Chapter 2

That day, I walked over to ask what was going on. His smile vanished, and his voice turned cold. "Need something?"

I told myself he was only putting on an act, protecting his authority as Godfather in front of outsiders.

Then he unfollowed me on Instagram and deleted our photos from his page.

I told myself he was only cleaning up his social media so no one could identify his "weak spot."

Now I finally understood why that excuse had never felt convincing.

He wasn't afraid of rival families. He was afraid Natalie would see--afraid she would be upset.

He had used the trust I placed in him to destroy my chance at a full-ride scholarship. He had handed me that plate of pasta so gently, his voice soft, his movements careful.

This was the boy who had grown up beside me, ridden bikes with me, and written in my yearbook that we would love each other forever. And because of another girl, he had forgotten the one thing that could have killed me.

That day, I used my EpiPen and missed the final scholarship interview.

My eyes burned. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, sharp and metallic.

I looked at Byron and forced the words out. "Is it true?"

He sat beside Natalie, frowning.

"Does it matter? It can't be changed now."

His tone was flat, as if we were talking about what to have for dinner.

It felt like a hand had closed around my throat. I couldn't say a word.

He didn't care. Not about the eighteen years we had spent growing up side by side. Not about the future we could have had.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, clinging to the sharp sting to keep myself from falling apart.

I stood up and ran out. Laughter followed me out, turning my escape into one final humiliation.

"Celeste! Don't go! You put up with him ignoring you before, so why act hurt now?"

"Is she actually crying?"

"Let her go home and cry! Byron was never with her. Why is she being so dramatic?"

I stood for a long time on the dark suburban street while the night wind dried the tears on my face.

My phone lit up with a message from Byron.

[Where are you? Come back. Don't make this ugly.]

I stared at the words and became seven years old again, small for my age, always unwanted when the neighborhood kids played games. Byron had been the one to take my hand and tell me he would always stay with me.

That boy had once been my shield against the whole world.

Now he was telling me not to make things ugly.

[It was just truth or dare. Come back. I'll explain.]

Just truth or dare.

My hand trembled around the phone.

The memories wouldn't stop.

When I was ten, I came down with a brutal cold. My father wasn't home, and Byron climbed over our backyard fence to bring me cough syrup. The neighbor's golden retriever chased him for three blocks.

When I was twelve, I lost the spelling bee. He tossed his first-place trophy into the trash and told me losing didn't matter; next time, he would help me win it back.

When I was fifteen, a boy at homecoming made a filthy joke and reached for my skirt. Byron hit him so hard the boy ended up badly hurt. Byron needed three stitches above his own brow, but he grinned at me and said it didn't hurt at all.

Had he changed? Or had he always been like this, and I had refused to see it?

Had I been lying to myself all along?

I decided to believe him one last time.

I clenched my teeth, turned around, and ran back. Full of hope, I pushed open the door.

A bucket of ice water came crashing down from above the doorframe, soaking my hair, blurring my vision, and plastering my T-shirt and jeans to my skin until every curve of my body showed.

I stood there shaking while the crowd burst into laughter and the boys looked me up and down with filthy eyes.

"Holy shit! She actually came back!"

"Natalie, how did you know she would come back?"

Natalie only smiled, her eyes fixed on Byron's neck.

"Byron, a bet is a bet. Give me the necklace. Now."

Natalie leaned into Byron, her fingers sliding over his neck before tracing lazy, suggestive circles on his chest.