To Whatever End

by Frydman, Lindsey

“What do you say?” he asks, motioning toward the swings.

  “For real?”

  He shrugs. “Why not? It’s as good a place as any to sit down.”

  “Okay.” The kid inside me wildly agrees with the idea. It’s been ages since I’ve been on a playground.

  He releases my fingers, and I wrap my hands around the metal chains, sitting in the small yellow bucket seat. It swings me slightly back and forth. I press my feet against the dirt, pushing myself back but not letting go.

  Griffin sits beside me, wrapping one arm around the chain. His long legs are bent at a complete ninety degree angle against the ground.

  A few more silent moments pass. I stare out into the empty, quiet park, inhaling deeply. Griffin finally breaks the silence.

  “My dad is a lawyer,” he says, voice low and gruff. “One of the best. At least he used to be.”

  Wrapping my hands tighter around the chains, I let my feet drag against the ground as I turn to him. He’s watching the night sky, not me.

  “He’s a defense attorney. Won most of his cases. That’s why he was the best.” He laughs, though it’s anything but amused. “If you were a criminal who needed to avoid jail time, my father was the one to go to,” he says, swinging back and forth slightly. “He had a good reputation. At least as good as a defense attorney can have.”

  I stare at the dirt, thinking about all the possible criminals who find great defense attorneys and are absolved of their sins. I’ve never had much reason to think about these things. Until now. I’m eager for him to finish the story. I want to know what really happened and why he moved so far away from his hometown, away from all his friends and family.

  I wait in silence for a few minutes, and I’m finally granted my answer.

  “He took on this drunk driver case,” Griffin says, slowing the momentum of his swing and planting his feet on the ground. “High-profile. It was all over the news. The kid who died was a son of an Arizonan politician. His defendant…well, he was guilty through and through. Dad never told me so, but I saw it in his eyes when he talked about it. The driver had been drunk, plowed into this kid’s car, and drove away. Somehow, my dad was able to prove reasonable doubt, and the guy was found innocent.”

  Still clinging to the swing chains, my body feels stiff and robotic. I want to say something, but nothing feels right.

  Thankfully, Griffin continues. “My dad got the guy off scot-free, which was good, I guess. That was his job. He did it well. But then the threats started and…”

  His gaze wanders from the sky to the ground. All I get is his profile, half hidden behind his long locks of hair. His chest rises and falls audibly, visibly, and I pay attention to the way his fingers tighten around the chains.

  “People sent angry hate mail. Death threats. Being the politician’s son, the guy was practically famous in the county, so his death didn’t sit well with them. Not that death should sit well with anyone. But…the threats were vicious, some even so intricately detailed that I worried for our lives. People protested in front of our yard, holding up awful signs. It was a…nightmare. I never want to have a photograph taken of me ever again. It’s downright creepy to think of all the photos people took of me. Going home. Driving to the grocery store. Whatever.”

  Sympathy floods my system the way water does through a broken dam. I can feel his pain from here, and I desperately want him to look at me, but he doesn’t. I can’t even imagine what that must’ve been like. I almost reach out my hand to wrap around his but decide not to.

  “I’m…sorry,” I finally say. Even though sorry doesn’t do shit.

  He looks over at me, a brief, haunted smile gracing his face. “It’s the way life goes. But that’s why I needed to leave. Everything came crumbling down so quickly, and I could barely breathe. Couldn’t walk around town without everyone recognizing me as my father’s son.” He shakes his head slowly like he’s ashamed.

  “But it wasn’t your fault.”

  “No. I know that. But people have this interesting way of making you feel like something is your fault even when it’s not. Guilty by association, you know?”

  “I get it,” I whisper. “At least as much as I can.” I can understand why he needed a new start, but I wonder if he simply packed and disappeared or if he told his father he was leaving. And, although I’m itching to learn the rest of the details, I don’t ask. That isn’t the kind of thing you can just up and ask someone. Like, what happened after the threats? Did anyone follow through with them? Did someone smash out your windows? Try and leave a bomb on your front step?

  I swallow hard, wanting to say something comforting, but no appropriate words come to me. I don’t miss that he never once mentioned his mom. Was she still in the picture? Or was she simply not necessary for his story?

  Then I think that maybe…maybe this is the reason he’s fated to die. But would someone really come from miles away, hunt him down, all because of his dad’s case? It doesn’t seem likely, but people in this world can be extreme, so…maybe it’s revenge. Maybe his fate has been sealed for a long time, and it’s only because he moved here that I’ve become a part of his end. If Griffin never moved to Ohio, we never would’ve met, but maybe he would’ve still been fated to die that way…

  Lucky for him—if you can call dying at all lucky—I know what’s coming. No other soul in this world knows he’s going to die. Not at nineteen, anyway. If I know, that has to mean I can change it, right?

  And he’s still sitting on this swing beside me, looking sad and down, and God, so beautiful despite it all. He rakes one hand through his hair, it reminds me of my vision, and it gives me a thought.

  “Do you always keep your hair long?” I ask without thinking about how weird and random my question sounds.

  “Ah, no. I actually cut it all off every summer. Keeps me cooler. Why, is that a deal breaker for you?”

  I return the smile he gives me. “No. I was just curious. I like it long, though.” As if this will keep him from cutting it, thus preventing his death.

  “Thank you,” he says, oblivious to my intentions.

  Talking to Griffin and asking him questions isn’t enough. My gut tightens like a winding coil. I’m going to have to resort to Google. I’m sure all the details were made public with a case that big.

  But I don’t want our date to end yet. It’s selfish, I know, so I compromise with myself. Ten more minutes, Quinn. Then you leave to start Googling.

  I say, “You want to get up there and ride down the slide?”

  He looks over at me, a smile sparking across his face. “You wanna go down the slide?”

  I shrug. “If you do it, I will.”

  Griffin’s smile spreads, genuine and so stunning. “You have to go first.”

  “Yeah, right. You’ll let me go down and then laugh at me from the top.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I would never do that.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.” His tone is much more serious than mine was, and those two syllables strike a chord within my heart.

  Then Griffin stands, letting the chains swing in his absence. He takes two steps toward me, extending his hand. “Come on. I promise I’ll follow you down.”

  I stare at his outstretched hand like it’s something to be remembered, like it’s not just an offer of help. After a moment, I grab his hand, letting go of the chains. He pulls me up and something inside me bubbles, and I let out a stupid giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks as we walk toward the steps to the slide.

  “Nothing, actually. I just can’t believe we’re on a playground right now, when we’re both way past the appropriate age to be doing such a thing.”

  Griffin grins, his side brushing against mine, and I ignore the heat soaring through me at his touch. “There isn’t an appropriate age for anything. Unless we’re talking about wearing dia
pers. That does have an age appropriateness.”

  I laugh. Like, ridiculously loud. It’s not even that funny, I don’t think. But laughing feels good. Being around Griffin makes me feel good, despite everything.

  Which is weird—and wrong. Guys who are this charming and easygoing don’t come without a warning label. I’ve had my heart trampled on, my feelings pulverized, and oh, my poor ego. I’ve been fooled one too many times. The vision of us in love is still impossible to believe given the universe has been sure to show me my unworthiness when it comes to that four-letter word.

  I climb up the red steps first, him following close behind. We get to the top and I scan the view surrounding us. Off to the left is a string of houses, though all I can see are their roofs, all tightly packed together. There are countless trees in every direction. Ohio has a lot of trees, if nothing else. But then I turn back to Griffin’s face half shadowed in the moonlight.

  “What’re you waiting for?” he asks.

  I shake out my hands, like I’m about to do something more important than ride down a slide made for kids. “You swear you’re coming right behind me?”

  “Hell yeah. I’m not passing up the chance to go down a slide. It’s been like…ten years since I’ve done this.”

  I take one more solid breath then settle onto the top of the plastic slide. His enthusiasm is rubbing off on me, so I’ve got nothing left to do but go down. And it’s not that big of a deal, so I don’t know why I’m making it one.

  Scooting forward, I lift my hands in the air a little bit and inch forward with my feet. The momentum is enough to send me onward and down the curvy slide. Air blows my hair back, and for the three seconds it takes to get to the bottom, I feel free. Free in a way I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

  My feet hit the dirt and I stand, throwing my hands all the way up into the air, turning around to catch Griffin’s gaze. But he’s already on his way down, making a wooing sound, his hands in the air, too. He lands with a thud, inches from me, laughing fiercely.

  I lower my arms and laugh with him. “It’s been way too long since I did that.”

  “Yeah, being a kid was where it was at, huh?”

  “It really was.” My laughter dies slowly as images of my mom and dad flit through my mind. Thoughts of family dinners and Friday movie nights bombard my memory. Back before I turned fourteen and thought I was too good for family time on the weekend. I should’ve appreciated them more when they were around.

  But I wipe the depressing thoughts from my mind and focus my attention on Griffin’s still-grinning face. Because unlike my parents, he is here, right now, right in front of me.

  “More fun than I expected,” I say, twisting my lips upward.

  “Wanna do it again?”

  “Mm. Maybe not. I’m afraid doing it again will ruin the awesomeness of what we just did.”

  Griffin laughs, grabs my hand, and says, “You’re probably right. So let’s get out of here before we overstay our welcome in childhood nostalgia.”

  I nod, half expecting him to kiss me. His lips are close enough, his smile suggests that maybe he’s thinking about kissing me. But he doesn’t. We start a slow shuffle back to the sidewalk. Despite the disappointment I can’t help but feel, I’m happy that our brief trip down memory lane gave us both something to smile about.

  “Do you go anywhere else besides the museum? For inspiration, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” I say, lifting my gaze to him again. “Sometimes. There are a few places I like to go.”

  He smiles. “Maybe you could show me around sometime. If you don’t mind sharing your spots.”

  They aren’t my spots, and I never mind sharing inspiration.

  “I’ll show you around,” I say, giving him a smile I hope covers up the whirlwind of emotions going on inside my head. “But I can’t promise Ohio is really all that unique—or inspiring.”

  “I’m not asking you to promise me anything.”

  No. But I want to be able to give him a promise. A promise that says meeting me wasn’t the beginning of the end for him.

  And that, I can’t give him.

  Chapter Seven

  I sit at my desk with my laptop and type “defense attorney Mr. Howell, Arizona,” because I don’t know his dad’s first name, but there can’t be that many lawyers with his last name in Arizona, right? I hit enter and discover my predictions to be correct.

  The top results say things like scandal and wrongfully acquitted. My breath passes my lips slowly as I scan the headlines. I feel a twinge of guilt in my chest, because maybe I should’ve just asked him for more details instead of jumping to conclusions and sneakily looking for answers on the internet. But this seems like the better, more sensitive way to go about it.

  I easily push past the guilt. I am trying to save his life, after all.

  An article pops up after I click on the first link.

  Defense Attorney Henry Howell won his case. His client, Rob Dardinger, was accused of vehicular manslaughter when the teen was involved in a hit-and-run. Carl Watters was the sixteen-year-old boy who died as a result of this incident. His parents were seen in tears after the verdict came back “not guilty.” Since then, there have been a number of attacks on Howell’s home. Picketing. Rioting. And eventually threats that kept the Howell family under a tiny microscope for the world to see.

  Many believe Dardinger was guilty and therefore blame Howell for the “not guilty” verdict. People petitioned to have Howell stripped of his license, but no such action has been made. The public remains in an uproar, and they demand justice. No comment has been made by Howell or his associates.

  I blink at the screen, see various links to other pages about the Dardinger vs. Watters case. Hesitantly, I click on a few of them. Some contain images of the picketers lined up outside Howell’s house. The people in these photos look like they’re out for blood.

  For the next hour, I scour the internet for more information. It just keeps getting worse and worse. This case was a huge deal. The dude was probably guilty, but the law didn’t come through with the whole serving justice bit. And the Howell family paid the price. People vandalized their house. Slashed their tires. Said and did terrible, awful things.

  I’ll never understand why people think it’s okay to retaliate like this.

  Glancing over to check the time, I realize I’ve been on Google for far too long. I need to put in some serious work on these photographs. The deadline is only a few weeks away.

  After inserting my drive into the computer, I pull up Lightroom and wait for the pictures to load. Flipping through the images, I make hasty judgments. Too boring. Too bright. Not enough detail. Not focused right. As expected, most of them are total, utter crap—thanks to shoddy focus, my inability to frame the shots correctly, and most likely my nerves. Even though I’ve managed to capture the lighting just right.

  When I reach a photo of Griffin, I pause. There’s a dark blur in the corner, and no matter how I focus or zoom in, I can’t figure out what it is. The slimy feeling in my gut expands as I stare. It’s probably nothing, just your overactive imagination.

  Heart hammering, I push away from my laptop and swipe my phone from the desk. I fall onto my bed with a sigh, then type out a quick text to Olivia.

  Me: My photos suck. Ughhh.

  A couple of minutes later, she returns my text with a call.

  “Your photos don’t suck. You always say that when you’re worrying about something that isn’t art. So spill it, Q.”

  I choke on a nervous laugh. “Spill what?”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You know what I mean. Did you meet a guy? You always get extra anxious every time you meet someone new, especially if he’s cute.”

  “Ah, maybe.”

  She squees. “Tell me everything.”

  “He took me out to dinner then we hung out at the playg
round. It went well. Surprisingly well.”

  “You like him, don’t you?” she asks, a smile in her voice.

  “I…I don’t know him well enough to know.”

  She scoffs. “Come on. You know if there’s something there. A spark or something. Anything. Do you get a giddy feeling in your chest when he’s around?”

  Giddy isn’t the only thing I get when he’s around. I wish I could tell her why I get so anxious when I meet someone new.

  “Sure, he’s…” I roll onto my stomach. “He’s nice. He paid for dinner. He walked me to my door.” Even though it was only a few yards from his own.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  I frown at my wall. “No.”

  “Ooh, so he’s playing a little hard to get, huh? Why didn’t you tell me you had a date lined up?”

  “I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

  “Seriously? Girl, that’s the kinda shit you just bring up. You don’t need to wait for an invitation.”

  I laugh. “Anyway, how was your date?” I need to take a five-minute break from reality and talk about something normal. Like a date that doesn’t confuse me. Like the date my best friend went on.

  She gushes about Jack for the next few minutes and I’m genuinely interested and happy for her. I’m not even jealous. In the past, there were times when I was. But after I accepted my affliction for what it is, I conceded that I’d never get my happy ending. And if I ever did, it would be some miracle from the universe. Even now… The vision of Griffin and me showed love—I felt love. But love’s only an illusion for me.

  “We’re going out again,” she says, her voice light and airy, totally lovesick.

  “He seems great,” I say, propping my legs up. “I’m happy for you. And of course, if he breaks your heart, I’ll break his nose.”

  Olivia giggles. “That’s why you’re my best friend.” After a few more laughs, she says, “You don’t give your art enough credit, you know. You’re good. Like, I’m going to hire you to take my senior pictures this year, good.”

  “You don’t want a professional doing it?”