“I’m sorry.” My voice cracks and sputters. “I get dizzy spells sometimes.”
It’s the best lie I can come up with, and for most people, it seems believable enough. But I’ve never seen a vision like that before. One where a guy claims to love me. One where someone dies in my arms.
“Are you all right?” Griffin sounds genuinely concerned.
Far from it. “I’m fine.” I force my lips into a smile, though I doubt it’s convincing. “I probably need to eat something. Low blood sugar and all that.”
Narrowing his brows, he tips his head.
His hair.
In my vision, his hair is cropped close to his head. Not two or three inches long like it is now. My brain churns over that tiny difference as I wipe my palms against my jeans. He looks no older than he does now; this vision can’t be far off.
“Well. It was nice meeting you,” I say. “And uh, if you’re looking to write love songs, check out the photography exhibit across the hall. Or if you’re interested in writing angry songs, check out the abstract painting exhibit on the second floor.”
If I don’t get out of here in the next ten seconds, I’m going to have a massive heart attack and earn myself a spot on the six o’clock news. I can see it now: Over-Inspired Girl Drops Dead in Museum.
I’m almost out of the room when Griffin calls out to me.
“Hey. What if I’m looking to write angry love songs? Where should I go for inspiration?”
I pause and turn, taking in his oblivious, easy grin and that pad of paper tap, tap, tapping against his thigh. My mouth turns to cotton, and I swallow thickly. “I’m guessing you’ll want to take a look at the Renaissance paintings. There’s some pretty gritty stuff there. But take my advice for what it’s worth. I don’t know anything about writing music.”
And I don’t know much about love. I do know anger, though, and frustration. Fear.
I sprint for the nearest door, leaving the beautiful boy—who’s going to die in my arms—behind.
Chapter Two
On the way home, I pull my Toyota Corolla to the side of the road to avoid totaling it. My chest pounds so hard I’m certain my lungs are two seconds from collapsing. Barely seeing through the tears blurring my vision, I press my palm against my mouth, resisting a scream. My fingers shake around the steering wheel. I squeeze tighter. Try to even out my breathing. Nope. Doesn’t help. My arms tingle and shake.
At least I made it out of there before I broke down into uncontrollable sobs. If nothing else, I can be grateful for that. Finally letting go of the steering wheel, I lay my head back and shut my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.
No. No. No.
I slam my palm against the passenger seat. Maybe I should start listening to those silly superstitious warnings—like being careful what you wish for. I wanted to touch him, to have a chance to see. To see if maybe this time, the ending wouldn’t break my heart.
And then I got what I wanted. I saw the end. Our tragic end.
He’s going to love me. No guy has ever said that to me before. I’m going to love him. An idea I can’t wrap my head around.
Then he’s going to die.
Smacking my hand against the seat again, I let out a hoarse sound, anger fueling my body. Griffin, this guy I don’t know at all, is going to bleed out somewhere while I cling to him desperately, and I can’t do a single thing to change it.
The only other time I’ve seen such a vivid death was back when I was ten, but I don’t know who the boy was or when I would meet him again. Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing up. It’s a vision that’s haunted me ever since.
My visions always become reality, even if I try to change them. Like in my vision about Brad Harold. When we met in the eighth grade, I saw him telling me I was a giant skank. I was mortified, so when he hit on me two years later—repeatedly—I denied him. If I didn’t date him, didn’t sleep with him, he would have no reason to call me a giant skank. But of course, this happened anyway. Turns out, me turning him down was what made him talk shit, thus creating the rumors that students continued to whisper throughout junior year. Did you hear? Quinn Easterly is a giant skank.
And then my freshman year, touching Danny Caudwell’s hand led to a vision of him screaming at me, calling me stupid and other horrible things. So I didn’t date him. But then a couple months later, I saw him in the hallway with Elizabeth—the girl he dated instead—and he was screaming at her. Just like in my vision. Walking away didn’t stop the future from coming true. It only took me out of the equation.
Walking away won’t save Griffin, either.
Tears stream down my face. I taste salt on my lips and wipe my cheeks, forcing myself to blink in hopes of stopping the tears. Crying won’t change things.
If I hadn’t gone to the museum today, I never would’ve met Griffin, never would’ve seen him—seen that.
But much like the future, I can’t change the past.
After ten minutes of sitting on the side of the road with my blinkers on, I take in a solid breath and release it. With one last swipe under my eyes, I put the car in drive.
In only a few minutes, I’m back home. I’ve got to keep it together. I can’t deal with Grandma Ruth’s questions tonight. She knows all about my “abilities,” because the curse has been passed down to the females in my family for nearly a century. No one knows when it began, and no one’s curse is quite the same as anyone else’s. I’m convinced I got the shortest stick possible. But I’m so not ready for the horrendous conversation with Grandma about my latest vision. Not yet. For now, I don’t even want to think about it.
After shutting off the engine, I check my face in the rearview mirror. My eyes are red and a little puffy, but nothing that can’t pass for allergies. Nope, definitely wasn’t crying over a heartbreaking future with a boy I don’t even know.
Once inside the apartment, I shut the worn, squeaky door, sighing, leaning against it. I’m grateful not to see my grandma and quickly head for my room upstairs. But she pops out of her bedroom at the top of the landing, wearing a bright pink blouse, her short silver hair perfectly curled.
“Quinn.” She smiles widely, the way she always does. “How was the museum?”
I do a slow shuffle up the stairs, toward my room. “Uh, good. It was good.”
“Find that inspiration you were looking for?”
I stop at the top of the landing. “Maybe.” I lift one shoulder, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m going to take photos tomorrow afternoon, I think. Probably hit up a park or something.”
She nods, adjusting her flowery blouse as she steps closer. “I’m sure you’ll get some good photographs for your portfolio.”