If I Can't Have You (2 page)

“Yeah. Thanks for walking me home.”

A radiant smile curls on his lips. “No problem.” I start toward the wooden steps and he stays put. “I think maybe I should talk to your parents. They should probably take to the hospital to have you checked out.”

I frown. “I’m fine.”

The last thing I want is my Mom; queen of the hypochondriacs taking me to the ER. Last time we were there she freaked and told off a nurse because she didn’t think woman butterflied a cut on my knee correctly.

“You almost drowned,” Drake announces. “There may be something else wrong. Besides, it never hurts to get checked.”

“I’ll tell them,” I say quickly and hope that he’ll drop the subject.

He does.

“Maybe we can hang out sometime,” I say with a bit of boldness.

He starts backing away. “Maybe. Stay safe kid.”

Kid? Who is he calling kid?
I’m only four years younger than him.

I open my mouth to let out a smart remark, but he’s already jogging back to his spot on the beach. I wait for a moment, watching him as he climbs back up his lifeguard chair, leans in and kisses the raven haired girl in the chair next to him.

Then I know that the “maybe” about us hanging out was just Drake being nice to a plain tween whose life he’d just saved.

And at that moment my whole summer goes to hell.

~2~

Two And A Half Years Later

The first encounter is always the sweetest, but it’s the last encounter that will impact your life forever.

College visits.

I don’t see the point. At least not for me anyway.

I’ve already been accepted to CNU, (Connecticut Northern University) so I don’t see the need to go on this exploration expedition. I assumed that college visits were only necessary when you trying to come to a decision on which college you’d like to attend. Not if you’ve already been accepted.

“I can’t believe my baby is going to college.” There’s a glint of sadness in Mom’s green eyes along with a sheer film of wetness and I know the waterworks are going to kick in at any minute.

Mom sniffles and grips onto the steering wheel. Water glazes over her eyeballs and the whites of her knuckles are showing. I place my hand on her shoulder. “Mom, don’t cry. Seriously. You know I’ll be home pretty often.”

“I know, sweetheart. I just can’t believe it though. It’s crazy how fast seventeen years go by. It seems like just yesterday I was changing your diaper.”

My eyes bulge and my mouth drops open. “Mom! Seriously?” Thank God we are the only ones in the car.

Mom sniffles again and wipes her eyes with the bottom of her palms as we pull into a parking lot. “I know. I know,” she says as she parks the car. “I’ll cool it on the diaper comments.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. I’m too anxious and way too excited to sit there and wait for mom.
 
Technically, since Mom made me come and this is my first and only college visit and I’m determined to drink in every second of it.

CNU has been my dream college since, well, I really can’t remember when. But there is a picture of me as a toddler, tucked away in one of mom’s photo boxes, of me in a CNU t-shirt with my pull-ups as an added accessory. My dad is an alumni. And I think a lot of my decision to come here rested in the fact that I knew how proud he’d be if I did.

“Mom?” I look over my shoulder. Mom is still in the car. “You coming?”

Mom gets out of the car, slams the door, and hits the lock button on her keychain. The car beeps twice then mom shoves her keys in her purse. “Let’s go, sweetheart,” she says with a smile.

We trek across the vast and wide newly paved parking lot to the administration office and at that moment I wish Whitney, my best friend could have joined us today. Her added quick-witted commentary to things like this are always comical and lighten the mood a lot. Judging from mom’s outburst in the car, I’d say I’ll need her comebacks today more than ever. I pull out my phone and text her.

I wish you were here. The waterworks have commenced.

I wait a second and my phone vibrates in my palm.

Take it easy on your Madre. She’s losing her only child.

And she must be in Senora Witt’s class.

Spanish?

Si amiga.

K. I’ll let u kno how it goes.

Cool. Hey. Let me know the layout of the campus library. U kno y.

I laugh at her last text and shove my phone in my pocket. Whit has this obsession about hooking up in the library. She once told me that there’s a certain thrill about hooking up in places where there’s a good chance you’ll get caught.

I’ll take her word for it. I’ve only never really hooked up with a guy, but I’ve had a few make-out sessions. And trust me; they were anything but a thrill. It was awkward and uncomfortable. Basically neither one of us knew what we were doing. His name was Greg Pierson and I dated him for about six months during my junior year. And the relationship lacked something important, passion.

It’s weird you know, I mean how much passion can one expect out of a high school relationship? I didn’t go into it expecting any. Well, I take that back I expected something. I expected to more than like him, but after six months of the same old, same old I dumped him because after six months if you don’t feel the way you should in a relationship there’s no point in dragging it on further. And I didn’t feel the way I should have.

Truthfully, there’s only one guy I ever felt that way about and he saved me from drowning when I was fifteen. I don’t think I’ve obsessed over the guy for the last three years just because he saved me from drowning, even though it was very noble of him and it was his job. I think I’ve obsessed over him because he’s beyond beautiful, and charming, and sweet, and way out of my reach. He’s unattainable in so many aspects. And you always want what you can’t have.

He has a girlfriend, a girlfriend that matches him equally in the beauty department. And that’s only one of the reasons why he’s out of my reach. The other is, well, I don’t think I’m very pretty. Well, at least not like his girlfriend pretty. I’m plain with pale skin, emerald eyes, and thick auburn hair. I rarely wear makeup and I’d much rather wear jeans and a hoodie than get all dressed up for the day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not completely insecure. I know that I’m smart, logical, easy going, and a lot of times can match Whit quip for quip in the quick-witted comebacks department so I have that going for me.

But…

There are some times where I wish I didn’t feel like I lacked so much in the looks department and I wish that society didn’t make it such a huge part of our everyday lives.

I mean I consider myself to average looking and normal and it would be nice if the media would consider normal as sexy.

I never see a girl like me on the cover of a magazine, or in movies, or even dating the hottest guy in school. For God’s sake I don’t think the resident hottie in my grade even knows my name. Well, I take that back, he knows my name, but has a hard time remembering it.

And I’ve sat next to him in AP English for the last two years.

Every day in class he’d sit down across from me and whisper, “Hey. You.”

One time I corrected him, “My name is Robin.”

He’d nodded and flashed me a flawless yet fake smile. “Right. Robin. Yeah, do you have the homework from yesterday?”

I just shook my head and handed over my paper.

I don’t why I gave it to him. Maybe it was because I thought that he might somehow remember me the next time and actually say my name.

I was wrong.

A week later when I actually thought he might remember my name he said, “Hey. You.” Again.

That’s pretty much how my high school career has gone thus far. I’m a ‘you.’ Invisible and just another nameless face in the crowd.

Mom and I stop in front of the administration building. “Sweetheart, I’m going to go find a bathroom. That four hour car ride did me in.”

“Okay, mom. I’m just going to wait here for you.”

“You don’t have to go to?”

“No. I didn’t drink my weight in iced tea.”

Mom laughs and shakes her head then walks inside the administration office, asks the receptionist a question, and I’m assuming it’s;
where’s your restroom?
Then she turns left down a hallway.

I prop myself up against the side of the door and wait. Then it occurs to me that maybe I should wait for Mom inside. When she comes out of the bathroom I’m going to need to be in there anyway, so I pivot on my heel and grip the door handle. And just when I do someone pushes on the door from the inside and smacks me in the face with it.

“Ow!”

I’m seeing tiny white dots and I stagger backwards, eyes closed, hands covering my face as a sharp pain stabs my forehead.
Dammit!
That hurt like hell.

“Dude, I’m so sorry.” A guy’s low voice rings out in my ears. “I didn’t even see you there.”

The pain intensifies and throbs beneath my skin and I can feel a goose egg forming on the right side of my forehead. “Don’t you pay attention to where you’re going?” I ask nasally, hands still covering my face, eyes watering up.

“I could say the same thing to you.” The guy lets out a soft laugh and I’m sure he wouldn’t be laughing if he was in as much pain as I am at the moment.

My whole head feels like its splitting open and I move my hands up my cheeks and touch the spot that’s swelling. “Ouch.”

“Here let me see it.” My assailant moves closer and I drop my hands. His soft fingertips glide over my forehead and he pokes the bump gently with his forefinger. I wince. “Well,” he says softly. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

Since he hit me with the door, I’ve managed to keep my gaze lowered. But after that comment my head snaps up and I scoff, words dripping with sarcasm, “Gee, you think?”

Then I look at him, I mean really look at him and everything blurs. I blink several times and I’m not sure if it’s the after effects from the smack in the head that’s making my head spin or the fact that the guy who smacked me with it is so hot that I damn near gasped when I finally caught a glimpse of his face.

I lower my head and exhale. I am not good in situations like this. I am lousy at conversing with the opposite sex. Especially hot members of the opposite sex.
Breathe, Robin. Just breathe.
It’s not like he’s interested or anything. It’s not like he’s going to ask you out. He probably has an equally stunning girlfriend at home waiting for him.

I pick my head up again and he’s staring at me, his broad muscular shoulders pulled back, a half smile on his full pink lips. But it’s the way he’s staring at me that makes my stomach do a back flip because no guy has every stared at me in such a ravenous way. No guy has ever stared at me like he’s undressing me with his eyes.

 
He leans in closer to me and I stiffen out of nervousness and fear and his half smile breaks out into a full one as he says, “Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You already did,” I blurt out. Shit. I should be trying to play it cool. Typical me. I always say the wrong things. But technically speaking he did hurt me.

“Touché. But if it’s any consolation it was an accident and I did apologize. Err—Miss—.”

“Robin.”

He chuckles softly and I admire his long dark lashes as he leans in closer to my face to examine the bump on my head further. He breathes softly and his warm breath wafts over my face and at that point I know I’m blushing. “Wait here a second.” He backs away from me and jogs off toward a few vending machines.

He returns a few minutes later and thrusts an ice cold soda into my hand. “Put that on it. It will make the swelling go down.”

I do as he says and sigh in relief as the cold can of liquid refreshment puts out the raging fire beneath my skin. “Thanks.”

He smiles and my breath hitches at the sight of his pearly, straight teeth. I keep reminding myself to breathe normally, but it’s like my lungs aren’t listening to the commands spouting off in my head.

A nanosecond later mom rushes out the door and her gaze shifts from me holding the can of soda on my forehead to the beautiful boy standing next to me. “Sweetheart!” she gasps and pulls back my arm to examine my head. “What happened?”

“He…Um…”

The guys chuckles nervously and shrugs. “I accidentally whacked her in the head with the door.”

“Robin, sweetheart.” Mom moves her finger toward the bump.

I wince. “Mom, don’t touch it.”

Mom pulls her hand back and there’s a flash of concern in her evergreen eyes. “I’m worried. What if you have a concussion?” Her eyes shift to the guy. “How hard did you smack her with it? And how did this happen?”

“Not too hard, ma’am,” he answers politely. “She was trying to go inside the administration office and I was trying to leave. Then, well, we sort of collided.”

I place the pop can back on my forehead and I can feel the heat blazing in my cheeks. This is beyond embarrassing. Sometimes mom treats me like a child—no—more than sometimes almost all the time. I assume it’s because I’m an only child. “Mom, look I’ll be fine. Um, this guy—err—.”