I do not own Twilight. Dani California belongs to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And yeah, I was a teen mom. Nineteen. Twins.

Huge thanks to Vampshavelaws, Filia, Andrea, Catherine, and Jenny. Without them dickface would still be two words.

Obviously I've taken a few liberties with the setting. I hope that's okay. And to the girl who suggested "Cruise," you've read my mind.

Thanks for reading.


Less than two percent of teen moms will earn a college degree by age thirty.

Sexually active teens not using contraceptive have a ninety percent chance of becoming pregnant in a year.




Chapter Five

Edward's outburst sets a what-crawled-between-his-teeth-and-ripped damper on the otherwise easy mood between friends. Dani halts her twirl, James doesn't reach for my half-eaten hamburger, and I stop chewing. Alice, Felix, Jasper, and Remington all sort of look at me, wondering what the hell is going on.

In the background of our gawky silence, crickets cricket, beach waves wave, and the TV sounds from the Cullen home. While Esme and Carlisle sit inside watching Arrested Development, I stare at their only kid with a mouthful of all-beef patty, brainstorming ways I can murder him in his sleep during his next siesta. A pillow over the face seems like the logical choice—I can just smother the mother fuck out of him—but I'm aiming toward painful. Like slicing off his wicked dick and shoving it down his throat. As he struggles to breathe, I'll say something along the lines of, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

My baby needs a father, though. He must live.

For now.

I swallow the bite that's been in my mouth for way too long and say, "I can't eat?"

The corner of Smirks' mouth lifts. He changed out of his oily jeans and boots while James and I were changing out of our dresses. He's in a pair of brown cut-off Levi's now, and a pair of all-black Vans that have seen much better days. Edward's black hat is on backwards, but it's still low on his head. The boy I've known since birth isn't wearing a shirt, and there's a patch of skin on his left shoulder that's lighter than the rest—one of the many scars he has from one of the many falls he's taken, both on and off the water.

His forearms are on his knees, and his knees are parted just enough for me to see his stomach. A little bit lanky, a little bit lean, a whole lotta bit toned and tanned and humid-sweaty. Edward looks different to me, older. And like his cracked and calloused hands, I remember what that lanky, lean, toned-tanned, and humid-sweaty stomach felt like pressed on mine. I rubbed my thumb along the scar on his shoulder. I rubbed my whole hand over it. I think I kissed it.

I did.

I remember.

Amid my stare-off with Smirks, Remington nudges my side with his elbow. "Let it go," he says lowly. He's slipping his backpack over his shoulders, over the drama, ready to ride.

I don't break eye contact from Edward, though. I'm having too much fun planning his hypothetical demise. But if this was a legit stare-off—no blinking, no smiling, no moving—I win. After another moment of locked-eyeness, Edward winks and looks away first, smirking.

The happiness I feel over my staring contest victory is short lived. Edward stands to his feet and wipes his hands on the front of his shorts, with the most condescending smirk on his lips, and he knows he's getting the last word.

I groan in frustration. "You're such a jerk."

He smiles higher, saying without words, "I know you are, but what am I?" like he used to when we were kids.

Everyone else takes Edward's cue and kicks their boards out, ready to roll. I don't move, even when James says, "Come on, Sail."

Edward moves past me, riding between Remington and I … still smirking.

"Stop smiling at me!" I yell like a two-year-old. I'm four seconds away from stomping my foot and having a Queen of Hearts style fit—off with his head!

Edward kicks and pushes himself on four wheels back up the driveway and stops in front of me, dropping the smirk. "You think I don't know you?" he asks. Smirks steps off his skateboard and holds it in place between his shoes.

He's still oil and engine and beach and more-man-than-boy scented.

For the second time tonight, I defiantly say, "You're not my dad."

If we were alone, I'd choose now to drop the bomb and admit, "But you are a dad."

Perfect timing is perfect, after all.

Edward searches my face for a half-moment before I watch acceptance cross his grey eyes. When the corner of his mouth rises, it's not so smug this time; it's evil, but it's all him. It's comforting. And I wish I could grab his face between my hands. I'd press our foreheads together and speak softly. I'd whisper, "Edward, this is happening. This is what we did. Fix it for me, like you fix everything else."

Because he's always been my fixer.

If I have a flat tire, Smirks changes it for me. If I fall, he picks me up. If I can't sleep, he slips me a pill. When I need help with my algebra homework, he does his best to put negative and fractional components into terms I can understand. If I tell him I'm hungry, he feeds me. If I'm bored, he entertains. When I'm sad, Edward makes me happy.

The first time Remington and I broke up, Smirks punched him in the mouth for breaking my heart. He brought me back a piece of Ex-boyfriend's bloody tooth, too, and said, "So you know I was thinking of you."

Of course, I was a girl in love—with Remington—so I got mad. But it was nice to know Edward cared.

When I screamed at Edward to "Fix it," he did, and Remi and I got back together the next day.

When James, Edward, and I were growing up, we didn't get that our parents were doing things wrong. They were kids raising kids, too self-involved to ever slow down and be accountable for the three lives they brought into the world after they thought it would be cool to get married at eighteen. By the time we became aware that we had to take care of ourselves, my mom was already gone, but I can't imagine things were much different when she was alive. We remember how much they partied, and we remember the fights and the booze and the drugs, but when you're little, you don't really comprehend what it all means. We know now they were irresponsible maniacs, but back then, they were heroes.

We never had bedtimes. We were never told no. We ran the streets at five years old. We didn't have rules. There was no structure. Undisciplined. Unruly. Lords of Flies. We were wild things.

While our role models were using drugs and running reckless, living out their youth, we were right there with them, dirty faced and sunburnt, handing them beers. We were dragged from party to party. We spent entire days and nights on the beach. That's how the sleepovers started. Edward, James, and I would fall asleep wherever we were, curled up and cuddled.

Our parents were hungover most mornings. They always slept until late afternoon, so when we woke up—after our little toes stepped over the passed out bodies of their mothers and our fathers—my fixer and I would look for breakfast. If we were lucky, we found sugary cereal, and Edward would pour it for me.

We were nine when our life-givers grew up and got their shit together. They literally became great parents overnight—Charlie did his best. My dad opened up the ride shop, and the Cullens opened up Munchies. There were suddenly bedtimes and sunblock and rules. But by then, though, we'd already raised ourselves.

Edward taught me how to tie my shoes when he barely knew how to tie his own. The very first time I realized I didn't have a mother, he's who I went to. At eleven, it's Edward who went screaming to Esme and Riley, "Bella's girl parts are bleeding!"

He thought I was dying.

I did too, until the only mothers I ever knew showed up with a change of clothes and these funny things called Tampax.

It's always been him. And James. But he's always been kind of … special.

Edward laughs. "Oh, I know what's wrong."

I take another bite of my hamburger and stare at him with suspicious eyes, waiting for whatever smartass comment is about to come out of his so evilly curved mouth.

He doesn't disappoint. "You're on the rag."

Everyone starts to laugh.

Everyone but James and me.

"You're going to wish she was on her fucking—" James stops when she notices me drilling a hole through her head with my gaze.

Then I shove my hamburger in Edward's face.

I laugh and point. "Ha!"

It's only meat and bun, so nothing but grease smears on his face, but it's the coolest thing I've done in two days. And he's taken completely by surprise, which makes it even better. All of our friends are laughing at him now. Especially James and I—we high five.

Smirks wipes oil from his chin with his left hand, smirking again. It's not a "last word" smirk; it's a "get even" one.

Before I have a chance to jump on my board and go, Edward picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, and jumps on his own skateboard.

I usually wouldn't mind, but I have this whole pregnancy thing going on, so…

If I kick and scream, he's more likely to drop me. As calmly as I can, I very nicely ask, "Please put me the fuck down."

He laughs. Then he smacks my ass.

I lose my hat.

Edward rides in the direction of the beach. The flesh-shredding, possibly baby-killing, road passes under his wheels. Every rock and every crack is a threat I've never paid much attention to until now.

Whoever put this road here is an asshole.

"Please," I whine.

Smirks rides up a curb onto the sidewalk, which runs parallel with the seashore. More cracks and more rocks and more threats. I can hear and feel him breathing heavily. I'm not that heavy, but I'm not necessarily light either. I think about holding on—maybe I can shift my weight, wrap my legs around him, and cling for dear life. When I move my legs, though, Edward's board swerves. I scream. He laughs a little more.

"It's not funny!" I shriek.

Our friends aren't too far behind us. James is ahead of the group, yelling, "Put her down!" She has my board under her arm.

But Edward keeps rolling, past Charlie's, past Munchies, past Dinner by the Sea. He rides beyond the restrooms and the showers, and he rolls past the old, unused dock on the right. Since asking didn't work, and because Edward's pretending he doesn't hear James begging for my immediate release, I decide to play dead. If he thinks I'm unconscious, or if he thinks he accidently killed me, maybe he'll stop so I can get on my feet again. Not to mention his shoulder is jammed into my stomach. He's smashing our baby and he doesn't even know it.

And I'm not telling him now.

That's an on flat ground kind of conversation.

I let go of all of the tension in my body. I go slack, allowing my arms and legs to hang.

When Edward realizes I'm not holding on, he laughs and grips me tighter. "I can't believe you smashed your hamburger in my face," he says.

Right after, I hear James wail, "I told you to let her down!"

I look up, ready to give her some kind of signal that I have this under control. But I watch her arm go back, and then I watch it swing forward.

That's when I see the tangerine-sized beach rock.

I kind of gargle, scream, and shriek, "No!"

But it's too late. The rock goes up, it sails down, and then it hits the ground, rolls forward, and becomes wedged under the rear right wheel of Edward's skateboard.

I've fallen more times than I can even count. Road rash, bruises, busted lips and black eyes; scrapes, burns, fractures and contusions are all a part of the life we live on our boards and in the water. They're like trophies. We wear our scars with pride. But I've never been so afraid to hit the ground as I am now.

As soon as the rock stops the wheels from rolling, Edward and I are jerked forward. Smirks isn't even allowed the opportunity to save us; we just fly.

My entire body tenses up, and my teeth clamp down. I close my eyes and roll into the best ball I can, which includes hugging the ever lovin' shit out of Edward's head. This falling boy is smart enough to clutch on to my legs, and he tries to turn so we land on his back and not mine, but our decline is faster than our spin.

Right before we collide with the ground, I think to myself, we're going to kill this baby before we even decide if we want to kill this baby.

My right elbow hits sandy concrete first. Then the rest of my arm, my hip, my right leg, and finally my head. As we skid down the sidewalk, Edward and I do a pretty good job of staying together. Gravity guides our motions and direction, but when we roll, we roll together. And as we slide, we slide clutching onto the other.

My adrenaline's pumping so hard, I don't actually feel my skin being rubbed raw from my legs, but I know it's happening. I'm aware of how hard my head hits the ground, even if I don't sense the pain yet. My sweater starts to lift, exposing my lower back and sides. Thankfully, we're slowing down and no longer sliding, but halting.

When Edward and I come to a complete stop, twenty feet from where we fell, holding on to each other, not breathing at all, I fall over completely onto my back. A split second later, every painful inch of my wounded body demands to be felt. I kind of scream.

I sit up just as James comes running over. She drops in front of me, asking over and over, "Are you okay? Holy shit, Sail, is everything okay?"

My head is pounding, my sweater is torn, my knees are bleeding, and my Vans are unlaced. I have scrapes and cuts on my hand and all over my legs. There's sand in my hair and in my mouth and eyes. Edward's still on his back beside me, breathing hard enough for the both of us. He wasn't wearing a shirt, so he has it the worst. But he's not moving. His bloody-knuckled hand is on his chest, and his eyes are looking up.

Until they're looking at me.

"You bastard!" I cry. I try to kick him, but I miss.

James is patting my entire body. "Is anything broken? Are you broken? Is it broken?"

Edward sits up. His entire back is scratched and bleeding, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He rubs his face in the palms of his hands before he turns to me. "Shit, Sail. I'm sorry, girl."

And it's no big deal. Because this shouldn't be a huge deal.

We fall.

We bruise.

We bleed.

We're fucking seventeen years old.

This is our life.

My entire body hurts, and I'm afraid to move. My first instinct is to cover my stomach with my hands and demand to be taken to the emergency room, but I can't. I have to act normal. I have to act like this is just another fall. Like it's not a big deal, when in fact, it's the hugest deal.

I reach for James. "Help me up."

Edward stands as James pulls me to my feet. "Are you okay?" he asks, worried.

I notice he's lost his hat, too.

After a few stiff steps, the muscles in my calves relax a little, making it easier to walk. Blood drips down my shins, into my shoes. I pull down my hoodie and lift up my hood, covering my sand-filled hair. I walk past Alice, Jasper, and Dani. James kind of holds on to my elbow. I don't know where he comes from, but Remington's suddenly at my side.

"Did you fall that hard?" he asks, like he's really surprised I'm acting so injured after that little fall.

I ignore him. "Take me home, James."

So she does.

A few paces in front of where our friends are still gathered, obviously questioning what the hell is going on with me … again, I hear Edward call out, "Really, Sail?"

I lift up my hand, stick up my middle finger, and keep walking.




Back at the house, my best girl and I are locked in the steam-filled bathroom, inspecting my injuries.

"Nothing too bad," she says, dabbing my bleeding knee with an old, faded blue towel.

I'm sitting on the toilet, and James is on her knees, making sure she doesn't miss a single scratch. Of course, the most important question has yet to leave her lips: How's the baby? But I haven't said anything about it either. Our walk back from the beach was unhurried and quiet. After walking through the front door, James did me a solid and took the unlit joint out from between Charlie's lips and threw a blanket over him. She brought me to the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the shower, and now she's playing nurse. To me. Not to the life that lives inside of me. Just me.

Besides the burning pain in the areas where I used to have skin, I feel fine. I mean, nothing seems wrong.

James stands to her feet. "Lift," she orders.

I lift my arms so she can pull the sweater from my body. She then reaches for my shoes, and I let her take my Vans off one at a time. A ton of sand falls from them, but I don't have enough energy in me to care. Even when I stand and feel little particles under my toes, I don't give a shit. James unlaces one of the ties of my bikini bottoms, while I reach back and unhook my top. Once I'm completely undressed, I step under hot water and melt.

I sweep my fingers through my hair at the scalp, allowing water to pour through my blonde locks. More sand from my hair cascades down my bare body, pooling around my feet before it goes down the drain.

"I'll be in your room," James says before she leaves.

She turns off the light, and the small automatic nightlight in the electric socket powers on. The pale orange light is exactly what I need. It hides and calms me immediately. And finally, alone in the dark, I press my hand over my lower stomach.

Some tiny part of me screams that I love it already. The majority just repeats how ashamed I am of myself.

Tonight just goes to show how I'm not in any condition or mental space to be a mother. I shoved a hamburger in my friend's face after we had an unofficial staring contest, and then we fell off of his skateboard.

But this is happening, and I don't one hundred percent feel like I don't want the unborn complication. I ninety-nine point nine percent know it's wrong, but that point one percent of uncertainty is enough for me to second-guess everything. It's enough to make me consider ruining my life and Edward's.

It's a kid. My kid. Our kid.

Can I really just get rid of it?

I've never questioned my moral standpoint on abortion before. It was never relevant. Charlie and I are not exactly religious, but I have faith, and I know the church's opinion: pro-life. We studied Roe v. Wade in school a little; a lot of people fought really hard so women have the right to choose. And we should have this right. It's my body, my guilt … my consequence. But I wasn't raped or molested or forced. I just wasn't careful enough. I'm a healthy girl who's not incapable of being a mother. I just don't want to be one yet.

Does that still give me the right to pick so freely between life and death for a fetus who obviously didn't ask for this?

I don't even have to tell Charlie.

The state of Washington will allow me to terminate my pregnancy without notifying my legal guardian.

That's a huge responsibility.

That's a hefty burden to carry. Because really, I don't even have to tell Edward.

James knows, but she would never say a word. This could easily be our secret, and we'd take it to the grave. My life could continue like it is: fun, wild, brave. I might be upset, but the guilt would eventually subside. Would I even remember in a year? In two years? In five, ten, fifteen? When I decide I'm ready for kids, will I even remember the baby I aborted? In the far, far future, when I'm on my deathbed, will it flash before my eyes?

Is it murder?

Will I be a murderer?

Is my age enough to justify ending this?

Women should most definitely have the right to choose.

But I'm not unable. I'm unwilling.

I drop my hand from my stomach and reach for the shampoo bottle in the corner of the shower. I pour a dollop of lavender-citrus in my hand, doing my best to ignore the internal battle I'm having between right and wrong, and I begin washing my hair.

Mid-lather, I start to cry.

The release of frustration, sadness, and fear rocks my body so hard, my knees give out. And it's so dramatic, and so selfish, and so pathetic … but it's true. It's two days of pent up confusion and humiliation that refuses to be pent up any longer. Sobs come from deep within my chest and lungs. My hands shake because I'm scared. That small point one percent is crashing around, wreaking havoc, demanding to be heard: you want your baby to be a baby.

Ten minutes feels like ten hours, and when the crying slows down to whimpers and quivers, the pain is so much worse than falling off four wheels with Edward was.

I still have soap in my hair, although I assume most of it has washed out, thanks to the spraying shower head. With my eyes closed, I stand up with shaky knees and a weak heart. I aim my head under the water's downpour, thinking most of the suds are already gone. It's not until I open my eyes that I realize I was dead fucking wrong.

Soap bubbles glide from my hair, over my forehead, into my eyes, burning them like fire.

I scream.

Between the crying and the lavender froth, my eyes refuse to open. So I rub them with my hands, which also just so happen to be covered in shampoo.

I scream some more, and finally James comes crashing in.

"What's wrong?" she shrieks, ripping open the shower curtain.

Hurting, defeated, and tired, I cry, "Why me?"




For the second night in a row, one of my friends lies in bed with me after my shower. James and I don't watch a movie, though, and she doesn't open the window. We just lay in the dark, nestled and near, until I slip into a dreamless sleep.




The turquoise-lit LED clock on my nightstand reads two a.m. I'm alone, and the spot James occupied only a few hours ago is cold. She must have left right after my cry-burnt, soap-burnt eyes closed.

My room is still dark and warm and perfectly comfortable, but I know I can't wait any longer.

I lift the blankets from my body and sit up. With a heavy head, and an even heavier heart, I press my bare feet flat onto sandy hardwood. I turn on my bedside lamp and open my closet. The silence in my room as I'm slipping my feet into a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers is excruciating. I'm left alone with my thoughts, which turned on the moment I opened my eyes.

Deciding that I don't need a bra or a sweater, I walk out of my room, down the unlit hallway, into the living room—where my father is snoring away—and out the front door.

This is June, and we live at the beach, but this is still Washington. It's freezing outside, and the thought of running back in the house for a jacket crosses my mind, but I keep walking. One house, two houses, three houses down.

Not surprisingly, Edward is awake.

The garage door of his parents' small, two bedroom home is up. The lights are on, illuminating Edward's makeshift auto body shop. There are tools and replacement parts and buckets full of oil he needs to take in. Esme's pink beach cruiser is leaned against the garage wall it shares with the house on the right. Chairs and ice coolers are piled up in the far left corner. Surfboards are hung up on the walls. An old Rod Stewart poster from our parents' days is up beside them. And a small radio playing the Black Eyed Peas—before Fergie, when they were real hip-hop—sits on top of his workbench, next to the torque wrenches and sockets.

Smirks isn't in the garage, though. He's with his van, under the hood—which is in the back—looking for something to fix. He doesn't have to see me to know I'm there. He just mumbles, "Grab a chair, Sail."

So I do, and I unfold it and sit near him.

"Do you need me to hand you tools or something?" I ask, knowing damn well I didn't come out here to help him with the bus.

He shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good."

Edward's back in jeans, but he's left his Vans on. He's in a plain white tee, and I can see where blood has soaked through in a few spots. The scrapes on his forearms are red, but dry and not bleeding. To Edward, it was just another crash.

"Okay," I say, rubbing the palms of my hands up and down my arms.

Edward looks away from the engine long enough to glance over at me. There's a little smudge of motor oil on his cheek. It's cute.

"You cold?" he asks.

I shrug.

He has a red zip-up hoodie on the ground beside the rolling stool he's sitting on. He tosses it to me. Dark grey eyes roam over my long tee-shirt covered body. "There's a pair of sweats on my bed if you want to run in and put them on."

I slip my arms into his well-worn sweater and sink into the chair. It smells like he does: all boy and all good. I wrap my fingers around the hood's strings and rub them across my lips.

Edward dives back into pistons and timing belts. "Can't sleep?"

I bend my toes inside of bunnies. "No."

Smirks gives me his eyes quickly before looking away and wrenching at something. "Are you okay? You know, after the fall?"

He asks as if he doesn't really expect another answer other than "I'm fine."

But I surprise him and say, "No. I'm not okay."

With the Allen wrench in his hand, Edward sits straight. He looks confused, but not. Maybe he has a point one percent telling him something's not right, too.

His eyes are on me. Mine are on his.

"Do you think you broke something?" he asks lowly.

Edward slowly crosses the four feet between us and rolls his stool over to me. When he's close enough, he hooks his hand under my right wounded knee and lifts it up, setting my leg across his lap. Smirks brushes his thumb over broken skin and whispers, "It's nothing."

My slipper falls off, landing on its side, beside my left foot, which is still on the ground.

The boy I've been so confused about lately, knowingly, or unknowingly, rubs his hand up and down the inside of my thigh. The tips of his fingers go beneath the hem of my shirt, almost touching my underwear.

My chest is so full. My eyes water. I breathe in slowly through my nose and smoothly out between my lips.

With my leg on his lap and his hand between me, my eyes fall to his lips—pouty and perfect and up on one side.

I know those lips, I think to myself. I know what they feel like on me. Everywhere. On every part.

And then I say it, because I cannot keep it to myself for a moment longer.

"I'm pregnant."

I'm able to trash another person's life with a single breath, and it wasn't even difficult to do—two little words. I'm a coward, though. I can't bring myself to look at him. I keep my eyes down, and I try to drop my leg from Edward's lap, but he grips on to my thigh, keeping me exactly where I am. And still, I won't look.

After a moment, he asks, "Have you told Remington?"

I try for my leg again, but he holds me in place.

"Have you?" he asks for a second time. His tone is thick with a mixture of anger and doubt.

Finally, I look up. He looks helpless. So sad in blood-stained cotton and oil. So unaware, even with his very own point one percent.

"It's not Remington's," I say.

"How do you know?" he asks. His eyes water. My leg drops.

My voice shakes, but I remain firm. "Because I haven't been with Remington in months, Edward."

I stand up and slide my foot back into my slipper. Edward's red hoodie falls further down my body than my shirt does. I connect the zipper with shaky hands and zip it up, not at all considering giving it back tonight.

He takes my wrist, still sitting down. "Whose, Bella?"

He's desperate. Poor boy.

Poor baby.

Edward brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses them, and it's the oddest thing. It's so foreign to see him this way. I haven't even told him yet. Not really. I haven't said it's his. I haven't confirmed anything. And still, he's quietly crying and kissing his tears all over my sand-scratched hand.

"We'll figure it out," I say. "I went to this place today."

Edward lets go of my hand and wipes his eyes on the inside of his forearm. "Yeah, and what did they say?"

He's back to being my fixer. My strong guy.

"There are things we can do," I answer. "A few different options."

He nods. "Okay." Then he spins his stool around, turning away from me.

I go home.




I'm not surprised when my bedroom door opens an hour later. He's a dim silhouette against a darker background. He's tall and a little lanky and a little lean. He's soap-scented and clean.

The boy who kissed my knuckles shuts the door behind him. He steps quietly across wood floors and pulls his shirt over his head. I lift the blankets, and he slips into bed with me.

I kiss him back when his lips touch mine. When his hand slides up my shirt, I let it. I let him take it off, too.

I hold on to his shoulders as his mouth presses wet kisses along my throat. I open my legs wider when he starts to push between me.

I think about Remington. But then I don't.

My hands fall from his shoulders to his shorts between us. I reach in and pull him out. He doesn't ask me if I'm sure this time. He doesn't need to.

My fixer is up on his knees, hooking his fingers under the elastic of my underwear. They sweep down my legs in one fluid motion. They drop somewhere. I don't care where.

Then he's over me again. I grip his length and put him where he needs to go.

We kiss.

I hold on to his hips now.

He pushes in, and my knees fall open.

In the dark, his pout is still gorgeous. He's so aware and so exposed, and he's letting me right in—the one and only place I hadn't known about him until my birthday.

And he's so strong. There's so much muscle under my palms. So much strength between my legs. So much power inside of me.

He's always been incredible.

Then he's moving a little faster and a little harder, and he's close. I'm not, but it doesn't even matter. I grip him tight and moan against his skin. I kiss his chest, and I press my lips to the place where his smirk usually is.

He whispers, "Fuck."

My eyes roll, because, yeah, Smirks is hot.

His entire body tenses before he comes, but it's only for a fraction of a second before he remembers I'm already pregnant; nothing worse can happen.

We're already the aftereffect.

Unable to hold himself up any longer, he presses down on me while his hips finish in slow pushes. He breathes hard but holds me harder. I feel like I should tell him I'm not going anywhere, like, "You're stuck with me now—best friends are forever." But I don't. I push hair away from his face and wipe tears out from under his eyes. He lets mine slip into my hair.

He pulls out, but stays with me. "What are we going to do?" he asks.

I circle my arms around his neck, hugging him close. He softly kisses right under my jaw. I slide my feet until my legs are flat beside each of Edward's.

My feet arerubbing back and forth on sand-littered sheets when I ask, "Are you the Sandman or something?" He smiles. "You bring it everywhere," I say. "The least you could do is put me to sleep."

Edward pushes up on his hands, hovering over me. He smirks. "I was walking on the beach. You know, clearing my fucking head."

I scowl, trying to hide my smile. "You could have, I don't know, brushed yourself off."

He smirks higher. "I brushed your pussy off."

I gasp. "You'll brush my sheets off."

Edward reaches between us and adjusts his shorts before falling on the bed beside me. He takes my hand, and in a less than lively tone, he says, "I'll do whatever you want, Sail."

I try to play it off. My heart hammers inside of my chest. "You'll clean my sheets?"

He lightly laughs. "Yeah, I'll clean your sheets."