Page 132 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“Reese.”

I sigh, then toss it. The balloon arcs through the air, and Miles puts out his hands to catch it. Just before it reaches him, though, he folds. The balloon hits the grass beside him and bursts. He doesn’t notice. He just clamps his right hand against his side—this time at the lower right side of his abdomen, not his back, his other arm reaching blindly toward me.

I’m already running to him. “Miles.”

I catch his hand, and he grips it so hard my fingers compress together. His face has gone pale.

“Miles?”

He tries to straighten and can’t. His breath comes through clenched teeth in short, fast bursts.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I’ve never seen Miles like this. I’ve seen him bruised. Even bleeding. And now I’ve even heard stories about injuries I hadn’t known he’d had. But this is different. I just want to make it stop, and I can’t.

He shakes his head. Someone rushes over with a chair. He doesn’t sit—he just holds onto the back of it like it’s all that’s holding him up, his breathing still way too fast as he tries to manage the pain.

The party disappears around us. People are still there, gathering in a circle around us, trying to figure out what is wrong. But all I see is Miles. “Look at me.”

He does. Barely.

I bend a little so I can look him in the eyes. “You’re breathing too fast.”

“I know.” His voice is strained, as if he can barely get the words out.

“Slow it down.”

His eyes close.

“Miles.”

They open again.

“In through your nose.” I breathe in slowly through my nose, and he tries to follow. His grip on my hand tightens.

“Slow,” I say as I exhale.

“I’m trying.”

“I know. Do it with me.” I breathe in. He follows badly. Out. Again. His forehead is damp.

Evelyn puts a hand on my shoulder and says in a low, calm voice, “Reese. What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

Miles sways, and my stomach drops. He is back to breathing too fast, so I coach him through breathing again, grabbing his arm with my free hand.

“He needs an ambulance,” Jace says.

“No.” Miles’s answer comes too fast.

“You just about passed out,” I say. “In through your nose.”

For the first time in what feels like ten minutes but was probably less than two, the pain seems to ease a bit, because Miles’s breathing isn’t quite as taxed as it was. He collapses into the chair, seeming exhausted, and says, “I was breathing too fast. That’s why I almost passed out.”

“Because you were in enough pain to hyperventilate.”

Then a man’s voice from behind me says, “Kidney stone.”

We all turn. Mackenzie’s dad is studying Miles with the look of a man who has lived this particular horror before.