How do you tell your best friend that she’s about to die?
Trina would never have kids. She’d never marry or become a chic fashion designer like she’d dreamed since we were in preschool. She’d never step foot on the campus of UCLA, in spite of her softball and academic scholarships. She wouldn’t even see the latest yummilicious Chris Hemsworth flick we were headed toward on our no-boyfriends night out.
In a little less than three miles, a flatbed tow truck with a totally smashed driver was going to lose control and veer into our lane—hitting us head on and killing us both instantly.
So why wasn’t I screaming at the top of my lungs for her to pull over? Simple. You can’t change fate when it involves death. Oh I could alter how we died easy enough, but similar to the Final Destination movies, when it was time for your sole to move on there was no stopping it. At times like these, being psychic really, really sucked.
“I love you, Trin,” I muttered, my chest so filled with anguish that I could barely choke the words out. It was odd that in my last moments my mind was so preoccupied with the things she would never do, almost as if my own life didn’t matter. Then again, I’d given up hope for a happy-ever-after for myself long ago. Most people with my “condition” eventually went mad or killed themselves. My mom and dad were no exception.
She cast a curious glance over her shoulder, arching a brow. “Okay… not sure what to do with that. I mean, you’re hot and all, but—”
“You’re such an ass,” I groaned. Leave it to Trina to never take anything serious. She’d probably have me laughing my ass off as we both watched our funerals from beyond.
She stuck her tongue out at me and smiled. “You know I love ya, Cass, but what’s with the heartfelt confession and the my-cat-just-croaked attitude? You’re kinda freaking me out.”
I caught my first glimpse of the truck as it rounded the corner in front of us and instantly lost my nerve. Fates be damned, I wasn’t letting her die without at least trying. “Pull off to the shoulder,” I screamed, feigning like I was about to be sick. “Now!!”
The threat of me coating her BMW interior with the remnants of my dinner did the trick. We skidded to a halt so fast I just about hit my head on the dash. After I popped open my door I bent over the grass and made some deep coughing sounds while I watched the truck pass.
Now came the fun part—pitting my precognition powers against whatever the gods threw at us next.