For once, the pain in my chest had nothing to do with David or danger or magic. This was straight-up teenage angst, and it hurt. I mean, fine, if he suddenly liked Mary Beth, whatever, but did he have to do it in front of Amanda and Abigail?

Wait a second. Whatever? My boyfriend was smiling at a blushing girl, and I was embarrassed because my friends were watching?

Standing there in the theater, with what felt like my entire town hemming me in, I let that thought sink in. I wasn’t hurt that Ryan might have a thing for someone else. I was scared of what that might make other people think about me.

That was . . . effed up.

Suddenly, the lobby was too hot and the smell of popcorn was making me slightly nauseous, and all I wanted to do was go home. What would happen if I turned around and walked out? Would Ryan come after me, or would he shrug and go watch the “badass” Hard Fists with MB? And why didn’t that thought make me want to tear MB’s pretty auburn hair right out of her head?

“Harper?” Abigail asked, laying a hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

I hadn’t realized I was staring at the floor, my eyes tracing the golden concentric circles stamped on the grubby navy carpet. Lifting my head, I did my best to smile, but from the look on Abi’s face, I wasn’t pulling it off. “Yeah,” I said, “it’s just hot in here.”

“It is,” Abigail agreed. “I mean, look at Mary Beth, she’s practically a tomato.”

Mary Beth’s cheeks were more red than pink now, and Amanda tried to disguise a giggle as a cough.

Tired of this, tired of them, I tugged on Ryan’s sleeve. “In that case, we better go ahead and get into the theater before we all boil to death out here.”

I took a step forward and as I did, I looked up into the crush of people waiting to get their sodas and Gummi Bears. I could recognize nearly every face, either from school or church. And then Matt Sheehan, a senior at the Grove, stepped aside, and I found myself staring into a very familiar—and very crazy—pair of brown eyes.

Blythe.

Chapter 28

I FROZE, my hand still on Ryan’s sleeve. My heart was somewhere south of my knees, sweat immediately prickling my brow. The crowd shifted, a group of preteen girls sliding in front of Blythe. When they moved on, she was gone.

Rising up on tiptoes, I frantically searched the lobby, looking for some trace of her. “Who are you looking for?” Ryan asked, lifting his head to glance around, too.

“Did you see a girl?” I said, still scanning the mass of bodies moving through the theater.

“I . . . see lots of girls,” Ryan replied, bemused.