A/N Writing sucks! What's worse is editing. I had no idea the amount of stress that came with writing a story. I'm in awe of every single one of you. You guys are amazing and masochistic.

Huge thanks to Megan and Amy for being awesome. I never knew I could hate the color red so much. Also it's to be said that I'm aware of the verb tenses and there wrongness. It came to the point of either being correct or sounding good. I picked the later. It's only in this chapter though, I promise.

I'm tired of looking at this thing, so I'm not wasting time with a witty disclaimer. It's isn't mine, nor will it ever be.

Eric Clapton's Hey Hey is the sound.

Introduction

The first time I met Edward Cullen I was fifteen years old. My friends and I were at Seattle's Alki Beach celebrating our last weekend of summer before school started back. He was visiting his cousin. Everything's still fuzzy, but I remember watching him though the night. I remember the way he carelessly slouched against a wooden log, his bottom on the sand and eyes glowing orange as he stared into the fire. He didn't talk much. Instead, he sat alone quietly lost in another world as his head bobbed to the beat of an old rock song. The collar of his black leather trench jacket moved with his neck, and I remember wondering what it was he had the other boys didn't.

It was late, but we were young so we sipped. We sipped our Fuzzy Navels like kids do and forgot every moral our parents ever taught us. I drank until the earth moved, and I landed in another world.

By the fire, we're together. He's rapidly scrolling through his iPod, a manic lost in his element and excitingly sharing the very thing he's about. I'm beside him smiling and trying very hard to contain my girly giggle. He isn't shy when he talks about the death of Eric Clapton's daughter and how people booed when he sang the song about it instead of Cocaine. His hands move when he talks, and it's like just get it already. I nod and say I do. I do get it and him. We're different in appearance. He's rocker boy classic and I'm trendy, in my yellow shorts and rainbow belt, but in soul; we're the same. It's a Fall Out Boy world, and we're just two people who haven't caught up yet.

My friends are my friends, and they bring me drinks often. Edward stops talking when they're around instead nodding a polite hello. He doesn't look up and each time I worry that he'll clamp and stop talking; once they're gone he's right back at it. I'm a sharer, so we drink from the same cup, both of us losing reality a little more with each sip. It isn't long before the stars turn to rainbows, and I'm so heavy I start to lean. When it gets to the point where we forget mid sentence what we we're talking about we quiet. My head's on his shoulder because it's comfortable and my hand's intertwined in his because I want it to be. When he starts rubbing my thumb with his, I ignite for the very first time.

His eyes are green. I know this because he's starring in that way boys do when they want something. Something. I'm a month shy of sixteen, so I know what he wants. The same boy touching me, rubbing my bare thigh isn't the same boy from before. This one's all hormones and playing the sex game. It's in the air around us, pulsing like the blood in our half-grown veins. We both feel it and I don't like playing, so I don't pretend not to.

It's dark and our feet trip us. We're laughing; stumbling all over each other, and trying so hard to get to where we're going. When I start to fall Edward's arm snakes out and pulls me back to his chest. We're glue then wobbling as he tries not to step on my heels. His breath is like fire on my neck and even now, while we're making our way to the dark parking lot, he plays. It's thrilling to be chased, to be wanted by a boy. But I want him too, and I'm not shy, so I tell him what he wants to hear We're not so slow after that ,and in a matter blinks we're there; crawling inside.

In the backseat of his cousin's car, I'm spread wide watching Edward as he rolls the condom over himself. I don't have to touch him and he doesn't ask me too. He's all boy stroking and choking while he looks down at my bare flesh underneath his emo long bangs. My panties and jeans are gone, but my shirt's left in place His jeans are pulled down. We're not into chest fondling- that's for adults. We're young and don't have brakes so romance is dead.

We both groan when he enters me. Pain leaks through my swollen lips and he stops. He gets it and braces his arms around my head, stilling as he waits for me to adjust. When he finally starts moving; he isn't gentle. His moments are drunk clumsy and so very, very new. It doesn't last long. Minutes after his hips start rutting he comes, digging his sneakers into my shin bone while he twitches above me. His hips jerk forward once...twice...three times and then he falls limp, a sweaty glob of boy on my white spaghetti strap.

And then it's over.

A milestone gone.

When he leaves the next day, I don't say bye and he doesn't ask for my number. It was what it was. We were kids who had sex in the backseat of a car. It's the new age and has been for a very long time.

I'm not a writer. I know this now. However I have a story to tell and it came to the point of either telling it or throwing it away. I'm not a review whore, but if you would please put my mind at ease with a few words that'll be great.

Thanks for reading!

Next chapter is present time.