He grabs both of my hands between his. “But you could’ve been hurt. And I’m really, really sorry. I swear I don’t—”
“Stop apologizing. It wasn’t your fault.” I swallow, gripping his hands a bit tighter, only now realizing they’d been shaking. “And we’re okay, so…it’s all okay.” For now, anyway. I suck in a breath and try out a smile that feels all kinds of wrong.
“I’ll make this up to you.”
“Uh-huh. And there go all your bonus points.”
His responding smile is weak, but it’s better than nothing. “Yeah, I’ll make up for those somehow, too. Eventually.”
He leans closer and lays the gentlest kiss against my cheek before pulling away, taking his warm hands from mine.
While I wait in the police car, I turn that one word over in my head. Eventually.
Eventually…
Eventually, everything ends.
…
Griffin’s brake line was cut.
I’m not totally surprised when he tells me the mechanic called the next morning with that news. No one seems optimistic about finding out who did it. The cops aren’t convinced this event and the break-in are related. One even told Griffin it must be a string of bad luck. An unfortunate coincidence. It’s infuriating.
After a couple hours of stewing in my own thoughts, I text Olivia, finally telling her about the accident.
Olivia: Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!?
Me: Long story.
Olivia: Oh, you’re telling me this story. I’m coming over.
That’s what I’d been hoping for. I always tell her everything. Everything that I can, anyway. And right now, I could use a friend to vent to. Even if I can’t spill all my guts.
It takes Olivia all of ten minutes to drive over, barrel into my bedroom, and crush me with a hug.
“I can’t breathe,” I mutter.
She laughs a little, letting me go and pulling back to look at me. “Sorry. Damn, girl, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” A headache is nothing compared to what could’ve happened.
“Look, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” I sit on the edge of the bed.
Olivia sighs loudly, throwing her hands around. “I’ve been so wrapped up with Jack that I feel like maybe I’ve been a shitty friend. Like, come on, I haven’t hounded you for every bit of information about Griffin like I normally would. You know how I like my details.” She waves a hand. “I’ve been too busy with a guy to be a good friend.”
“Stop it. You have grilled me about Griffin. Plus, I want you to be happy, you know. I’m glad you really like Jack. I’m glad things are working out. Don’t worry, I’ve been keeping myself busy.”
She plops on the bed beside me. “But we’ve been skipping out on our weekly coffee shop visit, and I haven’t seen your pictures in like…weeks.”
“That’s because I haven’t taken anything worth showing.”
“Come on.” She rolls her eyes like I’m being ridiculous. “Seeing your new stuff is one of my favorite things.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious. You better have something to show me soon. Oh, and this Sunday, we’re going for coffee, okay?”
I nod and smile. “Sounds great.”
“Okay.” She pushes herself backward on my bed until she’s resting against my mountain of multicolored pillows. Crossing her legs, she holds out one hand as if she’s offering me something. “I’m ready for this long story of yours. What the hell happened?”
I give her all the details about the wreck, including the part about the intentionally cut brake line and the smashed guitar. Afterward, I go into detail about Griffin’s dad and the scandal back in Arizona.
“You think someone’s after him?” Olivia says it like she doesn’t believe it. “Like, trying to hurt him?”
“Something like that.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. I mean…why the guitar? That’s way nicer than trying to cut the brakes on a dude’s car. The first one? Sure, it sucks, and is cruel and unusual. It was his most-loved possession, so it’s kind of wrecked his soul, but the brake lines? That’s a whole other level of messed up. If either of you had died, that would have been murder.”
In lieu of a vocal response, I shake my head.
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” she asks.
“No. Not at all.”
“But he’s putting you in danger. I’m not saying he’s doing it intentionally—but if you think there’s weird stuff going on because of him, you might not want to get too involved.”
“I’m already too involved. Nothing will change that.”
“Quinn, you’re clearly in need of some advice, right? I want you to be happy just as much as anything, but I also want you to be safe.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and smiles. “You know that, right? Oh!”
“Oh what?”
She drops her hand. “I can have Jack look into Griffin if you want. He can check out his background. See if there’s anything he’s not telling you. Jack’s really good at everything tech, including some hacking. But nothing bad! I swear.”
“Jack’s a…hacker?”
“Well, kind of. But he said his foster brother taught him a bunch of stuff. He was a ward of the state, so no one knew who his parents were. He found his birth parents through hacking different databases.”
Holy crap. “He can do all that? And he’ll be willing to help me?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll ask him as soon as I leave.”
My phone beeps with a new text.
Griffin: Dinner, my place, 7? I owe you.
My stomach flutters in response.
Me: What do you owe me for?
Griffin: My truck almost killed you.
Those words have me flinching. “Damn,” I mutter.
“What’s up?” Olivia asks.
“Ah.” My eyes meet hers. “Griffin asked me over. For dinner.”
Her brows shoot up. “Why do I see anything less than enthusiastic joy and love radiating off you?” Olivia laughs. “Quinn, come on! Get happy.”
“I am. Promise.” I sit on the edge of the bed and shrug. She doesn’t buy my nonchalance, I know. “But I’m nervous, too.” About what might happen next. What’s worse than cutting someone’s brake line? Is Griffin getting shot the next thing, or is something else going to happen first? Something far too sinister to picture in detail. Something else is coming. It’s just a matter of time.
Chapter Twelve
Despite the delicious smell wafting through Griffin’s apartment, I wrinkle my nose, curious, and maybe a bit suspicious. “Chicken?”
His brow quirks as he shoves his hand into the oven mitt. “No. Turkey.”
“Is that…” I glance around the small kitchen, identical to my own, trying to place the smell. “Mashed potatoes?”
“Yes.”
“And sweet potato casserole?”
“Yep.” Griffin cocks his head, squinting in the cutest way. “Why do you sound…more disgusted with every food item you name?”
Unable to help myself, I giggle and cross my arms. “You know it’s not Thanksgiving, right?”
Griffin sets the pan with a turkey in it on top of the stove. He laughs and spins around, oven mitts still on. “Yeah, of course. But this is basically all I know how to cook. Other than mac and cheese. Are you telling me you are the only American who hates Thanksgiving? Is that your fatal flaw—a hatred of food? I figured there was something, but this?”
“You sound like Olivia. So freaking dramatic.” I smile and scratch my ear. “Also. You look ridiculous. Your oven mitts don’t even match.”
“Ouch.” He pouts as though I actually offended him while he pulls them off.
“You have no idea how glad I am that yo
u’re not wearing an apron to top this whole scam off.”
Griffin’s face pinches. He’s genuinely confused. “Scam? Wait. And what’s wrong with aprons?”
I lift a hand to motion toward the fully baked turkey. “Who cooks this kind of meal for a date with one other person? On a random Thursday? In July?”
His eyes and mouth twitch as he considers whatever is going on in his head. “Griffin James Howell.” He sticks out his arm. “Five foot eleven. Chronic knuckle cracker. Guitar player. Lover of turkey. Also, I cook when I’m nervous.”
“What is there to be nervous about?” I ask, considering his outstretched hand.
He drops his arm. His fingers find mine, playfully and gently intertwining our hands. “It’s not every day I have a pretty girl over to my place for dinner. Maybe I wanted to impress you, just a little.”
I look from our fingers to his grinning face, my heart beating harder than it ought to. “What if I tell you I was already impressed? Before I stepped into your kitchen and smelled heaven?”
“I don’t know about heaven.” He chuckles, pulling me in close enough to kiss the top of my forehead, his hair tickling my face. “But if I can pull off a smell like heaven? Guess I’m doing something right.”
I laugh. “Careful. I wouldn’t want the compliment to go to your head. But the food does smell incredible.”
“So do you,” he says, grinning mischievously in a way that twists my heart. “I may have made too much food, so I hope you’re hungry.”
Because he hasn’t released me, I lean against his chest and laugh. He smells good, too. But I can hardly tell the difference between the food and him.
We stay like this for heartbeats—until I lose track of how long—his chest pressed against mine, my cheek in the perfect spot against his shoulder. I breathe in, trying to capture this exact moment within my memory. I know this will be one of those smells that, when replicated, I’ll remember this very moment. Thanksgiving will never be the same.
After Griffin, after this all ends…I’ll never be the same.
He pulls back, and I stop my brain from that train wreck of a thought pattern. We sit at the small, simple Ikea table and eat like it’s November instead of July.While indulging in the abundance of food, we laugh and joke about things that aren’t intense and important.
“Well, I am impressed,” I say when I’m finished eating. “So…bonus points?” I set my fork down on the empty plate and reach for my glass of water.
Griffin’s face lights up, and his lips curve into a crooked smile. “I’ll accept all the bonus points you’re handing out.”
I fidget in the uncomfortable chair and twist my hair around one shoulder. “I would’ve been impressed with mac and cheese, though, just so you know. No need to go all out for me.”
His smile shifts. It’s softer. And his body leans in, as close as he can get from the other side of the table. “Maybe I wanted to do something nice for you.”
I take a sip of water, the coolness trailing down my throat.
“Grilled cheese would’ve been nice.”
“But it wouldn’t have impressed you.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, setting the glass down. “I think I would’ve been impressed with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.”
“Noted.” His grin expands, then relaxes again as he looks toward the floor. “Truth is, this is the only meal I like making. I don’t particularly enjoy cooking for just myself. Seriously, what’s the point of all those dishes for only you to eat?” He shakes his head, leaning back, raising his gaze to meet mine once more. “My mom always had me help with Thanksgiving dinner, so this was all I ever learned to cook. Looks like you can thank my mom for this.”
I smile, wondering why he’s never asked about my parents. Why he never asked why I live with my grandma. Does he assume my mom and dad are dead? Maybe he can sense I don’t like talking about them.
“After my mom died, it was up to me if I wanted to have food on Thanksgiving. The rest of my family lived too far away for my dad to justify the trip to see them, and he wasn’t interested in cooking. There weren’t many things he was interested in aside from work.” His tone becomes sharper, his smile grows jagged and raw, and I only want to hug him.
But doing so would require maneuvering around the table, and by then, the moment would be gone. I reach out my hand across the table and wait for him to place his fingers on top of mine. When he finally does, warmth zips through my arm, like a buzzer straight to the heart.
After a few glorious and tingling seconds, I say, “I wish you’d tell me more about your life in Arizona. I mean, before…everything happened.”
He takes a sip of water before saying, “That’s a bit of a broad topic, buttercup.”
“Oh, no, you can’t call me that.” I laugh and lift both hands in surrender.
He sits a little straighter. “Oh no? Why not?”
“For one, it’s cheesy. For two, it’s—”
“Cliché?”
“Um, maybe…” I shake my head. “It’s just—just don’t, okay? Find a better nickname?”
“Like what?” He raises a brow.
One that doesn’t make my heart stutter. “I don’t know. If you want to give me a nickname, you’d better be more creative than that. You’re better than buttercup.”
“Ouch.” But he grins. “You probably break a lot of hearts, Quinn. Lots of hearts.”
The laughter inside me flutters like a blown-out flame. Because one of my visions did result in me hurting someone. I was never the cheater or the liar, but there is a guy out there whose feelings I hurt my freshman year. “I might’ve broken one, but not on purpose.”
“Uh-huh.” Griffin accusingly wiggles a finger in the air toward me. “That’s what they all say.”
I exaggerate an eye roll. “Trust me, I’ve been hurt more than the other way around. I’m not a heartbreaker. I told you I don’t date, so how could I be?”
“Okay, you didn’t break hearts on your dating hiatus. But before that? I’m not buying it.”
“I’m only seventeen. You really think I have this string of brokenhearted guys I’ve left behind?”
“You say it like it’s impossible. I bet kindergarten Quinn had all the boys enamored.”
“Please. I was more interested in crayons than boys back then,” I say.
He flashes his signature grin. It would make a perfect photograph, but I wouldn’t need one because I’ve memorized it already. We finish eating our Thanksgiving Day feast with light chatter, and then I help him clean up the table even though he tells me not to.
“I have something to show you,” Griffin says when all the dishes are put into the dishwasher and all the leftover food has found a home in the fridge. “No, don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re nervous.”
My heart thumps. “Who says I’m nervous?”
“Your pink cheeks give you away.”
Well, if I wasn’t nervous before… I place a palm against my cheek. “That seems unfair.”
“Come on. It’s in my bedroom.” He places a gentle kiss on my forehead, and my body thrums as I follow him up the stairs.
“Are you trying to show me what I think you’re trying to show me?” I ask, falling behind when he takes the steps two at a time.
His responding laugh echoes, and when I finally catch up to him, he’s standing in his bedroom, still grinning like he just won something. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint.”
I quirk both eyebrows this time, give him a look like you’ve got to be kidding, even though my heart thumps a bit too hard and my cheeks burn. “Then it must be a pet iguana.”
“An iguana? That’s your next guess, seriously?”
I shrug, stepping forward even though he’s blocking the doorway. “Yep.”
“
You’re fucking adorable.”
I bite my lower lip, but it does nothing to stop my smile. “You say that to all the girls?”
Griffin shakes his head, laughter written into the lines surrounding his mouth. “Definitely not.”
Without another word, he turns, leaving me a little flustered, and I don’t know what to do with flustered. The fire in my chest dims in his absence, but I inch into his room while he opens a closet door and disappears. I stand there, waiting. Waiting for my heart to stop pounding. Waiting for my cheeks to stop burning.
Finally, he emerges from the closet with a medium-sized box and sets it on the bed. Then he motions for me to sit. I do, sinking into the soft foam mattress. He digs through the box before pulling a CD case from it. He turns on his TV and pops the disk into his PS4. A few clicks later, Griffin has opened a music player app and hits play. A song begins—more specifically, a guitar begins to strum. The recording is soft and starts out slow.
“I don’t have words yet,” he says. “But I’m somewhat attached to the melody.” His face falls, mouth pinching together. A look I don’t understand. “That day at the museum, I was listening to this recording on my phone. I was trying to come up with lyrics. Honestly, I was having a really hard time thinking of words. Nothing seemed…right. And…after you left, my creativity came flooding back. It was the best I’ve felt about any of my writing in the past year. I knew that finally, what I’d done hadn’t totally sucked. I thought, maybe, you’d like to hear it?” His forlorn expression is gone, replaced with sparkling eyes and a grin.
It’s like whiplash to my senses. My heart bangs against my rib cage once. Twice. “Of course,” I say.
Griffin stands in front of me, then reaches for both my hands. He guides me up until I’m standing, too. When he takes a few steps back, I follow his lead. Then I giggle, just a little. “Are you trying to—”
“Dance with you? Yes.”
My chest expands with happiness and anxiety, but there’s nothing for me to do other than oblige his request. I follow his lead, and after a few moments, Griffin and the music are the only things that exist. One of his arms snakes around my waist, pulling me close. I lean my head against his chest so I can hear his heart beating. It’s faster than it should be—or is that my heartbeat I hear inside my head? Griffin runs his fingers through my hair, and I inhale his scent before letting out a slow, contented breath.
To Whatever End Page 10