one hand to brush the hair from his eyes, and takes one-point-five seconds to see me standing there. He’s sitting a couple yards away, because out of all the apartment complexes in town, he has to live here—it’s the universe’s insurance, in case I’d decided not to visit the museum again.
The universe is nothing if not full of coincidences that aren’t coincidences at all. The universe, I’m convinced, conspires to ruin me.
Shit.
Flipping shit.
Then again, maybe I should be thanking the universe; getting to know Griffin will be so much easier when he lives only yards away. And getting to know him must be the first step in me helping to save him.
“Quinn?”
I move my hand from my mouth and run it through my hair, taking a breath to compose myself. “Uh. Hey. Yeah, Quinn. Hi. Griffin, right?”
“Right.” He gently sets the guitar on the ground beside him and stands. I’m still frozen, unsure what to do or say. Despite the perfect weather, it now feels like it’s a thousand degrees outside. It’s a dreadful mix of heated embarrassment and the fact I can’t stop staring at his long, lean body.
Griffin shuffles forward, tipping his head. Since I’m still not moving, he comes closer until he’s merely two feet away, and I can see his stunning grin, those eyes that speak volumes. Eyes that say how intrigued he is to see me.
“I take it you found some inspiration at the museum, huh?” I say, wrapping my arms around my waist.
“Yeah.” The porch lamp highlights the wicked grin on his face. He’s wearing a green T-shirt, and a silver chain hangs around his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
“I live right over there,” I say with a nod. “I’m not stalking you, promise.” Though I instantly regret my clumsy words. “I just mean…I’m surprised you’re here.” There’s no backpedaling my way out of sounding ridiculous. Staring at him brings the onslaught of images I want to forget. Blood and rain. Love and death. My cheeks flush. “Uh, I didn’t expect to see you again.” Not right outside my apartment, anyway.
“Me either.” He peers at me like I’m a piece of artwork in a museum, worthy of being admired. I pull my hair over my shoulder, trying to keep my inner squeeing to a minimum. “Maybe it’s fate,” he says.
I want to squeeze my eyes shut. Fate. I flipping hate that word. “Maybe so.”
“Do you make a habit of sneaking up on strangers? Or is it just me you like to sneak up on?”
Oh my God, he must think I’m ridiculous. “No, I usually have better, more interesting hobbies.” Shut up, Quinn.
“Hobbies like what?” His smooth voice invades my thoughts. One dark eyebrow rises in curiosity.
I glance sideways at the row of apartment windows, most of which have all their lights turned off. “Like photography. Reading. Movies.” I look back at him. “Those kinds of things.”
He nods slowly, another sly grin slipping onto his face. “Those are good hobbies. Much better than stalking.”
“I’m not stalking you.”
Griffin laughs. It hits me like a warm blast straight to the heart. Why does his laugh have to sound so nice? “I’m only kidding.”
“Uh-huh.” The faint rumble of car engines and noisy crickets fills the silence. “When did you move in?”
“Last week.” He tips his head back toward his front door. “This place is nice. Cheap. Clean. Do you have a roommate?” Griffin looks at me again, raising his brows like I’m the most interesting girl in the world.
I don’t know how a single look can do that, but it can.
A flush works its way up my neck, because now I have to admit to a hot guy old enough to have his own place that I live with my sweet, if not kooky, Grandma Ruth and that I am, in fact, only seventeen.
“I’m impressed,” he says after I tell him the truth.
“With what?” Being underage, living in an apartment with the only family I have left?
“With your idea that a museum can be inspiring.”
I snort—and try not to be embarrassed about it. “Inspiration can be found anywhere. But especially within other forms of art. Gardens, architecture, libraries.”
“Libraries, huh?”
“Of course.” I shrug, turning as if there’s something to see besides the two-story apartments and the mediocre shrubbery. The more I stare at his face, the quicker my heart pounds with the thought of what I know will happen.
“I never thought of that,” he says.
“Maybe you should give it a try. I work at the library a few blocks over. If you come in when I’m working, I could show you a few things.” There, that sounded less like a girl with rusty flirting techniques. As Olivia might say, be obvious without sounding desperate. I think I managed that. And for a bonus, I’ll get more information from Griffin if I persuade him to fill out a library card application.
“Sounds like an offer I shouldn’t pass up. When do you work next?”
Holy crap, did my attempt at subtlety actually work? “Tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. Pretty much all day.”
Griffin taps a finger against the side of his head. “Well noted.” Then he clears his throat and says, “I hope my playing wasn’t bothering you?” He motions behind him at the guitar.
“No, it wasn’t. I just heard it and…”
As I trail off, he smirks devilishly. “And wanted a closer look?”
My blood warms, because he’s sort of right. “Hey, I was curious and wanted to hear more.” Curious doesn’t even begin to describe it.
He moves closer—one foot away now. “So?”
“So what?”
Griffin shrugs casually, briefly glancing to the right. “So was it terrible?”
“Your music? No. It was…you can really play.”
He drops his arms, smiling like my compliment was the first one he’d heard in a long time. “Looks like all those years of practice have worked in my favor.”
My words were an under
statement. The music was haunting and beautiful, and I’d be more than okay listening to him play for hours.
I clench my fists then unclench them, trying not to give my thoughts away. The thoughts that say Griffin is going to be shot and killed. Why? Hell if I know. When? Don’t know that, either. But it will happen.
I try not to think about the part in my vision where he says he loves me…but that will happen, too. Right? I mean, it has to. Why do I find that part so hard to believe? Probably because I don’t really know this guy yet, and for the past three years, I’ve lived by one rule: I do not, under any circumstances, date. Love has wrecked me time and time again. Love is clearly not in the cards for me.
But it is now, a tiny voice in the back of my heart whispers, taunting me. I’ve never been loved before, not the way Griffin clearly loves me in the end. The voice might be right, but I do my best not to listen, because no matter how badly I want to believe it…there’s no happy ending waiting for us. I can’t let myself forget that.
My brain is firing on too many cylinders, and there’s a 50 percent chance I’ll start hyperventilating. The words are on the tip of my tongue. The need to warn him. Tell him about what’s to come.
But I can’t. Grandma was right. No one would know how to accept that kind of news. Besides, what would I say? Oh, by the way…I have this weird gift or curse or whatever the hell you want to call it, and I can see the end for you—for us. And you’re going to fall in love with me before you die. Yeah, that wouldn’t go over well. He’ll shuffle backward like I’m a contagious disease and never talk to me again.
Maybe that would be a good thing.
Maybe, if it would stop the vision from coming true.
But even if I could ignore him, keep my distance, and somehow convince him not to fall in love with me…he’ll still die. Likely alone in the muddy grass, under the pounding rain. He’ll bleed out, with or without me.
Pull it together, Quinn. Act natural. “So you just moved to Dayton?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just moved to Ohio, actually.”
“From where?”
To Whatever End Page 3