I have two journals. No one knows that except me. After Michael stole my journal--God, was it only a little over two years ago?--I realized that I had to be more careful. So I hid my regular journal in a wall, behind a brick, and I also bought this one. A big thick black book, which I stored in the back of my closet under the winter coat that my mother got me before we went to Vermont for Christmas one year.

I'd forgotten about it, actually. But when I got home this morning, I knew I had to write things down. To analyze them.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm writing it down in the hopes that once it's out I can bury it and forget it. I'm almost done with school; I'm going off to college. This is supposed to be a happy time. I am happy, damn it. Or at least I will be, once I've gotten all this down and figured out what to do.

Last night was my senior prom. I had been looking forward to this night all year. I'd been looking forward to it since I was old enough to figure out whata prom was. I saved six months for my dress. Light blue, long, perfect. I even thought I looked nice in it. And Max--oh, he thought I looked like something out of a fairy tale. I cried when he told me that.

I can't believe that we've been together for this long. We've been through so much since that first day in Crashdown when he saved my life and we fell in love. That sounds stupid, doesn't it? Like something out of a bad movie. But it's true, he did save my life, and we did fall in love.

Things between us have always been wonderful. Maybe because we are both afraid to rock the boat. I don't know. For a while, right after junior year, things got pretty intense, what with the whole government thing. But we made it through all of it.

How did everyone else fare? Not as well. Isabel and Alex--not that they were ever actually a couple, really--after everything that happened, I think Isabel was just too scared. And Alex loved her enough to let her go.

Michael and Maria? That's another story. I think that,in his own way, Michael really loved Maria. But I also think he's not capable of any sort of lasting love. I think that he just can't see past now, is always waiting for and expecting that he'll be able to leave--so all he can form is the most elemental of attachments. Maria once said he was like a supernova. Glowing, hot--then gone.

Maria coped with it far better than I could have. She told me that she knew that Michael couldn't give her much, and she was happy with it. After Topolsky died, and after the Sheriff swore to keep what he knew a secret, things just sort of fell apart for Michael and Maria. I think Michael realized that he might not be leaving Earth any time soon, and I think it scared him.

He pushed Maria away, hard. And she left. I don't know if he thought she would, I don't know if he realized she would. But then she was gone and she'd moved on, and what could he do? Her mom wanted to move to Taos, try her hand at running a gallery. And Maria left without looking back.

I still hear from her once in a while, but she never asks about Michael. Isabel and Max, sometimes. Alex, often. Even Valenti once in a while, which surprises me. But I suppose that in her mind, we're all still frozen in that summer after eleventh grade, all of us together, struggling to save ourselves.

I was worried after that summer. Worried that we were all going to split up, scatter to the four winds. But it worked out. Max and I worked through our sorrow--though thinking back, maybe it would have been better if we discussed what happened together--Isabel crawled out of her grief over Kyle's death, and Michael....

Michael just retreated. He went back to the way he was when I first met him. There, but on the fringes. Hanging back. Never rude, just distant. After Maria left, I rarely saw him. He always left when I showed up anywhere. Max told me that he couldn't see me without thinking of Maria. Maybe I do remind him of Maria. I don't know, and frankly, I don't really care. Does that make me a bad person?

**

They held the prom in a very nice hotel three towns away. After all, Roswell doesn't have a plethora of swanky hotels with ballrooms. Max rented a limo, which was very sweet and a total surprise to boot.

We didn't talk much on the way to the dance. After all this time together, we're finally able to have silences. You know what I mean? After you've been with someone a while, you aren't so afraid of those quiet times when you don't have anything to say to each other. You don't worry that the other person is bored, that they're thinking of something else.

I asked him again, right before we got to prom. "Have you picked a school?"

He just looked at me sadly. That beautiful face--he looks like an angel--all cheekbones and dark eyes. "Liz, honey...I told you. I can't leave Roswell. What if something happened? I have to stay here. But things won't change. I swear."

I wanted to scream at him when he said that. But Liz Parker doesn't scream. She's thoughtful and kind and quiet.

And really, what he was saying made sense. Max wasn't--isn't--like me, he just can't pack up and go to college. I know that. He has other things to think about. But when he agreed to apply to colleges, just to see if he could get in, I was so excited. A future for the two of us, away from the suffocating confines of Roswell, where everyone knows who you are and where it always seems like your every move is monitored--I want that. And I know Max does too.

But he's tied here. And now, as I write this, I will force myself to be honest. I want Max to leave with me because I want to prove that I am worthy of him. His love for me is so deep, so true--he almost gave up everything for me so many times. It's what I owe him.

"I know" I told him. I hugged him, feeling the bones of his shoulders under my hands. "I love you."

He smiled at me. "And I love you."

Yes, he loves me. And I love him.

Why isn't that enough for me?

**

On the way into the hotel, we passed the sheriff. Funny that after all this time I still can't think of him as Jim, though he tells me to call him that every time I see him.

He was talking to Isabel. I could see her date, waiting off to one side, looking agitated. The sheriff makes people nervous--he used to make me nervous. But now, when I look at him, all I see is whenhe shot Topolsky, the tears in his eyes as he knelt next to Isabel, who was leaning over Kyle's body, covered with Kyle’s blood.

Valenti nodded at us, and Max opened his mouth like he was going to say something, like he was searching for something to say. I took his hand in mine and squeezed it a little. He sighed and looked over at me. "I’m worried about Is."

I knew that. We all knew that. I knew Michael and Max worried about Isabel, who had healed from what happened, but only on the surface. Max andI talked about it too. But what could we do? Isabel, for all her attitude and surface pretense, loved the most fiercely of all of us. I don't think she'll ever recover, though I've never told Max that. It would just hurt him, and he's been hurt enough.

I could hear Isabel's voice, softly, as we walked inside. "I miss him every day." And I could hear the sheriff's choked reply, the tears in his voice. "I do too."

No, they won't ever get over it. But time heals--I hope. Or maybe it just dims things. I could live with that too.

Alex was waiting for us when we got inside. He was with his girlfriend, Sherry, and they both looked so cute. Alex was wearing a vest that matched Sherry's dress. He gave me a hug and said hi to Max. We talked for a couple of minutes, till Isabel came in with her date and walked over to us. Alex gave me a look--he can't understand why Isabel won't give him a chance--and walked off.

Max started after him, and I let him go. Isabel sighed and I turned to look at her. I know why she will never give Alex a chance. She could care for him, and she is terrified of it. I don't blame her. Look what happened with Kyle. He found out, discovered what they are, and he died protecting her. About a month after it happened, Max and I found her out in the desert, at the spot where Kyle died. She was drunk--yes, Isabel Evans was drunk--and she grabbed my arm when Max went to get the car.

"It's like there's a hole in me," she said. "A big, gaping hole. And it will never be filled. How can that be? I didn't love him. I never told him I loved him!"

It was too much for me to deal with. I was still raw on the inside myself, and I couldn't bear to be around someone who was so honest about her emotions. I wanted to shake her, to tell her to just wake up,wise up, and bury it like the rest of us had done. But I didn't. I'm Liz Parker and I'm compassionate and kind. I held her while she cried, I sat with her when we got back to the Evans' house.

**

Isabel and her date moved off to the dance floor. Max came back, gave me a weary smile. "I think Alex is ok."

I looked over at Alex, who was smiling determinedly at Sherry. "He'll be just fine. Now, how about a dance?"

Max is a very good dancer. I think Isabel must have made him practice with her at some point. We danced till I felt giddy with happiness, flushed with the sort of joy that only a night that's approached near-perfection can give you.

We stood in line and got our picture taken. We talked to our friends. Max went and held Isabel's hand when the band played some slow song I didn't know. When he came back, he explained to me that it was the first song she and Kyle danced to, and she still had a hard time listening to it.

I looked over at Isabel. The band was playing a new song, so she was dancing with her date. She had this empty smile painted on her face. I dated Kyle, I liked him, but I never loved him. But Isabel did. She still does. My gaze fell on Alex, who was looking over Sherry's head, staring right at Isabel. Poor Alex. How can you compete with someone who is dead?

But then Max danced us out onto the balcony and he kissed me, and I was able to forget about his sister and the past for a while. Even after all this time, kissing Max is wonderful. The way he holds me, the taste of his mouth, the way he says my name. Is it any wonder that I don't want to give him up? Can I blame what I did on him? I suppose I can't, but it sure would be easier if I could.

I'm actually the one who spoiled our night. I kept thinking about that acceptance letter from Dartmouth, and how I'd replied to it. I was going away to school, and Max wouldn't be coming with me. Even though he'd gotten in. I'd seen his acceptance letter, even though he'd acted like it was no big deal. We could be together--we could have a future--but he won't take it.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I was thinking about the letter, and I was thinking about how great it could be if Max and I were away at school together. Seeing real fall weather--leaves that change color, having to wear sweaters--all of it. And privacy. We never had any at his house; Isabel was always around.

And the rest of the time, Max was patient. Maybe too patient. Or maybe it's my fault.

We were back inside and they were getting ready to announce the prom king and queen. Max looked so happy. I felt happy. So I asked him.

"Come to Dartmouth with me. I know you got in. It would be so wonderful, don't you think?"

I knew it was too pushy the second I said it. But it was too late to take it back; it was already out of my mouth and lost to the universe.

Max blinked. I wasn't usually so direct.

"Liz, you know I can't."

I don't need to repeat the rest of our discussion. It went just like all the others. I offered up freedom, a future, a change, myself. And he picked here, now, his past.

Standing there on the dance floor, I saw myself. Or to be more accurate, a vision of myself in the future. A never-ending series of myselves, arguing this same argument with Max in different locations around town. Me, offering everything I have--which isn't much, I grant you, but it's all I have--and Max choosing to stay with what he knows, just in case that his past could be revealed.

And at that moment, on that dance floor, I wanted to shed the past. Shed myself, who I was at that moment--just a girl, in love with a boy--a boy who would never love her enough--and become new.

And I wanted to hurt him. I hated Max in that moment. I suppose it's a reflection of how much I love him. Like a child, I wanted to lash out, to take something he loved and break it into a million pieces.

"I need some time to think" I told him. "I want a future with you, and you don't want me. I can't be around you right now."

I already knew what I was going to do. I thought of it so quickly. Had I been thinking of it all along, and just needed an excuse to act on it?

He nodded. He was being understanding and kind and wonderful. He touched my shoulder. "Liz, believe me, if things were different.... I wish they were. I love you."

"I love you too." And I do love him. Don't think I don't. Because I do.

I left. Walked right out of the dance. My mother had already given me permission to stay out all night. She likes Max. And I'm a good kid. Always call and check in, never stay out late. Never cause any trouble.

I got a taxi. It was pretty easy, which surprised me. I thought that maybe Max would come after me, but I'd told him I need time to think. He's always respected my wishes.

I told the cabby where I wanted to go and he smiled. It was quite a drive; he'd earn a huge fare. I didn't care.

I had to pay the driver with the credit card my dad gave me for emergencies. Do you think a burning desire to rip the still-beating heart out of someone's chest, to hurt him in such a way that he can't breathe, counts as an emergency?

**

The trailer park looked like hell. Worse than the last time I'd been there, which was a *long* time ago, back when things with Max and me were new. It took me a few minutes to figure out which trailer Michael lived in. But I found it, and I went and knocked on the door.

Michael opened the door and he actually looked surprised. He'd known it was prom night--or if he didn't, I suspect my dress gave me away. "Liz?"

"Can I come in?" I am so polite. That's me, though. I am polite. And kind. And sensitive. And a great person.

But I still don't like being taken for granted. I don't like it at all. And even I get tired of being sensible.

Michael moved aside and let me in. I noticed Hank wasn't there. Thank God. I hadn't even thought of him until I got inside the trailer. I suppose I need some more work on formulating plans.

Michael has always been good at unnerving me. He's so quiet and intense. Frankly, he's a little creepy. That time he stole my journal--after that, I didn't want to be near him for a month.

In retrospect, I guess I always found him attractive. It was just something I'd never admitted to myself. He is my boyfriend's best friend. And he was Maria's sort-of boyfriend for a while too. And he'd never shown much interest in me.

Is that what tipped me off? When I think back to when I knew--knew immediately what I wanted to do, mind you--was that the hint? That Michael had avoided me so thoroughly?

That maybe he stayed away from me because he found me attractive?

That maybe he stayed away from me because he'd never been very good at controlling himself?

"I want to have sex with you."

It came out a lot louder than I intended. It ricocheted around the trailer, slammed into the walls, and flew back into my ears.

"What?"

I'd actually managed to startle him. He looked absolutely stunned.

"You heard me."

I wasn't usually so direct. Strong Liz isn't something that most people see. He blinked.

Then he scowled at me. "You and Max had a fight. And you want to hurt him, is that it?"

I nodded.

"You're a bitch."

My cue. Exit stage left, run sobbing from trailer. Oh, that's what he wanted. And I would have done it, except I was so mad at Max I couldn't see straight. And I think I wanted to do what happened next. Because it was so wrong, because it was *so* something that Liz Parker would never, ever do. Because I could do it. Because I did do it.

When I didn't leave he smirked at me. "Ok, sure." Positive I'd fold.

I don't scare that easily. No matter how much I like to pretend that I do. I started to walk down the narrow hallway of the trailer and then I stopped. I turned and looked at him. His smirk looked a trifle relieved by that. "Which room is yours?"

His smirk disappeared and he just stared at me for a moment. I mean really stared. Looked me over from the top of my head to the tips of the stupid blue pumps (to match my dress) I had on my feet. I just looked back at him steadily. No flinching.

He swallowed. I think it was then that I realized that just because Max had a lot of willpower, it didn't necessarily mean that Michael did.

He pointed towards a door. I walked towards it.

**

Once we were both in his room, he shut the door. I'd never been in his room before, and frankly, it was pretty creepy. It was so barren, like no one lived there. It was lonely looking. It was the only time I had second thoughts. Huh. I just wrote that, and you know what? It's true. That's the only time I did. I was worried that Michael might be lonely, and it scared me.

He smiled at me--again, that mockery of a smile. He knew I was wary of him, and I knew he smiled like that to make me nervous. Knowing that didn't help much, but what can I say? Wanting to hurt someone is a great motivator. I will not address his motives.

He gestured towards the bed. "Do you need any help with your clothes?"

I shook my head and took my shoes off. He seems to own an extensive wardrobe made up of black and gray clothes. What was he wearing? I think it was a black shirt and jeans of an indiscriminate gray color. My dress probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

I took off my dress. I looked over at him, watching as he took off his shoes. I noticed there was a hole in the bottom of one. I looked down at my underwear. Take it off, or leave it on? Easier to lie, to pretend that I didn’t know what was going to happen, and leave it on. I went and sat on the bed.

Michael raised an eyebrow at me, but came over and sat next to me. He was barefoot, but the rest of his clothes were still on. I think he was hoping I'd tell him I'd made a mistake and leave. Maybe. I don't know. Whatever. I wasn't as intimated as I had been earlier because I said, "Are you planning on leaving all your clothes on?"

He smiled at me, a real smile, and I could feel my nipples pressing against my bra in response. Embarrassing, and he noticed because his smile got bigger. He didn't answer, just reached over and unhooked my bra. One of his hands brushed across my breasts, just the briefest of caresses. That mocking smile on his face, again. I wondered who he hated more--me, or himself.

His hands slid the rest of my underwear down my legs. He pushed me back against the bed; his hand rested on my stomach. He leaned over; I could feel his mouth move against my ear. He asked me a question.

**

I did what he asked. I put my hand between my legs. I was wet; I could hear the sound of my fingers moving over my flesh. Yes, Michael Guerin turns me on. I suppose maybe there's a reason why I'd always avoided him. My more intelligent subconscious was trying to save me from myself.

He was stretched out beside me, I could feel his jeans pressing against my legs, feel the thin material of his t-shirt resting against my chest.

I turned and looked at him. He had an utterly bored look on his face. "I can't do this," I choked out.

Now this is the tricky part. As I write this--was I was willing to stop?

It seems like it, right?

Well, it wasn't. I wasn't. Be honest with yourself. It's the least a scientist can do. And I want to be a scientist. I want to be rational. Even if I am a dismal failure at it so far.

I just wanted a sign that he wanted me. Max had already stomped on my hopes and dreams--was I that unworthy? I just wanted to be wanted.

His eyes, which had been downcast, opened and looked at me. His pupils were so dilated that I couldn't see anything but dark. "Please," he whispered.

That was my undoing. I could feel my nipples harden more, felt the aching pressure build as I pressed the flesh between my legs. He moved in closer to me, I could feel his erection pressing into my hip. I closed my eyes again, felt my hips move up towards my own hand. I opened my eyes again, dizzy from my own need and turned to look at him. His eyes were downcast, I knew he was watching me.

I grabbed his hand and pressed it against me, needing the extra pressure, knowing what it would do to him. I heard his harsh intake of breath, the sudden rush of air into his lungs, felt his hand tangle with mine, press into me. Then I came. Hard and fast, so hard that I could feel the contractions everywhere, the little aftershocks that come afterwards.

Michael pulled his hand away from me quickly and stood up. I was still coasting. I watched in a daze as he stood up, pulling his shirt over his head. Then he came back down, pressing into me. I could feel his chest against mine, hear him breathing in my ear. I opened my eyes to see him staring at me with...I don't know. I think panic, maybe.

"We shouldn't do this," he told me. "Aren't you smarter than this?"

No.

I'm surprised he hadn't guessed that.

I could feel his erection pressing against me; I wanted him inside me. I moved my hips against his, felt the answering slide of his own. His eyes fluttered shut, his hips ground against me again. The material of his jeans was abrasive, I could feel it scratching my thighs, but with the pressure, the feel of him against me, I didn't care about anything else.

His head dropped down, I felt his mouth against my nipples briefly. Then lower, his tongue running over my stomach. His head came up; I looked down to see him gazing up at me from between my thighs.

I closed my eyes as I felt his tongue trace my hipbone, moving in towards the apex between my legs. I felt my hips move up towards his mouth. I wanted him to touch me there, with his mouth, so badly that all I could feel was the hollow ache between my thighs.

I could feel his breath against me; I felt myself strain towards him. "Open your eyes," he told me.

So I did. And I watched as his fair hair blended with the dark curls between my legs; I watched as my legs moved, wrapping around him, as my hands got caught in his hair, as he pressed against me, the way he stayed where he was when I came, till I came again, till I couldn't think past anything but him and what he was making me feel.

He moved up suddenly. I watched as he fumbled with his belt. I reached out a hand and ran it down the front of his jeans, rubbing my hand against his erection, not helping, not helping at all. I wanted him to burn like I was.

I sat up and pushed him back. He stared at me, watched as I grasped his penis, ran my hand down him, squeezing. Then I lowered my head and pulled him into my mouth, gently at first, then harder. I heard him gasp, felt his hand tangle in my hair, then move it aside so he could watch me.

He tried to move me before he came. I bit down, gently, then not so gently, as a warning. I moved back after he came, just watching him. He was breathing hard, his eyes were closed.

"Don't smile at me like that," he told me when he opened his eyes.

"Why not?" I asked him.

He groaned and pulled me into his arms. "You know why," he said, and then he kissed me for the first time. I kissed him back, tasting ourselves and each other, loving the feel of his mouth, his tongue sliding across mine, the way our teeth bumped, the way he sucked on my bottom lip.

His mouth moved back down my neck, across my upper chest. His fingers played with my nipples; he captured one between his fingers. The pressure made my throat sting, made my back arch. I heard myself talking; I didn't know what I was saying.

I felt his teeth scrape against one nipple, than the other. I was all sensation, all want. He rolled onto his back, pulling me with him. He shoved his jeans down, all the way off, our bodies brushing against each other. I felt the tip of him push into me a little and I hissed from the feel of it. I pushed against him again, loving the sense of pressure, the feeling of anticipation.

His face was dark red, strained. "Now," he told me. I slid down on him slowly. This was new. It didn't hurt like I thought it would. I slid up, then down, as slowly as I could; the pleasure was so intense, it had to be savored.

His hands were digging into my hips, he was telling me something, but I couldn't hear him over the roaring in my ears. My hips dropped down again and he held them, thrust up inside me, again and again, and I felt my orgasm start, heard him say something, and then I didn't hear anything but my own cries.

**

We both got dressed afterwards. Sorry, no post-coital snuggling. That seems like it would be more my style, doesn't it? Maybe I don't know myself as well as I think I do.

I felt like I'd been in an accident. Crashed down to earth. Funny, huh? I ached everywhere. My breasts were sore, my nipples hurt. I could see the marks from his face on my chest, on my stomach, between my thighs. There was a bruise near my left shoulder.

I marked him too. There was an enormous hickey, actually a bite mark, right below hiscollarbone. When did I do that? Don't know. I could see the imprint of my nails in his back when he put his shirt on. He leaned over and handed me my dress. I could smell myself on him. I could smell what we had done in his room. What if Max came to see Michael?

He put on his pants and stood watching me as I zipped up my dress and struggled into my shoes. I felt like I was underwater, seeing things through a film. If I close my eyes, I can still feel him moving inside me, still hear his voice in my ear.

I walked to the door. My legs were shaking so badly that I could hardly walk. I wanted to say something; I wanted him to say something.

We walked out into the hallway. I looked in at the room as the door closed. It didn't look any different. Unmade bed, piles of stuff all over the floor. View of a trailer from the window.

When I looked up, he was moving down the hall.

"Michael?" I heard the question, the panic in my voice. Why is it that you always realize that you shouldn't have done something after it's over? How could something I did out of spite have felt so good? Is something wrong with me?

He turned. He shook his head and I saw the same questions in his eyes.

In the end, I didn't know what to say either. My gaze fell to the floor.

I walked outside, hearing him behind me. There was a pay phone over by the trailer park entrance and I called another cab. By the time I was off the phone he was gone, and I waited in the dark, just thinking about everything and nothing. I kept waiting to feel something, anything, but mostly, all I felt was a sort of blank acceptance.

The whole night went wrong. Upside down, inside out, and backwards wrong.

Is something wrong with me?

I know what my problem is. I can write it down here. And then I'm burning this journal, or doing something else equally melodramatic.

Is something wrong with me?

Yeah. Something's wrong with me.