In my past life, the night before the National Cheerleading Championship finals, my "best friend" Lily, the scholarship student I'd been sponsoring, handed me a brownie she claimed she'd "baked herself."
She knew I had a deadly peanut allergy. Yet she'd loaded it with concentrated peanut butter.
When I collapsed on the locker room floor, hives erupting across my skin, my throat swelling shut until I couldn't make a sound, Lily just covered her mouth and nestled into my boyfriend Liam's arms, whimpering: "I'm so sorry, Chloe. I'm such an idiot. I mixed up the peanut butter with chocolate... you won't blame me, right?"
Of course I blamed you.
The quarterback I'd loved for three years didn't call 911. Instead, he frowned down at me convulsing on the ground.
"Chloe, stop faking, okay?" Liam's voice dripped with annoyance. "Lily already apologized. Why do you have to put on this dramatic show to scare her? You're always so controlling."
Controlling?
My airway was closing. My lungs were on fire. I was dying, and I couldn't force out a single word to tell him.
They didn’t call an ambulance until I stopped moving, but by the time it got there, it was too late. I was already dead.
When the police questioned him, Liam gave false testimony to protect Lily. He claimed I was afraid of losing the competition, so I tried to use an allergic reaction to avoid competing, but accidentally ingested too much of the allergen and died.
The man who said he loved me let me die with the reputation of a coward.
When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on that day.
