When we get to the theater, I notice the afternoon has gotten a little chilly—colder than I expected. Tommy sees me shiver and he wraps an arm around me, squeezing my shoulders as we move toward the front of the building. I look up into his eyes, and he smiles down at me.

God, I love this guy.

“Crap.” Tommy pats his jeans’ pockets. “I left my wallet in the car.”

There is a line forming at the ticket booth. I don’t want to miss out on getting tickets.

“I can go get it,” I offer. “I’ll stay warmer if I move around.”

“I can think of half a dozen ways to keep you warm,” Tommy says, his voice low. I grin but playfully swat at him.

“Only a half dozen? Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

He winks, then tosses me the keys and moves toward the back of the line.

When I get to General Qi, I grope around the space between the front seats until I feel the smooth leather of his wallet. I start to close the door when I notice Tommy’s phone in one of the cup holders. Guess he will probably want that too. I lock the car and go to pocket the phone, but something stops me. I stare at the black screen and a voice in my head says, You can just look at a text or two. It’s no big deal.

Something inside tells me not to do it, says it’s a bad idea. But whatever that something is, it’s easy for me to ignore.

I slide my finger across the screen and it brightens. I shake my head; I need to remind Tommy again to put a password on his phone. Still, I smile stupidly at the picture that’s flashed up on the screen. It’s one he snapped a few months ago. It was still cold enough for my winter coat, and my face is half-buried in the fur-lined hood. I’m smiling widely—a lot like I am right now. I guess Tommy just brings that out of me: complete and total joy.

Which makes me feel even worse about snooping . . .

But it definitely doesn’t stop me.

I let my finger move down to his e-mail icon and then over to the picture of a speech bubble—his text messages. I look up and around as if I’m afraid he’s watching. Then I tap the bubble.

There are names I recognize—me, of course; his mom; his sister; the guys in the band. I start to scroll. There’s one from Lindsey Marks—they were working on a project for civics. I keep running my finger down the list, an immense sense of relief flooding my chest.

And then that relief evaporates.

There’s a text from Jess Myers. Before Tommy and I got together, he and Jess had a thing. It was short, but I know she never got over him.

I take a deep breath and look back down at Jess’s name.

Don’t freak out, Marijke.

Don’t assume the worst.

Right now, I can only see her last text to him.

Jess Myers: I guess I just miss u.

I swallow hard. If I read the whole chain of texts, will I lose it in the parking lot and go all crazy-Marijke on his ass?

Yes. I know that is exactly what’s going to happen. And I click on the text anyway.

The screen scrolls through an endless chain of messages. From what I can see, they’ve been going on for months. The list stops rolling at the last few texts, and I peer down at the words.

Jess Myers: Well, Marijke just snapped u up. We nvr really got our chance.

Tommy Lawson: IDK what 2 say . . . I didn’t know u felt like that.

Jess Myers: I guess I just miss u.

I suck in a breath. The two Marijkes are back—the reasonable one who’s telling me to take a deep breath and calm down. And the other Marijke, the out-of-control version of me who’s demanding I confront Tommy.

Why wouldn’t he tell me that his ex has been texting him about getting back together? Why in the world would he be texting her back?

Screw this.

I clench my hand around the phone, then shove it into my pocket before stomping toward the front of the theater.

I guess you don’t have to guess which Marijke I’m listening to.