Haunting the One I Can't Have

Prologue

I was sixteen when I learned how my best friend would die.

It was a hot day in August, and the pavers on the terrace of the Coldwell family’s Upper East Side townhome were practically steaming. Carter and I stretched out on two lounge chairs, fresh summer tans and the scent of coconut covering our bodies.

At sixteen, my hormones were at peak levels of embarrassment, always out to sabotage my cool facade. I spent most of the summer quelling the fluttering in my stomach and trying not to let my eyes linger too long on Carter’s body as we passed the hot days together in various states of undress.

Junior year. The dawn of a new school year was always rich with endless possibilities. Who I’d be, who I’d meet, whether Carter and I would finally cross the invisible barrier of our friendship into something more.

I flipped through the magazine in my lap, pretending to be interested while stealing glances his way.

His tawny hair was an even lighter blond from months spent in the sun, dark sunglasses propped on his perfect Roman nose.

We both sucked on cherry Popsicles while oldies played from the nearby stereo.

Grabbing a new magazine from the stack next to my chair, I stopped short at the cover. My body lurched forward, sitting up straight. “Oh my god. Carter, oh my god!”

“What?” His eyebrows rose above the frames of his sunglasses.

My mouth gaped as I flipped open to the story and read the details below the headline:

Shana Evans Found Dead In Hotel Room

“Libby—what is it?” Carter was off his chair, grabbing for the magazine.

I clutched it to my chest, pulling it out of his grasp, still reading.

“Give it!” He swung one leg over my lounge chair, straddling it while standing, looking like some kind of Greek demigod. His mouth spread in a devilish smile as he reached down and brushed his fingertips against my bare sides.

I squirmed, setting my jaw, determined not to reveal the combination of ticklish discomfort and utter delight blooming across my abdomen. In the end, though, I was no match for his strength or his charm. The magazine slipped from my hands without my noticing.

Carter returned to his chair and flipped open to where I’d been reading. Steadying my breathing, I waited for him to register the news on the front cover.

His brows pinched together as he scanned the headline. “Is this—?”

“Yes.”

Shana Evans had been a staple of our adolescence and the soundtrack to the beginning of our friendship.

Afternoons in middle school were spent blasting her music from the boom box in Carter’s room while we did homework.

Or, more accurately, while I did homework, and he distracted me by launching popcorn into his mouth or playing darts.

Not much had changed in the intervening three years.

With the pressure of college admissions and merit-based scholarships breathing down my neck, I studied harder than ever.

Carter, knowing his future at his family’s oil company was secured, perfected his popcorn toss.

Another thing that didn’t change? My all-consuming crush on Carter.

What started out as the barest spark had developed into a full-blown flame in the three years we’d known each other.

“Crush” didn’t even feel like the accurate term.

Carter Coldwell was so much more than that.

He’d been my everything since the day we met, sharing a peanut butter and honey sandwich on the steps of St. Miriam’s Prep.

Some things transcended social and socioeconomic status—taste in music, peanut butter sandwiches, and our relationship.

The soundtrack to our study sessions did change over time, though.

We’d outgrown our love for Shana Evans and moved on to other fascinations.

At that moment, Carter was in his indie music phase.

But the magazine headline transported us right back to his bedroom, two thirteen-year-olds screaming bubblegum lyrics at the top of our lungs.

I scanned his face as he absorbed the details. Dead. Age twenty-two. Mysterious accident.

“Huh. That’s sad.” He flung the magazine back at me.

“Sad?” I rolled the pages up and whacked him with them. “That’s all you can say? Don’t act like she wasn’t your first crush. Like you didn’t have all her songs memorized.”

“So what? She’s iconic. Even more so now.” He gave me a pointed look through his sunglasses. “At least I don’t plaster posters of my idols on every wall of my room like some people.”

I clutched my chest and gasped. “Boy bands are god’s gift to mankind. They deserve to be worshipped.”

Carter made a humming noise at the back of his throat and laid his head against the lounge chair, which told me the conversation was over. My gaze scanned the length of his tan legs in his short salmon swim trunks.

I played with one of the strings on my bikini. “You ever wonder how you’ll die?” Part of me wanted a way to keep him talking. The other part welcomed any distraction from his body.

He chuckled, and it sent a zing through my nerve endings. “Morbid much?”

“I mean, it’s wild, right? One minute she’s here and now she’s not? She was so young.” My words were a whisper. “It could happen to anyone.”

“These things happen to famous people. But anyway, I already know.” He licked his Popsicle in one hand, cradling his head in the opposite elbow.

I sat up, pulling down my sunglasses and trying to read his expression through his aviators. He was the picture of calm, as though we were talking about what to have for lunch.

“What do you mean, you already know?”

“I already know how I’ll die.”

“Carter, be serious.” He was joking, but a knot twisted in my stomach. If I hated anything, it was looking stupid.

“I am, Libby. My family’s cursed.”

“Uh-huh. Now I know you’re messing with me.” I swung my feet over the lounge chair and onto the pavers. “Cursed. Sure.” My gaze wandered across the fancy patio, the floor-to-ceiling windows to the inside, the six-story townhome below our feet.

He pressed his sunglasses down his nose an inch. “Want me to prove it?”

“Only if it involves you rubbing a crystal ball.”

Grabbing my wrist, Carter pulled me toward the shaded stairwell leading down from the roof.

From the darkness, we emerged inside the townhome, elaborate Oriental rugs and wall sconces lining the hallways.

Something about being back inside the house made me self-conscious about wearing only a green string bikini.

Goose bumps prickled my skin and I let go of his hand, rubbing my arms. He didn’t stop moving, continuing to lead me to the lower floors banister by banister, down a hallway until we ended up in the library.

The room had been designed by his grandfather, and as I understood, it was mostly unused by any other family member.

While it oozed money, I still appreciated the coziness of the space.

The deep emeralds and maroons, the fireplace and couch that were ideal for curling up with a book.

Warmth flooded my body, replacing the goose bumps from the hallway.

Carter walked over to the giant mahogany desk in the middle of the room, and when I didn’t immediately follow, he turned back, placed his hands on my hips, pushed me backward, and planted my butt at the edge of it. I prayed he didn’t hear my breath hitch.

“Wait right there.” He smiled, walked behind the desk, and started digging in one of the drawers.

Moments later, there was a thunk as something weighty landed on the lacquered surface. I twisted my chin over my shoulder to get a better view. A large expandable file folder, stained and worn at the edges as though the pages had been thumbed through a thousand times, sat on the wooden desk.

Carter lifted his head and shook the sandy tufts of hair out of his face. “Come here.”

My movements were tentative, still unsure whether the ominous fluttering in my chest was warranted or whether this was part of some elaborate prank. Carter and I enjoyed ribbing each other, sure, but this level of theatrics was beyond our usual teasing.

He slid various papers out—old newspaper clippings, printed articles from more recent times, photographs—and sorted through them one by one.

“Here we go.” He held up a paper that was some kind of scanned copy from an old-looking archive. At the top of the page, Harold C.—1900 was written in blue pen.

I scanned the text and gathered that Harold Coldwell, at age fifty-two, had been struck and killed by a taxicab, leaving behind a wife and two children. The article noted it was one of the first taxicab accidents to be recorded in New York City.

Carter pulled out additional sheets, one after the other, and I continued to read.

Arthur C.—1920, struck and killed by taxi

James C.—1942, car accident

Edward C.—1950

Paul C.—1957

Calvin C.—1962

On they went, newspaper clippings spanning decades up until present day.

“These articles…they’re all cab accidents. And your relatives.”

Carter stood there, leaning with one palm on the desk, watching me with a glint in his eye as he waited for me to connect the dots.

“Are you saying all of your relatives have been killed in taxicab accidents since nineteen hundred?”

“All of my male relatives.” He leaned in close to my ear. “Like I said, Libby. My family’s cursed.”

I pulled back, his breath sending shivers down my spine, though I refused to let him see me squirm. “Good one, Carter. You must think I’m insanely gullible.” I rolled my eyes for emphasis. “I guess it’s death by taxi for you, then.” I stuck my pointer finger into his bare chest.

Carter chuckled, his hand closing around my finger and lowering it, gaze meeting mine with the briefest flicker of regret. That look was his tell. Carter was serious. The curse wasn’t a joke. Or at least, not in his mind.

“Wait. Carter—” My fingers flew to my lips. To contain a gasp or a laugh, I wasn’t sure. “You’re serious about this.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah? I don’t mean to freak you out. It’s just an old family legend. But seems like more than pure coincidence, right?”