I was not, nor am I, a slut. One time. One time, a little over two years ago, was all it took. The first and last time I ever had sex. I was 17, he was 16.

I was visiting England with Skylar's family—who are really, really rich. I could never afford anything like that in a million years, and honestly I didn't like accepting things like that when I knew I could never repay them, I liked working for myself. But it was London, England, a place I had been dying to go for as long as I could remember. Her family would pay for the flights, hotel room, etc. as long as I paid for my own food, clothes, souvenirs, or anything else personal.

Skylar, ever the boy crazy one, had met some hot English boys earlier that day—both 18 and old enough to drink in the UK—so of course she wanted to go clubbing with them that night. British they were, and that accent made me want to melt to the floor, but neither boy was as attractive as she made them out to be, and of course the less attractive one was supposed to be my date.

I was not digging it, and he could tell. I only wanted to sit at the bar, while he kept dropping hints about getting up to dance after he'd had some shots. I would have been content to just sit and listen to that sexy accent all day without looking at him; then again, Sky was really my only friend because I was not very social when it came to strangers, and I wasn't really interested in making new friends—perhaps I could have pretended over here in a new country, been a flirt, had a hot British boy fling, but as I said, this guy was not very attractive anyway. His eyes kind of bugged out of his head, his eyebrows were way too bushy, and that bowl cut definitely did not help. Obviously just sitting there was not enough for him.

I sat as he talked and talked about himself, lightly swirling around on my seat, staring into my water glass—I probably could have passed for 18, but I didn't want to chance it, and I didn't drink either way. It was a personal thing; my dad had been an alcoholic, drank himself to death. He was drunk. I was about 4. He pulled the trigger right in front of my eyes. Even at such an age, you don't forget something like that—the way my ears rang forever after the loud shot, the way his brains splattered the white wall, the way his body slumped down the wall to the floor. I don't remember my actions—all I know is that I screamed and screamed. Of course we had to move; even paint couldn't erase the crimson stain on the walls in my memory.

I was emotionally screwed after that. I blamed myself for the longest time. I thought, how could he drink every night, get high in the bathroom, then end his own life in such a messy way in front of me if he loved me? Obviously he didn't love me at all, or he would have tried to change. I'd loved him so much. I must have been a terrible daughter, but I had no idea what I'd done. I just knew I was worthless. My mom wasn't the same either after that; she was usually the one who told me I was useless.

I tended to cry myself to sleep most nights, wanting to just fall asleep and never wake up, thinking maybe Daddy would still be here if I was never born. Maybe Mom would be happy again if I left the world forever. It's not like they would have been married for long—they were in the middle of a divorce anyway—so it's not like she should have been so upset. But maybe she could have a better life if she didn't have to work 2 jobs to take care of me. I contemplated killing myself almost every night after I hit my teens, coming up with ways that didn't involve guns or drugs or alcohol. Opening a vein was my mode of choice. I even practiced a lot, not far enough to even come close to killing myself, but I knew I had to know what I was doing when I got the nerve up.

I couldn't bring myself to drink or do drugs after that, and I wasn't one of those girls you heard of that slept around and got pregnant in their teens because they grew up without a father—at least, not until that night.

I liked wearing the color black a lot, but my mom wouldn't allow it, so my closet was filled with many hues, all hers. I still wore as much dark makeup as possible to spite her, and couldn't wait to get my nose and/or lip pierced.

Meeting Skylar when I was about 14 or 15 was the best thing that ever happened to me (besides Drea, of course). She was hyper, outgoing, loud, and exciting to my depressive, sheltered, broken, and quiet self. She could never fix me, but she saw the problem when my mom couldn't even and cared for me enough to make sure I never cut myself again. She even made me see a side of life I liked, loved even. I stopped even caring about wearing black and let up on the raccoon eyes--sometimes anyway.

I had been “sober” for about a year when I was in England. My “date”—I couldn't even tell you his name—sighed drunkenly and figured Skylar, even though she was dancing seductively with his friend, would be a much more fun prospect than me and I knew she wouldn't mind dancing with two at once, so he left me alone at the bar to the dancefloor. I was used to my bubbly best friend always being the one picked over me.

“Whatever,” I whispered, swirling my water glass around on the counter. I sighed. The Alyssa Monster strikes yet again, with her dazzling and charming personality that makes all the boys fawn because she's so outgoing and friendly and not quiet or withdrawn at all, oh no. Ha.

A few minutes later I felt a presence on the barstool beside me, but I didn't look over. I traced the sweat from my glass on the counter, my head propped up by my other hand.

“Hullo,” said a deep, husky, British voice. I finally looked over. “I'm Harry.” The guy was obviously drunk, I could tell in his green eyes—I had experience in this, after all—but he was so cute and charming with thick curls and a perfect crooked smile that showed dimples. And his voice. I tried to keep myself from swooning. Of course, he didn't look a year older than me, he looked maybe younger, so I wondered how on earth anyone else would even see through a fake ID. Maybe they didn't care.

I wasn't drunk. I was perfectly clear headed. I could fake it, but even in his state he might be able to tell. But he didn't know the real me, so I could show him the other Alyssa, the flirty outgoing one I was saving up till I met a guy worthy. Of course, drunkenness wasn't a turn on, but some how he made it look good.

“Alyssa.” I stuck out my hand, but I wasn't sure he could figure it out. He did though, shaking it maybe a little bit too over enthusiastically.

“What are you doing over here all alone? ...Alyssa.” He spoke slowly, and I couldn't figure whether it was because he was drunk and trying not to slur, or if it was normal. Either way, take away the slurred undertone, and it was definitely the sexiest thing I'd ever heard.

I shrugged, trying to make it suggestive but not knowing whether I succeeded or failed. He probably couldn't tell either way. “Just... haven't found anyone interesting enough I guess.” I smiled.

“You're American?” he asked happily.

“Yeah, just visiting. I love it here though. I'd love to live here someday.”

“It's so lovely, isn't it?” He agreed. “Like you,” he continued, and even though it was cheesy and he was drunk and I knew it was meaningless, I blushed. “You have...the most beautiful eyes,” he continued.

“Yeah, well. Not too bad yourself. How long did it take you to do your hair like that?”

He laughed. “This is natural, love.”

"If you say so,” I teased, and he laughed some more, maybe a little too loudly but at this moment I didn't care. A guy had never flirted with me like this, even if it was the cheesiest, and I'd never flirted back. I never even knew I had it in me.

He grabbed my hand again, stood up, and bowed slightly. “May I have this dance?”

I could have said no. Should have; my world would not have been completely turned upside down if I had said no. But I was in a new place, looking for something I hadn't had my whole life, and this stranger was offering me attention like no one ever had. Even what's-his-face, when completely sober, hadn't been so charming and sweet; he'd been one of those perverted flirts, making all kinds of innuendos, which I was definitely not looking for. But Harry—Harry was gorgeous, dazzling, something totally foreign and alluring to me, offering me attention I'd been longing for. Honestly, I think I would have said yes to anything with that accent and that voice. I was sober, but I wasn't thinking straight. I let him lead me out to the dance floor, laughing, catching Skylar's approving glance out of the corner of my eye, having no idea just how much approval I was looking for from even this beautiful stranger.