“You expect me to have found a girlfriend in three weeks?”
I rub the side of my neck, glancing at him. “No, of course not. I meant why no girlfriend back home?”
After a moment of consideration, Griffin says, “I had a girlfriend maybe a year ago. But then when all that shit went down with my dad, everything else in my life went with it.” He points at the ground. “Draw another arrow.”
I crouch to draw one, thankful for the moment to gather my expression. When I stand, there’s a sad overcast to his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“I kind of became a shitty person, I guess,” he says.
Neither of us takes a step toward our surprise destination. “How do you mean?”
He licks his lips, glances at me. “I let my bad habits get out of control. I didn’t know how to deal with the fallout of what happened, so I overused my, ah, escape mechanisms.”
My stomach clenches. “You mean the fallout with your dad or your ex-girlfriend?”
His laugh is hoarse, hardly a laugh at all. “My dad. My ex, she was…I mean, the reason we broke up was because of what I turned into after the shit with my dad, the rioters, the threats, all of it. I pretty much shut down. We weren’t together for that long. I turned into an asshole pretty quickly, so she dumped me. Can’t say I blame her.”
I nod, though he likely can’t see it.
We walk at a leisurely pace, and the tension from our conversation hangs in the air like a cloud. My questions are bringing up painful parts of his past, and I can’t imagine he likes it. If I didn’t have a damn good reason to dig, I wouldn’t. I just can’t dig too hard or he’ll run, close off.
“Can I ask you something?” I say after I’ve drawn at least ten arrows on the sidewalk.
“Of course.”
“I…I want to know what happened back in Arizona. With your dad. With…you. The details.”
His easy stance and casual expression falters, and an inkling of regret works its way into my system.
“You told me some of it, I know. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about it, but…” Boy, I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “I don’t know how to ask without sounding like an ass. Though now I pretty much feel like an ass, too.” I mutter the last part, casting my gaze on a passing car.
Griffin pulls his expression back together, though it’s not entirely a normal Griffin look. “What do you want to know?”
Anything that Google didn’t tell me.
I shrug, self-consciousness spiraling and digging its claws into me. “Information about the case. How your dad got his client off on a technicality. How everyone in the town was pissed.”
And how you so easily ignore the possibility of being in real danger.
He laughs roughly, releasing my hand. “Pissed is hardly the word I would use.” For a fraction of a second, a real smile appears before fading into the hardened look he had the night on the porch with his guitar, and the day he stared at his most treasured possession smashed to bits. “Did you look up the case on the internet?”
My heart beats fiercely, and I consider lying, because Googling the info is like saying you didn’t want to tell me, so I did my own investigation. But I can’t lie to him. “Yes. I wasn’t internet stalking you, though. I promise.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of the internet? Facebook and every other social media site were literally created for that reason.”
“I know. But my intentions were greater than pure curiosity.”
He nods, sticking his hands back into his pockets. “Because you’re not like everyone else.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I roam my gaze around, finally looking at his chest and then meeting his eyes. “Definitely not.” My voice is weak, and although I know this is an absolute fact—because no one else outside my family is cursed with flipping visions of the future like I am—he doesn’t know that, and I’m not exactly proud of my “different” status.
“What,” he says, “you want to be like everyone else?”
I shake my head then wrap my arms across my chest, fingering the piece of chalk with one hand. “No. Of course not. Most people suck.”
That gets a laugh out of him, which has my self-consciousness lifting a bit. “That they do.”
He takes a few steps forward and I mimic his movements. We turn right down another street, and I mark the corner with an arrow. When I stand again, his hands have been freed from his pockets, and one of them is now scrubbing the side of his face.
“What happened with my dad,” he says, “didn’t have anything to do with me. But I still got the brunt of it. From kids at school. From the neighbors. It was a small town, so everyone knew my face. I guess they felt like it was easier to take their anger out on me than on my dad. He could be pretty scary when he wanted to be. Maybe that’s a given when you’re a defense attorney.”
We walk in silence for a few more minutes. The noise of cars whirring by and the frantic beating of my heart are the only sounds to be heard.
“The phrase ‘ignore it and it will go away’ does not apply when you’re being followed by a mob of angry neighbors,” he says with a dry laugh.
“Did they hold pitchforks and torches, too?”
My attempt at a joke falls flat. He gives half a shrug. “That was part of it. Most of it, I guess. But like I said before…I kind of became an asshole after everything went down.”
“And now?”
“I’d like to think I’m not actually an asshole, and that I had only a year of ignorance and bad decisions that lead me to becoming that guy.”
I mark another arrow on the sidewalk before Griffin continues.
“I couldn’t deal with the media, the crap people threw in my face. It’s not that I couldn’t take the insults, but…it was hard to ignore them. So I found a way to forget about my problems, forget about the death threats my dad received. I drank. A lot. Lots of alcohol and drugs are a good escape mechanism.” He pauses, working his jaw. “Until they aren’t.”
I look over at him, squinting from the sun. “I think I understand.”
“I doubt if you knew me a year ago, you’d be so quick to understand.” The hard edge to his words has me wincing and wondering and feeling all kinds of things. “I turned into an asshole. Fucked up my grades. Fucked up everything.”
I remain quiet as we walk leisurely toward our unknown destination. My fingers itch to touch him, because I think he could probably use a hug. I want to touch him just because, but I don’t, and he keeps moving. A light welcome breeze blows across my face, and though it’s not cold, I get goose bumps.
“I’ve been sober for eight months,” he says quietly. “Thankfully I didn’t blow all my savings on booze and drugs. And the people stopped harassing us, but not completely. I decided it was time for a change. I needed to get out of there. Away from the scandal and my dad’s flippant attitude about it. Get away from all the people who I thought were friends but weren’t. And any friends I once had, well, I sure as shit ruined that when I tumbled down the rabbit hole into my own self-destruction.”
His admission swirls through me, and I wish I had something to say. Something positive. But everything I think of sounds wrong in my head. You made the right move. You’re better off now. At least you learned an important lesson. Okay, that last one is the worst.
Finally, after more silence and slow walking, I figure out something to say. “You aren’t an asshole now. And if it matters at all, I’m glad you moved here. My summer would have turned out much differently if you hadn’t.” The ironic twist to my admission stabs at my soul. I am glad he moved here. I am glad to have met him. It’s totally true. Because if someone is seeking revenge, they would have found him anywhere, whether he stayed in Arizona or not.
A small bit of guilt lifts from my shoulders. I might not be to blame for his impending doom, and ma
ybe now that I know all these things I didn’t know a week ago…
“Look,” Griffin says, pulling my attention away from the last arrow I drew on the sidewalk.
I squint and tip my head, confused at first. “What…I mean, uh.”
He grins, lightly bumping my shoulder with his. “It’s the library.”
“Yeah, well, no shit.” The one I work at. “But what were we doing with the arrows?”
“We made arrows leading to the library. People are curious. It’s human nature.”
“I’m not sure arrows leading to a library will convince more people to read. They’ll probably end up pissed off that they wasted their time following arrows that lead to nothing.”
He shakes his head, sighing, though there’s still a partial smile there. “Did you just say a library is nothing?”
Technically, yes.
Griffin pulls the piece of chalk from my fingers, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Then he crouches and starts writing on the black cement at the beginning of the library parking lot. I watch as he scribbles fast but legibly.
DON’T LET THE TREES’ DEATHS BE IN VAIN. READ A BOOK.
My mouth drops open and I blink at the words a few times before he stands again, towering close to me. “Wow,” is all I manage.
“Is that a good wow or a bad wow?”
I look up and laugh. “Pretty good, actually. I still don’t think it will persuade people, though.”
He shrugs. “Nah. Maybe not. But it can’t hurt. Bonus points for trying at least, right?”
“Sure. You get a few bonus points. Though I didn’t know we were accumulating points.”
Griffin laughs. “We’re not, but if we were, I think I’d be winning.”
He leans in, putting only inches between us. My breath catches. His arms wrap around me, pulling me into a hug. His warm, minty breath is hot against my neck. My heart skips a few confused beats. When he pulls back, lowering his hands to mine, Griffin grins, squinting against the sun. Then, without a word, he spins us around, holding onto one of my hands, and heads back in the direction we came from.
I stare stupidly for a moment, once again lingering on how I thought he might kiss me. I’m reading too much into his kindness, that’s all. Besides, I need to stop thinking about his lips. I regain my composure and say, “Where are we going now?”
He turns his head but keeps walking. “We’re going to get something to eat and then you’re going to show me those pictures.”
I open my mouth to protest, unsure if I’m ready for that, because what if he hates them? But I’m the one who made the stupid decision to say “surprise me”—and surprise me he did. Guess it’s time I paid up.
We get into his truck, Griffin turns the ignition, and he glances over at me.
“Did you not like my surprise?” he says.
“No, no. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
Don’t be a coward, Quinn. “Nothing. I’m hungry.” I’m a complete coward.
“Uh-huh.” He says it like he doesn’t believe me, but he’s grinning, so hopefully, that means the end of the questioning.
We’ve made it a few blocks when Griffin mutters something under his breath. I look over and see his hands visibly tighten over the steering wheel. Then I hear his muttering loud and clear.
“Fuck.”
Fuck?
“What’s—”
“My brakes,” he says, slamming his foot again and again. “They aren’t fucking working.”
My stomach drops, and I fling my gaze to the road ahead. A red light fast approaching. I cling to my seat belt and look to him again. “They’re not?”
“No.” It’s a growl laced with nervousness.
In slow motion, I watch as we get closer and closer to the intersection. No other cars are waiting at the light on our side, but it’s a main road and—
“Quinn—fuck—hold on!”
Chapter Eleven
Holy shit. I open my mouth to say something, scream maybe, because fuck is right.
But then the slow-motion version in my head speeds up to real time and we blow through the light. I squeeze my eyes shut, not bothering with praying. There’s no time for that.
The impact comes from the right side, hard and fast. The car whips sideways, and my head flings, too. The crunch of metal against metal vibrates in my brain. Car horns honk. And I scream.
Then there’s nothing but blackness, fear lurching up my throat, and a dizzy, disorienting sensation from the car spinning one-eighty. My head feels like it spins forever, and I’m prepared for another collision, for another car to slam into us, whipping us the other way—or crunching us into itty bitty pieces.
But the car comes to halt, and there’s no more sound. No crunching. No screaming. Just my heavy breathing and ragged sobs that I think are meant to be words.
“Quinn.”
I can’t open my eyes.
“Quinn,” Griffin says again. “Are you okay?”
“I…I…yes?”
I peel my eyes open, but my vision is spotty, and adrenaline is wrecking my nervous system. But we’re not dead.
“What the hell just happened?” I mutter, blinking over at Griffin.
His eyes are wide, anxiety and worry working across his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I look down at my body, as if I’ll find a missing limb. Then I wiggle my fingers in the air, counting all ten of them. “Uh, yeah. I mean, my head hurts like holy hell, but I think I’m okay.” If you discount the way my heart is threatening to break out of my chest and how the adrenaline is making its rounds, leaving every inch of me soaked in a pulsing, panicked sensation.
He unbuckles his seat belt and leans toward me. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. My brakes stopped working, and I…”
He couldn’t stop. His brakes wouldn’t work. Someone smashed into us at the intersection. We could’ve—
Oh no, I think I’m going to be sick.
People in the cars surrounding us are getting out of their vehicles, though some of them drive around the mess with no regard for what just happened. Griffin opens his door, and I stay seated, unable to get my body to move. I’m in shock, maybe. Denial, too. That didn’t really just happen, did it?
Sirens wail in the distance—how did they get here so quickly? Before I know it, there are three cop cars and an ambulance. Red and white lights flash, and I blink to focus my eyes.
Griffin is talking to another driver, but I’m not listening to what they’re saying. I’m scanning the surroundings, watching people look onward with surprised, horrified faces. My vision has stopped blurring, but it still feels like a bowling ball is thrashing around in my head.
Despite the pain, my brain doesn’t cease its endless stream of horrible thoughts. How do someone’s brakes suddenly stop working? Was this some freak accident? Or was it on purpose?
I don’t know, but we’re both still breathing, and I repeat that to myself in my head. Over and over, willing it to calm my nerves. It doesn’t. No surprise there.
“Quinn.” Griffin leans in the driver’s side door. “Are you sure you’re not hurt? I think you should go to the hospital.”
As if on cue, I hear sirens in the distance, slowly growing louder. “No,” I croak, surprised by how dry my throat is. “No ambulances. No hospitals. I’m fine.” Nothing more than a fierce case of whiplash. I’ll have a headache for days, most likely. But I’m not worried about anything else.
“You have to. They need to make sure you’re okay.” He punctuates each word slowly, delicately, like it’s the most important thing he could ever say. His face is pale, his jaw hardened, and his eyes now sad.
I nod. Bad idea, because oh, my head. “Okay.”
“All right, hang tight, okay?”
&nb
sp; Yeah, sure. Where else am I supposed to go?
But I do wish all these people would get back in their cars and move on. I don’t like their staring, even if it is with concern. Can’t they see by now that no one is seriously hurt? Show’s over, people.
I twist my head slowly to find Griffin talking to a short, bulky guy, the owner of the truck that slammed into us. His hands wave frantically around then go to his chest. Next to them is an officer, jotting down notes on a pad of paper.
I look down at my lap and shut my eyes again, willing the pounding to disappear. But it doesn’t. My phone pings from inside my purse on the floor, and I consider leaning forward to get it, but I don’t want to move my head in that direction, because I really might be sick. Whoever it is can wait. Grandma Ruth is working, and she hates the whole texting thing, so I doubt it’s her.
Time passes slowly once they usher me into the ambulance. A man with a gentle smile takes my blood pressure and asks questions about what I remember. I take deep breaths until I calm down enough that my fingers aren’t clenched together and my heart rate isn’t skyrocketing. He asks me if I’m hurt or bleeding anyway. I tell him no. I’m fine. He gives me a reassuring smile as he taps on some kind of tablet. I sit there for what feels like hours.
Once I’m done being examined, Griffin gets checked out, too. They make me sign a statement saying I refuse the trip to the hospital. The cop asks me if I can write out a statement about the accident, and though I don’t want to use my fingers, I agree. When the cops and paramedics are finally done with me, I lean against Griffin’s truck, shutting my eyes again and rubbing my temples.
Eventually Griffin comes over to me and gently lays a hand on my wrist. “The tow truck should be here any minute. Then the cop is going to drive us home.”
“Oh, goody,” I mutter. “Can’t we walk? It’s not that far.”
He shakes his head, looking defeated. “Trust me, I don’t want to ever see the inside of a cop car again, but it’s easier to accept the offer. Plus, you look pretty pale. I’m not sure you could walk that far.”
I glare at him. “You’re pale, too, just FYI. And I can walk. Those medics cleared me. The vehicle was the only thing seriously damaged.” Thankfully, the truck was hit on the back end, catching the edge of the bumper.
To Whatever End Page 9