Mary and I left the diner before dark, obeying our parents' wishes. They had told us to wait inside, but Mary had seen several boys in her literature class in front of the new radio station next door. My mother disliked these boys- she called them "beatniks"- so I stood under the awning and watched as Mary walked towards them, hitching her skirt up several inches too many and inconspicuously pinched her cheeks.

I shook my head knowingly and closed my eyes, pulling my cardigan tighter around my chest. I began humming my favorite tune, "With My Eyes Wide Open, I'm Dreaming" by Patti Page. Abruptly, the restaurant door flew open. I jumped, catching the low heel of my shoe on my skirt and falling backwards. My hands were wrapped up in my cardigan, so I closed my eyes as I fell.

But the ground was closer than I had thought. And a lot smoother. In shock, my eyes flew open. Three inches from my face were the most beautiful pair of eyes that I had ever seen. It was him- the bronze-haired boy from the restaurant- and he had his arm around me less than a foot from the ground. I inhaled sharply, steadying myself and backing out of his clutch. He watched me intently as I smoothed out my dress and pulled a stray lock of light red hair behind my ear, clearly flustered.

"Oh, er- thank you," I stammered, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. The strange boy put his hands in his pockets and furrowed his brow. I tried to figure out whether or not he was scrutinizing my appearance or concerned for my ability to stay on my feet. Most likely due to wishful thinking, I decided on the later.

"Are you okay?" the boy asked, in a voice that made my heart melt like warm butter. I looked down at my arm, where a small streak of blood was dripping, and nodded.

"Yes, thank you again," I whispered meekly, trying to pull down my cardigan sleeve to cover up the cut. I knew I should have listened to my mother when she told me to wear long sleeves.

"Would you like a bandage?" the boy asked stiffly, grimacing as the blood seeped through the thin fabric at my elbow. I blushed redder and took a step backwards, shaking my head.

"Oh, no thank you," I replied, feeling extremely dim-witted, "I was- I should be going home." I began to turn around, but then I felt something cold on my shoulder. I let out an embarrassing gasp as I realized that it was the boy's hand.

"Are you walking alone?" he asked tentatively. I felt my jaw waver, but I managed to keep a somewhat steady face.

"N-no," I responded quietly, "My friend is talking to- to the people over there." I glanced over, trying to make eye contact with Mary. It was quite difficult, however, because the boy's eyes were burrowing into mine as if he could read me like a book.

"Would you like me to walk you home?" the boy persisted. I had imagined it. I had imagined it. But now he was waiting for my answer, and I had to speak.

"I have to make sure my friend can get home," I explained. The boy's eyes followed my gaze to Mary, who was holding one of the beatnik's hands. The boy and I both looked away, simultaneously realizing that Mary would be there for a while. There was a moment of awkward silence, and then he stuck out his ghostly hand.

"My name is Edward Cullen," he said politely, as the frigidness of his hand sent chills up my spine, "You're Charlotte Shea." I blinked in shock; I had never seen this boy before, and yet he knew my name. I would be a bit uneasy if anybody else had said this, but it was hard to be disturbed by somebody so beautiful.

"I'm sorry, but how do you know my name?" I asked instinctively, only curious.

"My brother Emmett was deported to North Korea last October," he explained, without missing a beat, "I believe he served under your father." I blinked, shocked that he had known this.

"Yes," I confirmed, "My father is General O'Shea. They've been stationed in South Korea for the past couple of weeks, though." Edward nodded, staring off towards the main road.

"Yes, I heard," he sighed.

"Why didn't you join the service?" I asked. I had been raised in a military family, so my father had instilled in me at an early age that it was a man's duty to serve his country. Edward merely chuckled at my presumption, his topaz eyes gleaming with amusement.

"My brother was always the fighter," he clarified, "Me- I suppose you could say that I am the musician." I was taken aback by this declaration; in the five minutes that I had known him, he had always seemed like someone who beat up the bad guys and defended the innocent. Then again, my mother always did say that my imagination rivaled some of the most creative in Hollywood.

Edward laughed at something that I didn't see, so I looked up and cast him a quizzical look. He shook his head defiantly.

"Nothing, nothing," he muttered, and then reclaimed himself and looked into my eyes, stealing my breath, "So how about that walk home?" I bit my lip awkwardly, tentative to accept his offer.

"I don't know," I murmured truthfully. He smirked, overwhelming me with his sensational eyes.

"I promise I don't bite," he said, so softly that I wondered if he had actually said it. I looked down, unwilling to be completely captivated by his gaze.

"I suppose…" I decided, losing all faith in my will power. Edward didn't hesitate before spinning on his heels and walking slowly, waiting for me to catch up.

"Good," he said simply, "It's a nice night for a stroll."