Chapter 2

Elisabeth Hall POV:

"You're going to marry her, right?"

The question came from Mark, Blake's best friend and the team's running back, a week later.

They were in the locker room after practice, and I was waiting outside in the hallway, my foot in a heavy cast, leaning against the cool cinderblock wall. The door was slightly ajar, and their voices carried clearly.

"Of course I'm gonna marry her," Blake said, his voice laced with an easy, unthinking arrogance. "Who else would I marry? Lis is perfect. She's smart, she's beautiful, our families love each other. She's endgame."

My heart gave a small, hopeful flutter at the word. Endgame.

"Then what's the deal with the transfer chick?" Mark pressed, his tone skeptical.

I heard Blake let out a long sigh, the sound of a man burdened by something thrilling. "Dude, Kris is... exciting. She's a mess. Every day with her is some new drama. It's like a roller coaster."

He paused, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "But you don't marry a roller coaster. You marry the beautiful, safe harbor. You marry Lis. This thing with Kris is just... I don't know. A thing. It doesn't mean anything."

My blood ran cold, seeping through my veins like ice water.

I wasn't his love. I wasn't his endgame. I was his "safe harbor."

I was his sensible, boring choice for a future wife, while he was out riding roller coasters.

That night, Kris showed up at my door. She was holding a Tupperware container filled with a fragrant, steaming soup. Her eyes were wide and full of faux concern.

"My mom made her special chicken noodle soup for you," she cooed, handing it to Blake, who had opened the door. "I told her how awful I felt about what happened."

Blake, desperate to maintain the peace, to keep his two separate worlds from colliding, fawned over her. "Kris, you're too thoughtful. That's amazing."

"I'm not hungry," I said from the couch, the coldness in my heart seeping into my voice.

Blake's head whipped around, his face tight with frustration. He wasn't seeing me, the girl he supposedly loved, in pain. He was seeing a problem, an obstacle that was threatening his carefully constructed double life.

"Lis, don't be like that."

Kris's eyes immediately welled with tears, a practiced, perfect performance. "I'm always doing the wrong thing," she whispered, turning her face into Blake's chest.

"No, you're not," he said instantly, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "She's just in a mood."

He looked at me, his expression hardening into a command. "Lis, drink the soup. Don't make this difficult."

His words, don't make this difficult, echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of the room.

I was the difficulty. My pain was an inconvenience.

Trapped, humiliated, I took the bowl he brought me and forced down a few spoonfuls. The soup was rich, and filled with finely chopped herbs.

Later, after he walked her to her car, the tingling started in my lips. Then my tongue. A familiar, terrifying heat began to build in my throat, closing it off, stealing my air.

Parsley. A deadly allergy. An allergy Blake knew all about, one that had sent me to the ER twice in high school.

My EpiPen. It was in the glove compartment of his car.

I stumbled to the front door, my lungs on fire, my vision starting to tunnel.

I burst outside, gasping, and I saw them.

His truck was parked at the curb, the interior light casting them in a soft, intimate glow. He was in the passenger seat, and she was in the driver's, leaning over him.

Her mouth was on his neck, her hands tangled in his hair. He was completely lost in the thrill, the drama, the "roller coaster."

I was dying on my front lawn from the poison he'd commanded me to drink, while fifty feet away, he was playing a game that he thought had no consequences.