His grin deepens, revealing straight white teeth. “I was writing lyrics.”
My gaze returns to the pad of paper, though it’s still closed, tucked against his side, giving nothing away. “That seems more like something you’d do in a coffee shop. Or outside, under a giant oak tree.”
Mystery Guy with the earth-shattering smile laughs again. I like the sound. Like the way it echoes in the tall, open gallery, and the way it fills the air with liquid sunlight. “I like museums,” he says. “Everyone in here shuts the fuck up.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around how—and why—he isn’t here for the art at all, when he continues.
“Coffee shops are loud and filled with hipster-wannabes. They play bland background music. And sell overpriced coffee.” He lifts one shoulder, twisting toward the wall of paintings. “Museums are way better.”
He makes a good argument. “Let me guess, you’re in a band?” I nod toward his notebook.
“No band. Just me.”
I give another nod and attempt to keep my face neutral while my brain violently warns me to quit. We’re getting closer to treacherous territory—hope. Hope that touching him leads to a vision that won’t break my heart.
“Do you play an instrument?” I ask.
“Sure do.”
I wait for him to elaborate, to tell me which one, and when he doesn’t, I step cautiously closer. Close enough that I can smell him. I’m not that familiar with men’s cologne or aftershaves, but it smells like…a guy. A hot guy. That’s a scent, right?
Music Boy stares like he’s the one waiting for me to finish instead of the other way around. Finally, I shake my head and resist rolling my eyes. “What do you play? The guitar?”
He grins. “Yep.”
“I’ve heard dating musicians can be fun,” I say, thinking of the story Olivia told me about her sister and the drummer.
“Who said anything about dating?”
Oops. Apparently, my dating hiatus has turned me into a girl with no game. “Uh, I didn’t mean—” My cheeks warm, and the back of my neck tingles with embarrassment. “I just meant, you know, in general.”
“Actually, I heard the opposite—musicians are no fun at all. I try to stay away from them.” When I laugh, he winks. “I’m Griffin.”
I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “Quinn.”
The tips of his boots inch in my direction, and I can’t ignore the way my heart pounds, cautioning me about how close I am. So close to reaching out my hand just to see.
To see the future. Well, a part of it.
Never have those visions been anything happy but I figure…there’s got to be a happy ending out there for me. Right? Someone—one of the millions of guys in the world—must be the one for me.
“So, Quinn, what are you really doing at a museum at four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon?” He says it as though we’re old friends, and he’s asking me how I’ve been since the last time I saw him.
His voice is silky smooth with a hint of intrigue, and it has my gut twisting from the mix of anticipation and nervousness. I’m complete girl goo.
“I came to see this exhibit.” I motion behind me, where the underappreciated pieces hang on the wall. “For inspiration.”
“We’re here for the same thing then.”
“You said you come here because everyone shuts the fuck up.” That doesn’t sound terribly inspirational.
Griffin holds up the pad, smiling like I missed the joke. “The quiet inspires me.”
I nod. I can understand that.
“The scenery, too,” he adds.
Scanning him from head to toe—and not the scenery—my body tingles with cold tiny pinpricks. What if I touch Griffin’s hand and the vision I see this time is a happy one? What if I finally see my happily ever after?
But I’ve been asking myself that question for years now, and it never changes. The visions never show anything worth smiling about.
This is why I should ogle artwork instead of guys. It makes my head spin. Maybe I should start finding inspiration online. Surfing the web alone in my bedroom might be my best bet.
“Speaking of scenery,” he says, “which exhibit would you recommend?”
“I doubt I can pick just one.”
“Which is your favorite?” Griffin extends his hand with the question, fingers grazing the side of my arm—and no. God no. But it’s enough. Panic courses through me for only a moment before he and the museum fade away.
Rain drips down my face. Clumps of hair stick to my cheeks and fall into my eyes. My knees slam onto the wet grass, but I don’t feel pain. Can’t focus on anything but the blood seeping through his shirt, right in the center of his gut.
“You’re going to be okay.” My voice sounds foreign and distorted with the wind and pelting rain smacking the grass. I suck in the humid air. Blood trickles slowly through my fingers, coating them while I press my hands firmly against Griffin. The rain has a thick red ooze morphing into something like a watercolor effect. It streams across his white shirt, leaving a trail until it spills onto the ground and blends into the water.
“I love you,” he says.
My eyes flash from his bullet wound to his face. “Don’t fucking tell me that. You’re not going to die.”
One side of his mouth pulls up, though pain distorts the rest of his face. “Either way. It’s true.”
I return my attention to my shaking hands and his bleeding stomach. All I feel is the explosion of my heart in my chest, the acid-like rain biting at my face, and the warm liquid seeping through my hands at an increasing pace. I can’t tell the difference between the rain and my tears when I blink at his face one more time. See his closed eyes. “I love you, too.”
Within seconds, he’s dead.
I jerk backward so hard I slam my elbow into the wall. “Shit,” I mumble, gripping my arm with a wince.
Griffin cocks his head, holding up his hands like I’m a frightened animal. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…uh, scare you.”
All the air leaves my lungs, and I place a hand against my chest, willing my heart to stop beating against my rib cage. A swirl of colors swims in my head, leftover from the vision. Lingering on his pulled-together brows framing soulful eyes, picturing him on the rain-soaked ground, bleeding out right in front of me…
I love you.
I mash my palms together to hide how they shake. Griffin’s mouth screws up and he blinks, confused. I’m surprised he hasn’t walked away. I want to be impressed. I probably would be—if I wasn’t massively freaking out.