To Whatever End

By Lindsey Frydman

What if with every person you met, after just one touch, you have a vision of the last time you’ll see each other? Ever. Normally, these visions are innocent—two friends just drifting apart, a random stranger that brushed past you then never crossed your path again.

But not today.

When I accidentally touch him, within only moments of our first meeting, I’m bombarded by visions of his death.

And from what I can see, I’m the reason he dies.

Now I just need to figure out why, and how to stop this from happening. Because not only am I to blame, but his very last words to me are...I love you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781640635203

Book preview

To Andrew – I wouldn’t have survived without you.

Chapter One

I didn’t come to the museum to admire some guy; I came to admire the artwork. Honest.

But he’s got his attention fixed on a small pad of paper, his pen furiously scribbling away at it, and I can’t tear my eyes from him. A mess of unruly brownish-gold hair falls across his forehead as he taps his foot against the tile. His forearms flex, displaying impressive muscles, as long fingers bend and shift. I’m captivated by the movement. Maybe his face is something worth noticing, too—I’d know if he’d lift his head. He moves the pen side to side. Again and again. He never looks up.

Get a grip, Quinn.

Pulling my purse strap higher on my shoulder, I return my attention to the rosy, gold-colored painting in front of me. I’m here for inspiration. The same as always.

But even the beautiful display doesn’t keep my gaze from swiveling left, toward the stranger sitting on a bench in the corner of the room. He’s maybe a few years older than me. Probably a college student, likely here on some assignment for an art history class.

Another few minutes pass, and wow, has he really found that much to say about a painting of the Virgin Mary?

His broad shoulders shift every few seconds. The pen doesn’t leave the paper, and I observe him from across the room for a ridiculously looong flipping time. When he pulls out his phone, I notice a dangling black earbud cord. He’s listening to music? Huh. I wonder what his preference is.

My hands tingle at the thought of moving closer, as if I had my camera with me. My feet tingle, too, and soon enough, I’m walking casually along the wall, splitting my attention between the stranger and the artwork. But then he levels his gaze at me, both dark eyebrows climbing his forehead, and I smile—too widely—then quickly look away.

Flipping crap.

My cheeks blaze. His face is totally something worth noticing. Did he smile back at me before returning to his fervent notes? Geez, it doesn’t matter if he smiled or not. I, Quinn Easterly, am not available or interested. Not in guys. Or new friends. Or most people in general. My curse makes new encounters…complicated. One touch and I see the end to my relationships. And I’m not talking about instincts and gut feelings. I mean, quite literally, see the end. The visions are vivid, lasting only seconds—which is long enough to make anyone avoid crowds.

Thanks to my curse, guys with muscular arms, dark, touchable hair, and smoldering amber eyes are definitely a no-no for me.

Walk away, Quinn. Walk away.

Dating’s not any fun when you know from the start that it won’t last. It’s a curse I’ve had as long as I can remember, for any relationship, romantic or not. But when it comes to love, it’s like I was hit with a cruel and poison-tipped version of Cupid’s arrow.

And there’s nothing romantic about that.

Why couldn’t I have the ability to predict the future winning lotto numbers instead, or anticipate a crash in the stock market? I don’t even get to know how I die or anything morbidly useful. So my curse is freaking pointless. I just know how everyone one day leaves me. Death. Relocation. Fight. Whatever way, the result is the same. They’re gone, out of my life.

I glance back to catch him looking up at me again, tapping his pen against the pad. I blink, look away, fuss with my hair, try to not look like I’ve just been caught stealing a car—which is how this feels.

Olivia would say I’m being dramatic. As if she’s one to talk.

After clearing my throat, I take a deep breath then tilt my head at the painting in front of me, not truly seeing it. Colors on canvas. Figures of some kind I don’t bother making out. Angels probably. Old painters loved to paint angels. And that damn Virgin Mary.

Licking my lips, I wrap my hands across my chest, attempting to sneak another glimpse of the mystery guy. In my peripheral, I note the empty stone bench, and my heart plummets.

Really, heart? There ought to be an off button for emotions. That way I could live the rest of my life in peace. Not that I’m anti-romance, but when you’re a seventeen-year-old who has psychic visions of the future, dating takes a back seat.

You don’t strike me as the kind of person who comes to a museum on a Tuesday afternoon.

Oh God, is that him? Talking to me?

After plastering a normal-ish look on my face, I swivel around. My eyes widen at the guy mere feet from me now, notebook held against his jeans. A wry grin plays on his lips, and wow, he’s even more beautiful up close. Amber eyes with a hint of gold, perfectly complementing his hair. A long, straight nose and a fierce jaw with stubble covering it. He’s a handful of inches taller than me.

I glance around, as if there’s even a remote possibility he was talking to someone else. Nope. No one here but the two of us.

Figured most people have better things to do with their summer afternoons, he says.

Wrapping my arms tightly against my chest to fend off my embarrassment, I lift a brow. And why would you assume that?

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound. People are predictable.

Uh-huh.

It’s just…you don’t look like the kind of girl who spends her free time inside a museum.

Maybe I should be offended, but I can’t help being amused. I’ll play along. All righty then, what does a girl like that look like?

He grins. I love the way it tips up his lips, pressing dimples into his cheeks. I love dimples. But I hate that I love them; I can’t have normal, so attraction is frustrating and ultimately, I’ll end up disappointed.

Don’t know. He shrugs. But not like you.

My heart flips at his words, and I think about touching him to see where this goes for us, but that makes as much sense as playing with fire. I’m better off not knowing. Ignorance is bliss, right?

I lift both brows. Are you judging me?

He laughs again, raising his free hand out to the side. Not at all. I never imagined running into a girl at this museum who’s as pretty as you, though.

I shake my head, ignoring the way my heart rate increases. Sure, it was one thing to admire him from afar, wondering and fantasizing, but it’s nerve-racking to have him inches away, talking to me. Flirting with me? I don’t talk to guys. Not like this. "Well, why are you here in the museum on a Tuesday afternoon, then?"

He taps the pad of paper against his jean-clad legs again, glancing toward the nearest painting. Writing.

My feet move of their own volition. I take a few slow steps toward him and motion toward his head, where the earbud had been earlier. And listening to music?

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.

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