"Just go slow," she told him, and he did.

After, they lay together, his arm under her shoulders, his member limp now and dangling between them. She felt warm and safe and content in his arms. She ran her hand idly over his chest, over the nascent muscles there, the faint tracing of hair. Under them was the blanket he had brought, and under that the roots of the old oak tree that cradled them, and grass, and the good green earth. Above them was endless sky dappled by clouds and untouched by man. Later in life she felt that the field, the tree, the sky was all an endless talisman: potential, sheer possibility, untapped and fecund, merely awaiting the touch of the right hand. Her hand. Hers, and David's.

"How do you feel," he asked.

How did she feel? Warm. Loved. Good. The delicious ache of muscles well-used, and the new awareness of things that had never before been used. The sun caressed her skin with molten gold, the summer breeze with delicate fingers. She had never been naked outside before, though she had been naked with him more times than she could count. She had felt his spend on her skin before, and even in her mouth, but now it was inside her, warm and wet; and quivering, it seemed to her, as if with the joy of its delivery. She wished it had been longer, because every moment had been heavenly, and she wanted it all.

It would take forever to explain it all. "Why do you ask," she said instead.

"Well," he said. "For some women, you know, it, it hurts. The. You know. The first time."

"It didn't hurt," she said. "My cherry's been gone for ages, you know that. And I loved it. It felt really good."

"Oh," he said, with the hesitation she'd always found endearing. "Okay. I'm glad."

David had found this place three months ago, biking out with friends. It seemed like a place out of a storybook: a long plain of sweet-smelling grass, as soft as down to the touch; a speckling of trees, rich browns and greens under a pale blue sky. She had loved it from the moment he brought her here; she had known, from the moment he brought her here, that this would be the place she gave herself to him, irrevocably and forever. The grass was waist-high, a curtain of solid light; the trees towered overhead like smiling grandfathers. The one they had chosen, gnarled and steadfast, had doubtless cradled other bodies than theirs, had doubtless witnessed more love than theirs; she could tell, just by lying beneath its boughs. She had been out here many times since the first day, sometimes with David, sometimes alone; sometimes with her camera, sometimes without. It was as if nothing could touch her here. Except him, of course.

"Did it feel like you thought it would?" he asked.

She took the hand that draped over her shoulder and gave its palm a little kiss. "What is with you and all the questions today?"

"Well..." he said. "I'm curious. I want to know how it felt for you. ...I want to know if it was okay."

"It didn't hurt," she said again, smiling, giving his palm another kiss. "And what it felt like... Well, I didn't know what it would feel like." His fingers had been inside her a couple times, but that wasn't the same; nor was it anything like the time when she, exploring, had pushed the handle of a hairbrush up inside herself. (If her cherry hadn't been gone by then, it certainly was afterwards.) Those things were nothing like the real thing—nothing like being here, cradled by earth and root, cradled by his arms, his chest pushing against hers, his hips straining against hers, feeling the sweet pain of his thing inside her, bigger than anything else she had experienced; nothing like the look on his face, made helpless by love and lust, or the things he whispered; nothing like the feeling of his heart thundering against hers when he gave his final shudder and lay still.

Danielle Mayer had loved David Glass from the time they were six years old, bumbling around the Redwood Heights Elementary School playground together. Someone had stolen his truck, and she had stood up for him, and even though she had cooties he dared to talk to her; soon they were inseparable. They had made fun of Mrs. Galveston's slip together; traded answers on spelling tests without thought of consequence; been buddies on every field trip she could think of. When she wanted to find out what the big deal about kissing was—after all, she was a grown up, eight whole years old, why couldn't she do it?—he was the only one she needed to ask; she showed him hers, he showed her his; when she heard her mommy and daddy using angry words she didn't know, it was David of whom she asked the meaning of the word "divorce." (And "stupid fucking cunt," too, though their fifth-grade teacher wasn't as keen to explain that one.) She said "I love you" to him even before she said it to her grandma, and meant it before she meant it with her grandma either. When people asked him what he wanted to be when they grew up, he always mentioned her, and vice versa. When fifth grade rolled around and they finally learned how babies were made, they laughed about it—what a silly idea, after all, for a boy to stick his thingie in a girl's also-thingie! But time passed, and they began to understand the urges that made a boy and a girl want to do that; and now that summer was here and they finally had time, their occasional explorations had increased in frequency and intensity. And she had known that, if there was ever anyone she would have sex with and have babies with, it was David Glass.

And yet, actual lovemaking was the one thing she didn't know she could share. Their backpacks, their schoolbooks, their iPods, their DVDs, even sometimes their clothing passed between them without thought of ownership; her things were his, and vice versa. They had shared their bodies long ago as well; it had been her hands that taught him his thing was good for more than peeing, and his that taught her the same, while he slept over at the age of seven; from then on they had traded their pleasures freely, despite not yet knowing what orgasms were. But this was different. This was baby-making. Danielle's older cousin Charlotte had gotten pregnant too early, and as soon as Danielle was old enough to notice anything about babies besides how cute they were, she had noticed that little Austin was a bundle of trouble. But there was more than that too. For almost ten years David had been at her side, as omnipresent as oxygen... But would he always be? Sex was something you didn't share with just anyone. She needed to know, for certain, that he wasn't just playing, that when he said they would marry, he meant it.

To change the subject, she asked, "Did it feel the way you thought it would?"

She felt him shrug. "It wasn't... I didn't know what to expect either." And then, "...Did I last long enough for you?"

She felt a blush of pleasure over his insecurities. He was so cute that way. "Davey, you're sixteen. It's okay." In past years it had taken her a while to get him to come; but now, as hormones increased, sometimes he spurted the moment she touched him. The first time that had happened, his face had turned bright red and he had spent the next half-hour apologizing. "Besides, we got you off earlier so you'd last longer, remember?"

"I know, I know, I just... I didn't want to disappoint you."

The truth was, he had, a little bit; she had loved what they had, and would have loved even more for it to last longer. But the moment she saw his face, the face she'd been reading since she was a child, she'd known she couldn't expect much from him. Even that fact brought a feeling of pleasure: that her body could excite him so. She turned her head to kiss the side of his chest. "You didn't."

After a bit of silence she said, "How do you feel?"

There was a pause. She imagined him looking up at the sky, barely visible through a sheltering blanket of oak leaves.

"Well, I'm... I'm happy," he said. "Well, I mean. I just did it, and I'm only sixteen, it'd be a little weird if I wasn't ecstatic." A lopsided grin crossed his face for a moment. "Mostly, I'm just... I dunno. Humbled."

"Humbled?" she said.

"Well... Yeah," he said, shrugging. "I mean, how many times in a guy's life does the most beautiful girl in the world give her virginity to him?"

She passed a hand over her face, embarrassed. "You keep saying that." Her arm covered her small breasts; her place down below, its light down of hair still damp from their loving, could not be covered, but there was nothing to be done about that.

"And I keep meaning it," he said. He lifted her hand from her face, and his green eyes met hers. "Every time."

"I'm not that attractive," she said.

"Nope," he agreed glibly. "There's people hotter than you. Shelly Baumgarter has bigger boobs, and so does Amy Plisken."

She swatted him with one hand.

"But that doesn't matter," he said. "Because they're not here with me. They're not the one I'm in love with." His hand curved around to gently cup her breast. "They're not the one who gave it up for me."

She swatted it away. "So, if Shelly Baumgarter and her waterballoon boobs were here and she'd just given it up, you'd be totally in love with her instead?"

The arm under her shoulders grew tense. "... Nellie, I think you're reading too much into this."

She pushed out of his embrace. He was thin and gangly, with little definition to his muscles; only over the last few months had he finally grown taller than her. He had sandy hair and green eyes she had almost memorized. Right now, she loathed the sight of him. "Don't call me that. You know I hate that name." Now that she was sitting up, she could feel motion down below in that secret place: it was his cum, she realized, starting to drip out of her. Was it supposed to do that? ...It had better! "And another thing, what's with the coming inside me?"

"What?"

"You agreed we'd use a condom," she said. "Dammit, David, you know I'm not on anything! I could get pregnant."

"You're not going to get pregnant," he said, sitting up, his tone clearly meant to be soothing.

"What if I do?" she blazed. "What if I do get pregnant?"

"Then I'd be there for you. Nellie—"

"Don't call me that!"

"I've called you that since we first met," he said. "That's what I knew you as when we were young."

And that was just it: it made her feel like a kid. Which, to be sure, she wasn't. "I just gave you my virginity. That's not something kids do. I just gave you my virginity, and you can't even call me by the right name."

"Well, I'm not gonna call you Dee, that's just stupid," he said. It was the name her girl friends called her, and a subtle dig at them—he didn't think they were good for her.

"Maybe that's how I want to be called," she retorted.

"Then you're just gonna have to suffer," he said, "because I won't."

"You know, this isn't the kind of thanks I want to receive from the man I just gave myself to," she snapped. "You just had my virginity, David."

"You just had mine," he protested. "And besides, what's the big deal? It's not like this is the only time we'll get to do it—"

His presumption took her breath away. "It is too the only time we'll get to do it, if you keep on like that!"

She saw the muley stubborn look start to form on his face. "Nellie, I don't like that name because it's disrespectful of you. It's just the first letter of your name, how much more diminutive can you get? I don't like them because they don't treat you right—"

"It takes one to know one," she retorted.

Now there was anger in his eyes as well. "Angel, I have been nothing but polite to you—"

"And compared me with Shelly Baumgarter! One of my friends! The very person you're saying I shouldn't hang out with is the same person you'd rather be with—"

"Rather—" he spluttered. "Rather— Rather be with?"

"Why, what were you going to say?" she spat.

"Well, maybe I would rather be with her," he exclaimed, "she probably isn't such a bitch about sex!"

His face was the angriest she'd ever seen it. But she didn't much notice, because she was the angriest she'd ever been.

"Do you know what Scott O'Connor said about Ruth Fischer? Do you know when he said they did it? He said they waited three months." Scott was one of his school friends. "Kenny Cheng said he was doing it with Vicky Lassiter after half a year. Shelly Baumgarter gave it up to Alex Pearson on the third date!" His eyes were alight with fire now. "And where have we been? They've been asking me since freshman year whether we've done it then, and they all give me weird looks when I say we're waiting. Some of them were asking during eighth grade. You made me wait for four years, Danielle! I think you owe me by now!"

"Owe you?" she shrieked. "Owe you?!" What was he thinking, that he owned her or something? "All right, you know what? Forget it. Forget it. We're done. We're done, David Glass, I hate you, and I never want to see you again!" She snatched up her pile of clothes in one swift motion and set off through the grass. When she got to her bike, she hopped on, stopping only to don her flip-flops, and began to leave—only to realize that she had better dress first, lest anyone see her cycling naked down the street. Her shorts and tank top were on in an instant; she stuffed her bra and panties in a pocket and did not stop until she got home.

Only then did she allow herself to contemplate crying.

Barely had the thought occurred to her that tears were rolling down her cheeks. All throughout the ride she had tried to fuel the fire of her rage, her indignation, but it was as if the countryside were conspiring to thwart her; she had passed what felt like a hundred locations freighted with memory. There was the place where she and David had found the dying squirrel. Here was the spot she'd twisted her ankle, and David had helped her limp home. Behind those trees was the first time he'd ever touched her breasts, just two years ago (when she'd finally started having any breasts to touch). There was the spot David had had that catastrophic bike spill and skinned his shin almost to the bone; the blood was long washed away, but the long tire skids were still there. And without underwear, her nether regions were more susceptible to the touch of her shorts, to the touch of the bicycle seat, to its rumbling vibrations as she skidded home—all a reminder of what she had just done, and whom it had been done with. Soon it was a struggle to see clearly. And once she was safely locked in her room, it was over; she wept furiously, if silently, with a cold feeling of loss in her gut that she simply couldn't dispel.

She reminded herself that he wasn't perfect, that there were things she was glad to be shut of. He was so indecisive; he was always happy to do whatever she wanted, and she teased him about it mercilessly, knowing that he would one day let someone bend him over backwards. He had promised to get a job this summer, but she'd known he wouldn't, even as she encouraged him to get out of the house and stop being lazy. And so polite, so non-combatant: if Shelly Baumgarter came up to him tomorrow and slandered Danielle to her face, David would just nod and smile. What kind of man is that to build a life around. What kind of man is that to marry. I'm sure I'll be better off without him.

She'd always suspected that his hostility to her friends was partially hormones. There was simply no denying that Shelly Baumgarter had the best figure in the school, better than some of the seniors, Missy Renquist's was almost as good, and Liana French was widely recognized the prettiest girl in the school. Danielle's social standing had gone up remarkably once they'd let her be seen in public with them. It didn't surprise her to know that he would rather be with them. It didn't surprise her that he didn't actually think she was pretty.

Though it did hurt.

But I'll live, she thought. I'll live. I'm better off without him, if he's going to be like that. I gave him everything, and he threw it in my face. I won't let him win. I'll live.

So she firmed her lip and set her teeth, and wiped her eyes. And if she cried at night, it was into her pillow, and nobody heard, so that it might as well have never happened.

Just like David.