I'm walking through the kitchen when I'm asked where I'm 'off to'. I expect this question, already prepared. I look at mom as she sits at our small table, a magazine spread out before her, a coffee mug wrapped around her delicate fingers. She sips quietly, her eyes falling away from me back to the fan of useless information before her. No doubt on her third cup.

"Having a girls day," I lie.

"By yourself?"

"No, with Jessica and Angela."

For a moment, there is a pass of emotion over her face and I don't think she believes me, but says, "Okay. Have fun. Call every once in a while. When do you think you'll be home?"

"Sometime later. I don't know."

I'm out the door, keys in hand, twirling them 'round my finger. My truck seems as anxious as me, roaring to the speed limit in no time. I make my way down La Push, finding solace in the morning sun flickering through the trees. Sporadic light casting, paving a way to him. When I turn down Quillayute Road, I'm twenty minutes early, but it will give me some time to calm my nerves while I wait for Edward.

If I'm not looking I will miss it. The road is barely a mark against the pavement. The weeds and brush grow around the tire path, and I know why Edward asked me to meet him here. It's a road not traveled, forgotten over time. We could be ourselves here and not have to worry about intruding minds or eyes. My heart dissolves at the gleam ahead, sitting to the side of the abandoned brush, and I wonder if I have mistaken our meeting. Maybe it's more traveled than I thought, but as I bounce along I see the car. The unmistakable silver Volvo which once sat in the drive of my house. I have no time to gather my thoughts, nor can I contain the race of beats soaring past expectation. I pull up behind him and his door opens as I push the lever into park.

He's even more beautiful than I remember of him last night. In the sun, his hair is nearly red-gold-brown. His black t-shirt against his faded jeans. The spiral of his smile as we lock sights, twirling to meet his beautiful eyes. He appears to be a dream, a sleek, intelligent version of some glorious indie rock-god from some poster I admired when I was younger. Only...he's better. He's different than the version I've imagined outside of school walls. He's not the teacher in a button-down Oxford, holding a book of chemistry in one hand and conversation in the other. He's easy, touching the ground, and at home among the wild surroundings. I can't crank down my window fast enough while he approaches. Before I can speak he slings an arm inside the cab, pulling me to meet him half-way. His fingers on my neck, the visceral touch of his mouth against mine nearly hurts and springs to life the lust I feel for him as he moves against me, never pausing, never breathing until he and I are panting and tearing at each other through the window. The hours of the night contained us when we shouldn't be caged. The people between us deaf to our actions. There is that admission between us, coiled in our breaths and fingers, never allowing us a second to forget these stolen minutes. We pause on the high note, winding down to the moment we locked eyes the first time. He pulls away, yet places a quick touch of lip against lip once more, smiling in the seam of us.

"You're early," he says. The scent of strawberries overcome the modesty of forest and earth.

I linger on his shirt, where I grasp and hold for dear life. At any moment he could slip away. "So are you."

"I couldn't wait to see you. I thought about it all night. I left at eleven, hoping you'd show up sooner than twelve."

"I did," I whisper, "and I'm yours now."