To Whatever End

by Frydman, Lindsey

  Too bad the scenery of the apartments isn’t as interesting as the lighting. I adjust the setting on my camera and aim it at some weird figurine someone has placed in their backyard—okay, it’s not exactly a yard, but a lot of our neighbors make use of the three square feet of grass surrounding their patios. This thing looks like a statue of some sort, maybe a religious figure? I can’t tell. It’s been eroded by the elements, and it’s probably been sitting in the same place for years. Still, it gives me something to look at, something to think about other than wracking my brain at a hundred miles a minute.

  My thoughts linger on Griffin, and anxiety about tonight twists my insides. I need to get inside his head without being weird.

  I continue walking around the apartment complex, snapping photos of random crap. Once I’m tired of everything in my line of sight, I round the corner and spot Griffin sitting on his porch, his guitar in hand.

  Halting, I suck in air and look down at my camera, then back at the side view of Griffin. His head moves as he slowly strums the strings, hair falling forward. The music he’s playing is so faint, I can barely hear it.

  Then he sets the guitar down beside him and sighs so heavily, I see his chest rise and fall from yards away. He scrubs one hand down his face then leans forward. I watch him with morbid curiosity, his face almost a picture of despair. Torment. That can’t be right. Gone is the confident, snarky look he usually has. It’s as though his mask has slipped. I figured he was just your typical guy… But there’s something going on in his head that doesn’t fit his outward image, and it’s radiating from him like a neon sign.

  The setting sun casts a yellowish glow against his face, highlighting the guitar beside him. Locks of hair, dark hues interlaced with gold, hang across his forehead as he looks down at something. Or nothing. His profile is something to admire, though—something to photograph. Hard, cut lines from his ear to his jaw. A long nose with a small bump in the middle. Slight stubble, and even though I can’t see his eyes, it does something funny to my heart.

  Not funny in a lusty, holy-crap-he’s-so-hot way. It’s something about his clenched jaw, his brows pulled together, and one hand raking down his neck. I angle my head, as if doing so will provide more meaning. It doesn’t. And I wonder what he’s thinking about. What made him set down his guitar? Maybe it was just him being frustrated with his lack of inspiration. Maybe he’s just tired.

  It could be a lot of things. I could sit here and guess all night long, but guessing won’t do any good.

  People are my favorite subjects for my photographs. Moments are so fleeting, and a handful of seconds with another person can change your entire life. If my curse has taught me anything, it’s that.

  Not that I can take pictures of him—not without his permission. But from this angle, I see his pinched features, a beautiful look of sadness and gloom I don’t understand. Something clenches within my chest. I can’t explain the look, but then again, I don’t really know Griffin. Just the same, I want to know what the look means.

  After slinging my camera over my shoulder, I press it against my side and take a few steps across the grass. I’m divided by not wanting to disturb him and wanting to do something—anything—to erase the look on his face. Another step and I’m still unsure which option is best. I pause just as a tickle forms in my nose moments before I sneeze. Griffin whips his head up, aiming his gaze directly at me.

  There goes my fantasy of being an international spy.

  “Hey,” I choke out as I move closer, feeling like a rabbit caught in a cage.

  Griffin leans back, resting his arms on the chair, his face still pinched. But now the sadness is gone, replaced with something else. Annoyance maybe? Surprise? I can’t be sure.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you…” I look away, fingering the camera. “I was just, uh, taking photos.”

  His odd expression fades. “Who says you disturbed me?”

  I decide to ignore his sarcasm this time and walk closer until I’m a few feet from his patio. Taking a deep breath, I inhale the scents of summer—sunshine and a faint hint of flowers.

  “What are you up to?” I mean for it to sound casual, like we’re friends, like we aren’t going on a date in two hours, but it sounds serious and inquisitive.

  He shakes his head. “Oh, nothing. Hanging out.” He waves at the instrument by his side, giving me a lopsided smile I’m not able to totally believe. “Hoping you didn’t take any pictures of me. I’d tell you that you got my bad side.” He points to his right cheek, chuckling.

  As if he has a bad side. “Don’t worry, I didn’t take any of you, but it was tempting.”

  “How about this, I’ll let you take a few pictures. But you have to promise not to share it or put it on the internet. Wouldn’t want the paparazzi finding out where I live.” The grin he shares is contagious.

  “Right.” I chuckle. “It’s better when you don’t know you’re being photographed.”

  “Aw, come on. I can pretend.” He picks the guitar up and resumes his original position.

  He doesn’t look sad, like he did before, but he’s beautiful all the same, so I agree and snap a handful of photographs, moving around to capture different angles.

  “Thanks,” I say when I’m done. “If you become rich and famous, I promise not to sell them for less than a fortune.”

  “Excellent news.”

  “So what’re you working on? A love song?” I ask, ensuring my tone is light and amusing, rather than trembling and weird.

  Griffin pushes off the chair and stands, setting his hands against his hips. “I don’t write love songs.”

  “No?”

  “No…not exactly.”

  I laugh. “What does that even mean?”

  He drops his hands to his sides and sighs. “Okay, so I do occasionally write love songs. Most songs are about love, in some form or another. But no, I wasn’t writing one. I wasn’t writing anything really. Inspiration has failed me.”

  He’s wearing a half smirk, but that awful, tiny voice in the back of my head tells me it could easily be a facade. We stand there, a few feet from each other, an impressive staring contest going on, both of us waiting for the other to say something. My lips twitch, and so do my fingers. I take in another breath.

  Griffin sticks his thumb up and points it at the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a pretty girl tonight, and I wouldn’t want to be late.” He turns to go, but not before sending me a wink I won’t need a photograph to remember.

  Chapter Six

  The restaurant Griffin picked is fifteen minutes from our apartment complex. In his oversized and immaculately clean truck, he admits that he just Googled places nearby and chose one that sounded unique. My palms are sweaty, but wiping them against my jeans over and over doesn’t stop the sweat—or my nerves.

  We pull into the parking lot of a small seafood place I’ve never eaten at before. I’d told him I’m allergy-free and that I’d eat almost anything. A few minutes later, we’re sitting at a booth inside the poorly decorated restaurant. Red walls with odd, mismatched paintings. The seats are worn and the carpet has seen better days. But at least it doesn’t smell bad in here.

  A petite waitress greets us with a too-wide smile, and we both order water. She brings them to us then walks away, leaving us to look over the menu.

  I scan through it, but I’m distracted by the guy sitting across from me, wearing a dark blue shirt. Dark blue is definitely his color. When Olivia eventually meets him, she’ll no doubt get that look in her eyes and give me a giant thumbs-up.

  Not that it matters, when all my dates since middle school have ended in misery.

  Instead of reading the food descriptions, I try to fill in the blanks that Griffin’s explanation left behind. Why would anyone want to move from Arizona to Ohio just for something different?

  I have absolutely zer
o detective skills, unless you count what I picked up from bingeing crime shows on Netflix, but I’m sure there’s a lot to be read between the lines. Unfortunately, I don’t have a clue about why he moved, so I do the only thing I can think of: ask.

  He answers my question with another question. “Haven’t you ever wanted to start life over as someone else? Have a completely clean slate?”

  There are things I wish I could change, sure. This curse. My parents’ accident. My college fund situation. But have I ever wanted to start over as someone else? Without my grandma, Olivia, or my love of photography? I almost say no, but… I envision a life without this curse. “I can understand wanting that.”

  I sigh, looking down at the menu again.

  “What are you thinking about getting?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I…I can’t decide.”

  Griffin’s signature smirk makes an appearance. “You don’t like seafood, do you?”

  My cheeks flush. “No, no. I do. I swear.”

  He laughs, deep and throaty. “Every time you look at the menu, you make this face, and it’s not a good one.”

  Oh, that’s just me contemplating saving you. I touch one hand to my warm cheek and sheepishly look away.

  “Not your face in general,” he says with a coy smile, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “That? Is beautiful.”

  I’m momentarily stunned into silence. God, what do I say? Thank you? You’re beautiful, too? No. Oh no… I settle on, “Thanks,” and a grin overtakes my face no matter how hard I try to rein in the thrill rushing through me.

  That earns me another sly smile.

  The waitress returns, all bubbles and kindness, and we place our orders. Griffin gets lobster, and I pick a pasta dish with chicken in it. When she disappears, I hear the faint chatter of the other guests at the surrounding tables, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then I notice the soft music playing in the background, some pop-like, easy listening. But I notice these things only because our table is completely silent.

  I wrap my hand around my water glass, the other hand fiddling with the straw. “So. What do you do? Aside from writing music?” I haven’t been on a real date since the beginning of my sophomore year, and I feel fifty shades of awkward. Is this how it’s supposed to go? Yes, I’m pretty sure it is… I ask him questions. Then he asks me some. Back and forth, yadda yadda. Standard date stuff, right?

  If only this were a standard date. Your average date doesn’t involve a secret motive to figure out why and when the other person is going to die.

  He leans back in the booth, rolling his broad shoulders, looking down at the white tablecloth. “I’m looking into schools. I don’t know what I’d want to major in, aside from music, and a music degree doesn’t mean shit. Not really. So maybe I’ll find a program I like. Or maybe not.”

  I take a sip of water to quench my desert-dry mouth. “A degree in music wouldn’t be worthless.”

  “Are you sure?” Griffin asks, tipping his head, raising a brow.

  “Nothing you want to do would be worthless, especially school.”

  “I guess. Are you planning on college?”

  “Yeah. I’m trying to get into this photography program. But… Right now I’m focused on boosting my portfolio. I’m applying for a scholarship, and if I don’t get it, well…” I shrug, like it wouldn’t wreck me. “I might not be going to college.” I spin the water glass slowly between both palms, looking down then back up at him. “I want to be a great photographer. Like the next Ansel Adams, only not so much with black-and-white. And maybe I could do it without the scholarship or the fancy school, but going to the Art Institute of Chicago has been my dream since I was eleven.”

  He leans forward, rapping his fingers against the tabletop, eyeing me. “That’s actually pretty awesome.”

  “I want to get out of this small suburb of Dayton. Sure, it’s not the worst city, but a girl can dream, right? About moving somewhere bigger, more exciting.” I shrug again, crossing my legs beneath the table. “A college scholarship is my ticket out of this city.”

  His brows pinch together. “If you want to move, you can move. School or not.”

  I scoff. “Right. Like it’s that easy.”

  “I did it.”

  “Sure, but it’s not like I have a ton of money saved up.” Or any, really. “My library job doesn’t exactly pay well.”

  Griffin runs a hand across his jaw, staring at me so intently that my cheeks warm. “Nah, I get it. But if moving is really what you want, you can work for it. It might take longer than you’d like, but you could do it.”

  Easy for him to say. He doesn’t even know me.

  “Or,” he continues, “maybe you will get that scholarship. You’ll move to Chicago, become this brilliant, beautiful photographer, and then you’ll end up in New York or L.A. Probably loaded. You’ll become famous and I’ll get to say I knew you back when.”

  I smile, but pain buzzes under my skin like a Taser on full wattage. If my dream of being famous ever comes true, he might not be around to see it. I shove my hands underneath the table, out of view so he can’t see the way they’re trembling. “Yeah, if I’m any good. You’ve never even seen my art.”

  “If you feel like showing me sometime, maybe I’ll be kind enough to offer my opinion.” He laughs lightly, that sound I hate that I love. “But you seem like you’ve got enough dedication to be good.”

  I shake my head. “Dedication doesn’t equal talent.”

  Both eyebrows raised, he says, “It sure as shit helps, though.”

  And I laugh. It’s a rumbling in my chest that makes me feel a bit lighter, despite everything. “You play the guitar. That’s not at all the same as photography.”

  He presses a hand to his chest, mocking hurt feelings. “So, you think I’m just some guitar-toting guy who doesn’t know anything about art? You don’t think music is art?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “That’s not what I meant.” I press my back into the stiff seat, take a deep breath. “It’s…just not the same thing.”

  His gaze turns wide and bold. “I actually do have a thing for art. I might not have said it back at the museum, but I don’t go there only because everyone shuts the fuck up. I enjoy museums.”

  “Not what I would’ve expected.”

  “Oh, so we’re back to the assumption game then, huh?”

  “No.” Okay, maybe. “Well, how about from now on, we don’t make any more assumptions. No more saying I don’t seem like the kind of girl to do this or that. And I won’t assume you’re nothing more than a cliché musician who knows his way around odd pickup lines.”

  His chest rises with a silent laugh, lips spreading wide. “I think I ought to be offended by that. But I’ll forgive you. And from now on, I’ll get to know you by asking. No assumptions. So long as you do the same. Deal?”

  I lick my lips, twisting my hands over my lap, ignoring the pounding beneath my rib cage. “Deal.”

  After dinner, we head back to Griffin’s car. He opens the passenger door for me and when he shuts it, I use the moment of alone time to breathe deeply.

  “So, what’s your story?” I ask, aiming to keep my voice curious and light.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean…you told me you moved up here for a new start. Without making assumptions, I kind of have to ask things. What made you throw all fifty states into a hat and pick one? Weren’t there friends or family you had to leave behind?” And if so, wasn’t that hard? Moving all alone sounds terrifying.

  He glances at his feet, looking much like he did the other night on his porch. That unusual look overtakes his features, and when he turns toward me, his forehead is pinched, eyes all squinty like he’s thinking deeply.

  “It’s a long story,” he says.

  “Well, I’ve got nothing but time.” I shift my gaze, feeling
uncomfortable and thinking maybe he isn’t going to tell me.

  But he says, “All right. I’ll talk about Arizona on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We continue our date.” Griffin smiles crookedly. “Somewhere that isn’t a parking lot. Are there any parks nearby?”

  “Ah, there’s a small one a few minutes away. But it’s just a lot of grass, a gazebo, and a set of swings. Oh, and a slide and all that jazz.”

  He grins. “Perfect. You wanna go?”

  I blink. “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.” He stares at me with wide eyes, playful and anticipating.

  I’m eager to hear what he has to say, to hopefully gather more pieces of the puzzle. With a grin, I nod. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  The night air is warm and would be perfect if not for the humidity. Typical for Ohio. While we walk down the sidewalk, the hairs on my neck stick to my skin. At least it’s not so hot that sweat is dripping down my back or anything gross like that.

  For the first few minutes, we’re silent, walking next to each other. Pressure builds in my chest no matter how hard I try to fight the anxiety.

  “Any luck on that inspiration earlier today?” I ask, redirecting my thoughts.

  He shrugs, twisting his lips. “Maybe a little. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

  “I know that feeling well.”

  Griffin glances over at me. I look back and smile. Then he grabs my hand, holding on tightly. I revel in the moment. My chest warms from the contact, and my steps feel lighter. Weird that something so simple can feel like this, but I guess it’s the small things that end up meaning the most.

  As we turn left, the park comes into view. Street lamps light up the area well enough to see there’s no one here. No one swinging, no one making their way across the monkey bars, and no one sliding down the ginormous red slide in the middle of the jungle gym.

  I’m glad for the emptiness.

  It’s just Griffin and me. My heart thumps at the thought.