Pivot Point (Pivot Point, #1)(72)

“I haven’t decided yet.” He studies my face as though he can find the answers written there. “How?”

“There are a lot of theories. Some say the psychologically advanced have just always been a percentage of the population. Others think that we are descendants of demigods (that’s the only theory Laila chooses to acknowledge). And then there’s the idea that we are the next step in evolution. Whatever the case, it’s definitely genetic—something we’re born with.”

The phone in my pocket vibrates, and I check the screen. It’s a message from my mom: Call me. We need to talk. My heart flips, and I write back, Is this about Laila? Is she okay? My mom responds, Laila? No, this is about us. I sigh and set my phone on the coffee table. Trevor follows my every action, and I can’t tell if it’s from shock or if he thinks I’m about to evaporate him with my mind powers. I point at the phone. “Sorry, it was my mom.” As another chill goes through me, I realize I forgot to turn on the heater when I came home. It’s so cold in here.

Trevor crosses his arms in front of his chest, and I want to run over and tug them down, tell him not to close up on me. To give me a chance. My eyes blur with tears, and I look up at the light to keep them at bay. “Will you just …” My shoulders shake with a sob that I’m trying my hardest to hold in. “Will you just please sit down? I’m not going to zap you or anything.”

He drops his arms to his sides before running one hand through his hair. “I know. It’s just …” He walks to the couch and sits back down. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

I slowly sit down as well, again on the farthest cushion from his. My phone vibrates, and from where it sits on the coffee table I can see that it’s my mom. I sigh. “While you’re deciding if you’re horrified or not, can I ask for some advice?”

“Sure.”

I tell him about the argument I had with Laila over Bobby.

“So this Bobby guy hurt you?”

“Was going to hurt me.”

“So you can change the future?”

“No. I can only take the opposite path. For all I know, Bobby ended up doing the same thing to a different girl.”

“So Bobby is one of the villains in the story, right? The guy who’s purposefully injuring …” He trails off, as if finally connecting the story to real life. “He did this to my shoulder?”

“I don’t know … maybe, or someone like him. He has the ability to manipulate mass. I think he could probably separate muscle from bone even from a distance.…” I cringe. “I’m sorry that sounds horrible.”

Trevor doesn’t say anything, but his expression has softened considerably.

“He sounds like a prick.” It’s the harshest thing I’ve ever heard Trevor say, and it makes me smile a little because I can think of so much worse.

“He is.”

“And Laila is hanging out with this guy despite all this?”

I nod my head.

“She’s either a horrible friend or has no common sense.”

“She’s an amazing friend. It’s not like her. I mean it’s like her, but it’s not. What should I do?”

“Just give her some time, Addison. She’s probably feeling defensive because she knows she shouldn’t be hanging around a guy who did what he did to you.”

I remember Laila’s words and repeat them out loud. “He didn’t do anything to me.”

“But he would’ve.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“To you it is, right?” He presses his palm against one eye, then turns toward me. “Am I understanding that right? To you, it feels exactly the same as if it had happened.”

It’s hard for me to admit it out loud. For some reason I’m embarrassed, because I think what Bobby did to me was partially my fault. If I hadn’t followed him into the house, if I hadn’t sat so close, maybe I led him on … “Yes, it feels exactly the same.”

“Why didn’t you have Laila Erase that memory? She is the Mind Eraser, Lola, from the comic, right?”

I nod. “Some memories I don’t want to forget. A lot of times because they’re so good, but sometimes, like in Bobby’s case, because I need to remember.”

“That makes sense,” he says. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I look at my hands, suddenly very interested in my fingernails. “It’s not your fault.”

He turns again, sliding his feet to the ground, and lifts his arm. The action is most likely a result of pity, but I’ll take it. I crawl forward, across the cushion separating us. Wrapping my arms around his chest, I sink against his side, determined to never let go.

He runs a hand down my hair and then softly pulls on the ends. “It’s not your fault either,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

I nod and squeeze my eyes closed as hot tears fill them. It takes a few shaky breaths before I get myself back in control. I play with the zipper on his jacket as we sit in silence, moving it up and down a few inches. He’s wearing a black V-neck shirt beneath it. On his collarbone is a single freckle. I run my finger over it. “You’re warm.”

He rests his cheek on the top of my head.