And besides, I’ve already learned that taking myself out of the vision doesn’t stop it. He’d end up dying the same way in someone else’s arms, someone who doesn’t know what’s coming.
I tuck my legs beneath the chair. The other option—the moral option—is to keep Griffin close and hope for a miracle. Though there are so many unknown factors. How do you save someone without knowing who, why, or specifically when? The only time indicator I have is that it’ll be humid and raining. Oh, and that his hair will be shorter. But what if he cuts all his hair off tomorrow and that detail is pointless? It could be grown and get cut again a number of times before he dies. The weather could be humid and raining a month from now or a year from now.
Stretching out my legs and leaning my head back, I shut my eyes. In the absence of an immediate plan, my mind drifts to the photographs I’ve collected for my portfolio so far. I have four photos, maybe. A few others are possibilities…but they need to be perfect. I need at least eight scholarship-worthy photos. So maybe I have only two…
Guilt creeps in the longer I pretend to care about my scholarship more than Griffin. My heart shifts and thumps an erratic pace. When I think of him, I remember the vision so vividly, I can almost taste the rain in the air. I feel the agonizing despair of being powerless, of drowning in my own pain and sorrow.
The soft tinkling of music invades my thoughts. Guitar music.
My eyes snap open. Didn’t Griffin say he plays guitar?
It’s got to be coincidence. Guitar playing is common—cliché. Any one of my neighbors might own a guitar. In fact, I’d bet money that a handful of them do.
I scrub a hand down my face. Coincidences are something I don’t believe in.
My heart thrums, my palms slicken with sweat, and I take a deep breath, considering the possibilities of what might be around the corner. Maybe it’s some random neighbor.
Or maybe not…
I do what the only logical next step is. Stand and inch my way off the patio. I take another deep breath. Freshly mowed grass and the smell of earth invade my nose. All my senses are on high alert.
A few more hesitant steps later, I make a right around the corner of the nearby apartment building. Guitar music grows louder, the chords drifting through the air. After a few more cautious steps, I see a hunched form sitting on a neighbor’s patio. Guitar perched on his lap. The faint light from the streetlamps gives away his tall, broad form, and when I close the distance, I note longish locks falling over his forehead. Judging by the stack of broken-down boxes on his patio and the fact that I’ve never seen him around here before, I’m guessing he just moved in.
For minutes, I stand there, still as a statue, listening to the music and watching his head gently bob as his fingers gracefully strum the strings. Quick notes come from the guitar, and it’s like I’m listening to an encoded message, trying to understand the meaning.
Griffin lifts his head, uses one hand to brush the hair from his eyes, and takes one-point-five seconds to see me standing there. He’s sitting a couple yards away, because out of all the apartment complexes in town, he has to live here—it’s the universe’s insurance, in case I’d decided not to visit the museum again.
The universe is nothing if not full of coincidences that aren’t coincidences at all. The universe, I’m convinced, conspires to ruin me.
Shit.
Flipping shit.
Then again, maybe I should be thanking the universe; getting to know Griffin will be so much easier when he lives only yards away. And getting to know him must be the first step in me helping to save him.
“Quinn?”
I move my hand from my mouth and run it through my hair, taking a breath to compose myself. “Uh. Hey. Yeah, Quinn. Hi. Griffin, right?”
“Right.” He gently sets the guitar on the ground beside him and stands. I’m still frozen, unsure what to do or say. Despite the perfect weather, it now feels like it’s a thousand degrees outside. It’s a dreadful mix of heated embarrassment and the fact I can’t stop staring at his long, lean body.
Griffin shuffles forward, tipping his head. Since I’m still not moving, he comes closer until he’s merely two feet away, and I can see his stunning grin, those eyes that speak volumes. Eyes that say how intrigued he is to see me.
“I take it you found some inspiration at the museum, huh?” I say, wrapping my arms around my waist.
“Yeah.” The porch lamp highlights the wicked grin on his face. He’s wearing a green T-shirt, and a silver chain hangs around his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
“I live right over there,” I say with a nod. “I’m not stalking you, promise.” Though I instantly regret my clumsy words. “I just mean…I’m surprised you’re here.” There’s no backpedaling my way out of sounding ridiculous. Staring at him brings the onslaught of images I want to forget. Blood and rain. Love and death. My cheeks flush. “Uh, I didn’t expect to see you again.” Not right outside my apartment, anyway.
“Me either.” He peers at me like I’m a piece of artwork in a museum, worthy of being admired. I pull my hair over my shoulder, trying to keep my inner squeeing to a minimum. “Maybe it’s fate,” he says.
I want to squeeze my eyes shut. Fate. I flipping hate that word. “Maybe so.”
“Do you make a habit of sneaking up on strangers? Or is it just me you like to sneak up on?”
Oh my God, he must think I’m ridiculous. “No, I usually have better, more interesting hobbies.” Shut up, Quinn.
“Hobbies like what?” His smooth voice invades my thoughts. One dark eyebrow rises in curiosity.
I glance sideways at the row of apartment windows, most of which have all their lights turned off. “Like photography. Reading. Movies.” I look back at him. “Those kinds of things.”
He nods slowly, another sly grin slipping onto his face. “Those are good hobbies. Much better than stalking.”
“I’m not stalking you.”
Griffin laughs. It hits me like a warm blast straight to the heart. Why does his laugh have to sound so nice? “I’m only kidding.”
“Uh-huh.” The faint rumble of car engines and noisy crickets fills the silence. “When did you move in?”
“Last week.” He tips his head back toward his front door. “This place is nice. Cheap. Clean. Do you have a roommate?” Griffin looks at me again, raising his brows like I’m the most interesting girl in the world.
I don’t know how a single look can do that, but it can.
A flush works its way up my neck, because now I have to admit to a hot guy old enough to have his own place that I live with my sweet, if not kooky, Grandma Ruth and that I am, in fact, only seventeen.