“Oh, I forgot,” I say after the flash goes off. “I got you a boutonniere.”

I dash off to the kitchen to get it out of the refrigerator. “Here,” I say, walking back to him. I step up to him to pin the boutonniere—a single white rose and a bit of greenery—to his lapel and immediately stab myself in the finger with the pin.

“Ow,” he says, flinching as if the pin has pierced his finger instead of mine. I hold my finger up and a single drop of blood forms on it.

Christian takes my hand and inspects it. My breath catches. I could get used to this.

“Think you’ll survive?” he asks, gazing into my eyes, and I need to close them to keep my breath from shaking.

“I think so. It’s not even bleeding anymore.” I take a tissue from Mom and hold it on the spot of blood on my finger, careful not to touch my dress.

“Let’s try this again,” I say, and this time I lean close, our breath mingling as I carefully fasten the boutonniere. It’s the same feeling I had when we were lying in the snow on the ski hill, a breath apart. Like I could lean in and kiss him, in front of my mother and everything. I take a quick step back, thinking things are either about to go very right tonight, or very wrong.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down at my handiwork. “I got you a corsage, too, but it’s in the truck.” He turns to Mom. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gardner.”

“Please, call me Maggie.”

He nods cordially.

“Be home before midnight,” she adds. I stare at her. She can’t possibly mean that. The dance doesn’t even end until midnight.

“Shall we?” asks Christian before I can think of a reasonable argument. He extends his arm, and I tuck my hand into the crook.

“We shall,” I reply, and then we get the heck out of there.

At the door to the art museum in Jackson where prom’s being held, they give the girls delicate laurels made from silver spray-painted leaves and the boys long sashes of white fabric that they’re supposed to wear over one shoulder of their tuxedos, toga style. Now that we officially look like ancient Greeks, we’re allowed to enter the lobby, where prom is in full swing.

“Pictures first?” says Christian. “The line doesn’t look too long.”

“Sure.”

A slow song begins to play as we make our way over to the picture area. I watch Jason Lovett ask Wendy to dance. She looks like a bona fide princess in my pink dress. She nods and then they put their arms around each other and start to sway awkwardly to the music. It’s adorable. I also spot Tucker in a corner dancing with a redhead I don’t know. He sees me, almost starts to wave, but then he sees Christian. His eyes flick back and forth between us, like he’s trying to figure out what happened since last Saturday when I said I didn’t have a date.

“All right, you two, you’re up,” says the photographer. Christian and I shuffle onto the platform they’ve set up. Christian stands behind me and puts his arms loosely around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I smile. The camera flashes.

“Come on, let’s dance,” says Christian.

Suddenly happy, I follow him onto the dance floor, which is covered in fog and strewn with white roses. He takes my hand and twirls me, then catches me in his arms, still holding my hands lightly in his. I’m swamped with that electric awareness, which buzzes through me like I’ve had a shot of espresso.

“So you can dance,” I say as he moves us deftly through the crowd.

“A bit.” He grins. He really knows how to lead, and I relax and let him take me where he wants me to go, making an effort to look at his face instead of at our feet sweeping through the fog and roses or the people I can feel watching us.

I step on his foot. Twice. And here I call myself a dancer.

I’m trying not to stare at him. Sometimes it’s still a shock to see him from the front. It reminds me of a story my mom used to tell of a sculptor whose statue suddenly came to life. That’s how I feel about Christian now. He’s alive in a way that seems impossible, as if I’ve created him from the sketches I drew when I first had the vision. From my dreams.

But this isn’t a fairy tale, I remind myself. I’m here for a purpose. I need to try to understand what will bring us together in the forest.

“So, you said your uncle took you camping? Was your campsite close to here?” I ask.

He looks confused. “Uh, it was in Teton. An out-of-the-way kind of place.”

“So you didn’t drive there?”

“No, we hiked.” He’s still thrown by my choice in topic.

“I just ask because I want to get into camping this summer. I want to try hiking, too. Sleeping under the stars. We never did that in California.”

“You’ve moved to the right place then,” he says. “There are entire books written about the awesome places to camp here.”

I wonder if we’ll be together at one of these campsites when the forest fire starts.

We dance closely through the final chorus, then the song ends, and we step back from each other a little awkwardly.

“You know what I’m suddenly craving?” I say to break the silence. “Punch.”

We make our way over to the refreshments table and pile a few Greek olives, crackers, and a little bit of Feta cheese on tiny plastic plates. I don’t get a lot because I’m not sure what it would do to my breath. We find an empty table and sit. I spot Angela gyrating around in a dance with a tall, blond boy I’ve seen in the hall a few times. Tyler something, I think she said his name was. The bloodred dress that her mother sewed for her looks fantastic. She’s lined her golden eyes with heavy black that tips up in the corners like an ancient Egyptian’s. If this dance is about Mythic Love, then she’s a goddess, all right. Only she’s the kind of goddess who demands blood sacrifices. She catches my eye and gives me a quick thumbs-up, then dances suggestively around the boy while he simply stands there bobbing in time to the music.

“You’re friends with Angela?” asks Christian.

“Yeah.”

“She’s kind of intense.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I say, laughing because he has no idea how crazy intense Angela can be. He hasn’t heard her discussing the mind-reading abilities of the Intangere. “I think people get intimidated by how smart she is. Like people get intimidated by you—” I stop myself.

“What? You think people are intimidated by me? Why?”

“Because you’re so . . . perfect and popular and good at everything you try.”

“Perfect,” he scoffs, and he has the grace to look genuinely embarrassed.

“It’s annoying, actually.”

He laughs. Then he reaches across the table and grabs my hand, making all my nerves light up.

“Believe me, I’m not perfect,” he says.

From that point on things go really well. Christian’s a model date. He’s charming, attentive, thoughtful. Not to mention hotness personified. For a while I forget all about my purpose. I just dance. I let that magnetic feeling of being near him fill me up until everything else falls away. I’m literally having the time of my life.

Until Kay shows up. Of course she’s gorgeous in this lavender lace gown that hugs her shoulders and accentuates her tiny waist. Her dark hair is pinned up, curls cascading down to brush the back of her neck. Something in her hair catches the light and sparkles. She has one elbow-length-white-satin-glove-covered arm curled around her date’s waist as she walks in, laughing up into his face like she’s having a marvelous time. She doesn’t even look in our direction. She pulls her date onto the dance floor as the next slow song begins to play.

Christian draws me closer. Our bodies come together. My head fits perfectly against the curve of his shoulder. I can’t help but close my eyes and breathe him in. And suddenly I’m having the vision again, the strongest I’ve ever had it.