The Girl Who Promised to Believe Me Locked Me in a 120°F Boathouse with Her Own HandsChapter 2

The boathouse had been baking under the sun all day.

The metal walls felt like an overturned pan. There were no windows. No breeze. No relief.

At first, I forced myself to stay standing.

I did not want the people outside to hear me gasping.

I did not want Claire to think I really was putting on a show.

But the heat pressed in from every side. It was like damp cloth shoved over my mouth and nose.

My jersey was soaked through. My gear trapped the heat against me. The padding squeezed my chest until each breath scraped.

My heartbeat grew erratic.

One beat too hard.

The next too weak.

It felt as if a hand had reached into my chest and was crushing my heart.

At last, I could not hold myself up anymore.

I slid down the door and sat on the floor.

Sweat slicked my phone screen.

With shaking fingers, I called Claire.

It rang for a long time before she answered.

Music, laughter, and the clink of cups poured through the receiver.

I used what felt like the last of my strength.

“Claire, help me.”

“There really is something wrong with my heart.”

“I sent you the report last night. You saw it.”

She did not speak right away.

I heard Lucas laughing outside.

“See, Claire? He’s starting.”

“Guys like him, scholarship guys, they’re experts at playing victim.”

“If you cave now, everyone’s going to think you broke the rules for your boyfriend.”

“And you’ll be the one who looks stupid.”

Silence stretched on the other end.

I gripped the phone like it was the only rope left that could pull me out.

“Claire, I really can’t take this.”

“You promised me. You said if I felt sick, you’d take me away.”

At last, she spoke.

Her voice was like a cold blade.

“Ethan, don’t make me more disappointed in you.”

Then she hung up.

I stared at the dark screen.

The pain in my chest sharpened. A buzzing filled my ears.

I refused to give up.

I called again.

This time, it rang once.

Then she rejected the call.

I stared at the failed call notification and almost wanted to laugh.

But I did not even have the strength for that.

I opened our messages from last night.

The diagnostic report was still there.

The hospital name, the exam time, the doctor’s electronic signature.

All of it was clear.

Under the findings, it said:

Risk of abnormal cardiac function. Avoid high-intensity exercise and high-temperature enclosed environments.

Below it was the read receipt.

Read.

That one word felt like two nails driven into my eyes.

So she had known.

She had simply chosen not to believe me.

I had handed her my life, and she had decided it was a prop.

A way to compete for attention.

A way to play pitiful.

A way to embarrass her.

I pounded on the door. The hot metal burned my palm red.

“Claire!”

“Please, open the door.”

“I really can’t hold on.”

Outside, the music grew louder.

No one answered.