But instead of talking, he pulls out his cell phone. “Hey, Marie, it’s Benson,” he says a few seconds later. “I know I said I’d be late, but this cold has only gotten worse and I don’t think I should come in this afternoon at all. Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. Yes, of course. I will.” He pushes a button to end the call and stares at his phone for several long moments. Then he slides it into his pants pocket and looks at me.

 

I squirm. He’s tall enough that from down here I feel very small. As though sensing it, he reaches out a hand. “Come here.” I grab on and he pulls me to my feet and turns me around. Soon his

 

hands are gently rubbing my shoulders and neck. I give a sigh and let my head hang forward as he massages some of the tension out of muscles I didn’t even realize were sore.

 

Though I guess I should have assumed.

 

“Better?” he whispers after a few minutes. His face is just over my right shoulder and close to my ear. My knees feel wobbly as I try to respond, and I have to clear my throat.

 

“Much,” I finally manage to say. His hands are still on my back and his fingers tighten for the tiniest instant before starting to move down, running along my ribs, stopping at my waist.

 

After a pause, they sink a few inches lower, resting at my hips.

 

His breath warms my neck as he lowers his lips to brush the skin just above my collarbones. A shiver ripples up my spine.

 

Benson freezes.

 

“Good shiver,” I whisper.

 

His arms move again, twining around me—one arm around my waist, the other diagonally over my chest, his fingers curling around my shoulder, pulling me close against him.

 

I grip his arms like lifelines.

 

He doesn’t kiss me again. We just stand there, holding each other as if the entire world would tear us apart if we let it.

 

I wonder how true that might be.

 

“Tell me what to do.” Benson’s voice is low and gravelly right next to my ear, the vibrations on the side of my face sending a dart of warmth all the way down to my toes.

 

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against his cheek—just a touch stubbly, like I always suspected. I feel tears build up and blink them away—not now. “I wish I knew. I’ve spent months trying to piece my life back together, but I don’t know what that even means anymore! I’m so confused, Benson. I don’t know what to think, or do, or who to trust. I can’t trust myself. I don’t even know what I am!”

 

“You’re beautiful,” Benson murmurs, then begins to unwind our arms, turning me to face him. “And smart, and brave, and strong.” I’m all the way around now and Benson’s hands are framing my face, warming my cheeks. “And completely irresistible.” He finishes. “The rest is just details.”

 

I smile a little—it’s all I can manage—and Benson leans in to kiss my forehead, each cheek. His nose touches mine and I can hardly breathe, I want him so badly. His face is so close that I can feel his breath on my mouth, and the moment that his lips touch mine is sublime. Soft and warm, his hands move to my waist, pulling me forward as his lips delve. I push against him, pressing, wanting more. Closer. Deeper.

 

Then his face is gone, but his hands are pulling me downward, onto his lap on the chair I vacated a few minutes ago. A breath shudders into my chest as I slide, limp, into his arms, my knee hugging his thighs as he reaches for my neck and brings me back to him. I grasp at his shirt, needing something to hold onto, and a hint of a growl escapes Benson’s mouth before his kiss deepens, sweeping me away with exquisite gentleness and the roar of passion I can feel held back behind it.

 

Everything I’ve craved since we met, wrapped into one moment of bliss.

 

And all I want is more.

 

My fingers spread against his chest and for a moment, I remember Quinn’s chest—the glimpse of skin last night as he got to his feet.

 

But I push him away.

 

This moment is Benson’s.

 

And mine.

 

Ours.

 

Ages pass before I’m curled comfortably against Benson’s chest, my head resting on his shoulder, his fingers stroking idly up and down my hip. The sugar has finally taken effect and my body seems to hum like a well-oiled engine as I just sit and draw warmth from Benson’s skin.

 

“Why can’t we just stay here forever and never think about anything else?” I ask, almost sleepily, my eyes still closed.

 

“I wish we could.”

 

I tilt my head back and touch his nose. “You make me feel braver.” He grins. “Good.” Pause. “I think?”

 

I laugh and the sound is unfamiliar. When wasthe last time I laughed? “It is good.”

 

“Well, though I could kiss you all day,” he says, dropping a quick kiss on my forehead. “And all night.” On my nose now. “And all the next day.” Now my chin, but I’m shaking with suppressed giggles. “We do need to talk about this.”

 

I slide regretfully off Benson’s lap and take the seat he had before, on the end of his bed. “I can make things, Benson. Out of thin air.” I’m not sure if I feel better or worse for having said it out loud. It sounds stupid. Crazy. The sort of thing you might say if you had a traumatic brain injury that resulted in paranoid delusions. “I thought maybe it was something about my . . . pockets, I guess. But that water didn’t come from my pockets.”

 

“Can I assume this is a new thing?” Benson asks.

 

“Unless my memory is seriously whacked, yes.”

 

Benson nods. I’m grateful that he doesn’t point out the very real possibility that my memory is in fact seriously whacked.

 

“But the ChapSticks were gone when we . . . when we were done,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat up. “So . . . I guess they appear and then disappear?”

 

“The floor’s dry,” Benson says, nodding toward the door where I soaked his roommate. “I don’t think carpet dries that fast. Can you do something else?”

 

“What do you mean something else?”

 

“Something else,” he repeats. “I don’t know. A pencil. A dollar. A hundred dollars. Whatever.”

 

Something like water that could drown someone inside a house? This all feels too close to my nightmare, and whatever it is that I can do, I don’t like it. But I can’t ignore it.

 

I take a deep breath and push back my fear. I need to find out. Except that I have no idea what to do.

 

Ultimately, I decide that my best bet is to go for a repeat of last night. I reach my hand down, planning to look in my pocket, but before I get there, my fingers close around something slim and round.

 

“Oh, shit!” I exclaim in surprise, dropping it. The pencil bounces to the floor between our feet. I didn’t expect it to be that easy. I kind of hate that it was that easy.

 

“I got it,” Benson whispers, bending deftly.

 

He holds the pencil between two fingers, studying it. He glances at me, then grabs a note card from his backpack and writes his name before setting the pencil back on the floor, the note card beside it.

 

An entirely new kind of tension fills the air.

 

One minute.

 

Two.

 

Three.

 

Four minutes pass and my fingertips are white from pressing so hard against my thighs. Then, with no warning, the pencil is gone.

 

And Benson’s name on the note card with it.

 

“Well,” Benson says in a voice that would sound casual if it weren’t for the brittle, glass-sharp edge, “now we know why your ChapStick was working so poorly.”

 

Hadn’t I commented that it seemed like I had to reapply every five minutes? But how could I have even considered guessing that it was literally disappearing?

 

“Do it again,” Benson says in a whisper, his jaw flexed so hard my own teeth ache.

 

“No,” I whisper back. I can’t. I just can’t. This whole thing is terrifying and I just want it to go away.

 

He looks like he’s about to say something, then he turns abruptly and grabs the candy bowl, unwraps a Milky Way, and shoves it into his mouth, starting on another wrapper before he’s even begun chewing. Some people are emotional eaters; apparently Benson is a thinking eater.

 

As if abruptly remembering that I’m there, he holds the bowl out to me and I grab three. For a few minutes we both munch in silence and I suspect the sweet candy is helping to center him as much as it is me. The silence is deceptively companionable with nothing but the crackle of wrappers to mar it.

 

Benson leans forward on his elbows, fingers laced, staring at me with hard eyes until I have to suppress the urge to squirm. I wish he would hold my hands. Maybe run his fingers up my legs again. Something to remind me that he’s here.

 

But he just sits, silent and separate.

 

“Surely it all fits together somehow,” Benson says after a while, and I nod. But it’s like trying to put a puzzle together without half the pieces.

 

And without the picture on the box.

 

Not to mention a death threat hanging over you if you don’t solve it fast enough.

 

“I just don’t see how it could,” I admit.

 

“Well, you can make stuff. Surely if anyone found out, they’d want to use you, right?” He swallows and then pushes a half-eaten candy bar away from him like he’s lost his appetite.

 

I, on the other hand, have found mine again. I start unwrapping another Kit Kat.

 

“Maybe they’re hiding you from people like that.”

 

“What, so I can make a big stack of diamonds that will disappear in five minutes?” I say through a chocolaty mouthful.

 

Benson shrugs. “Maybe with some kind of—I don’t know, training?— it wouldn’t disappear.”

 

“That might make sense,” I say, sifting through the bowl for another Snickers. “But if so, why wouldn’t they tell me?”

 

“Stress, recovery,” Benson says, spreading his long arms out to the side. “It sounds like at least Reese wants to tell you.”

 

“Maybe.” I don’t want him to turn them into good guys. If he does, who will I have to be mad at—to pour my frustration into?

 

“What about Quinn?” Benson asks softly, and the awkwardness is back.

 

“What about him?” I say, feigning disinterest as I try to keep from squishing my candy bar. It’s not fair; Benson deserves a straight answer. But if I had a straight answer, I’d be giving it to myself.

 

Benson hesitates, then looks up and meets my eyes. “He’s got to know something. Reese said the triangle changed everything, and the first time you saw it was at Quinn’s house, right?”

 

“Above the door, yeah.”

 

“And didn’t he tell you he couldn’t explain, but that he would bring something to show you? Isn’t that what he said?” Benson pauses. “Maybe he’s going to show you what you can do.”

 

I pull the cuffs of my jacket over my suddenly chilled hands when a thought occurs to me. “Maybe he can do it too.”

 

Benson gives one jerky nod. “Maybe.”

 

Whoever Quinn is, he’s wrapped up in all of this. Benson’s right— he has to be. I’m not sure I want to talk about Quinn with Benson, not after . . . but what choice do I have? “Do you think I should tell him I already know?”

 

“I guess you have to decide how much you really trust him,” Benson says quietly.

 

With my life.

 

The thought comes unbidden—feels more like an invisible someone whispering in my ear. Reflexively, I pull away, but of course no one is there. I try to shake off the eerie feeling and rub the goose bumps from my arms.

 

“Tave.” Benson hesitates and I know what he’s going to ask. “What . . . what is he to you?”

 

I swallow and look at up Benson—the person who has single-handedly gotten me through the last four months, to say nothing of the last forty-eight hours. Yes, there’s been Reese and Jay and Elizabeth—not that I’m certain anymore that they had my best interests in mind—but really, the person who pulled me through was Benson. Benson, who I’ve now been kissing for twenty-four hours.

 

I wish I could talk to him about anything but this.

 

“I don’t know,” I finally whisper, looking down into my lap.

 

“Even now? After . . . after everything. You don’t know?”

 

I lift my shoulder into a shrug, hating that it’s the truth.

 

“It’s just that—” He cuts off, his fingers gripped tightly together. “I’m not sure I can keep doing this if it’s only . . . if it’s only kissing for you. If that’s all I wanted, honestly, it would be great. It’d be fun. But . . . but it’s more than that to me,” he finishes, looking up and meeting my eyes for just a moment before turning away. “You’re more than that to me.”

 

To me too! The words are on the edge of my tongue, but I can’t say them, not until there’s only one guy in the arena. Until then, I can’t take anything to the next step. It wouldn’t be fair to Benson, but it’s not fair to me either.

 

The thing is that it should be easy. I have no reason to even like Quinn, much less be obsessed with him the way I am. I know what I want; I want Benson. So why does my heart ache at the thought of never seeing Quinn again?

 

A door slams downstairs and startles me from my haze enough to glance at Benson’s clock. “Crap! I gotta go. Reese and Jay are going to start wondering where I am and I can’t let that happen,” I rattle distractedly as I grab my backpack. “Would you mind taking me home? Maybe dropping me off a block from the house so Reese doesn’t suspect anything?”

 

“You’re going back? Tave, don’t. It’s not safe. Stay here with me,” Benson says a little too seriously, then breaks the tension by tacking on, “I promise I won’t let Dustin grope you in your sleep if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll make him stay on the couch. He passes out there half the time anyway.”

 

“I can’t,” I say, and my voice sounds utterly defeated even to myself. “I have nothing with me and I don’t know what I’m up against yet. I need some time.”

 

Benson reaches out for both of my hands in a gesture that speaks more of desperation than affection. “It doesn’t sound like you have much time, Tave.”

 

“I have some,” I say, squeezing back. “It’s just one night.”

 

“And tomorrow night?” he asks.

 

“I guess I’ll make that decision tomorrow.”