If I Can't Have You

by Lauren Hammond

  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 m
om 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—.”

  “Elliot.”

  “Yeah, Mom. Elliot was nice enough to go and get me something cold to put on my head to make the swelling go down.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Are you sure you don’t want me to run you to an Urgent Care before we take the tour.”

  “No!” I say it fast and with a lot of force. “No I’m fine.”

  I think she may be overreacting. It’s not like I’ve never had a goose egg before. I replay an incident from my childhood where there was a head on head collision with another six year old during a game of dodge ball and I had a goose egg as big as a golf ball. What I remember more vividly than anything is the emergency room doctor examining the bump and saying with a smile, “It’s just a little goose egg.”

  The sun shines brightly and touches the highlighted tips of Elliot’s crown of gold. His hair shimmers and I notice his watery gray-blue eyes. My chest tightens and I feel the need to relieve myself from this embarrassing moment. Thank God, Mom beats me to it. “Well, sweetheart, you ready to get this tour over with?”

  You freaking bet I am. “Yeah, Mom.”

  Mom turns to Elliot. “Thanks for being so kind to my daughter.”

  Elliot probes me with his eyes. I look away, nervous. “It’s no problem really. After all, I’m the one who hit her with the door. It was the least I could do.”

  Mom gives me her you-better-be-polite look. “Robin, you should thank this young man.”

  “I already did.” Mom purses her lips and her breathing is heavy and I know if I don’t do what I’m told I’m going to have to listen to her ranting for the rest of the tour. “Thank you, Elliot. Thank you for being so kind,” I say graciously.

  I really am grateful that Elliot turned out to be such a nice guy. The guys I know that are gorgeous like him wouldn’t have been so kind. They would’ve hit me with the door and ran away laughing.

  Elliot smiles brightly and my heart thumps, beating out of my chest. “No problem, Robin.” There’s a roll to the “R” when he says my name and it’s so sexy that heat rises to my cheeks and I feel like I’m baking in an oven. “Maybe I’ll see you around campus sometime.”

  I hope so. “Yeah, Maybe.”

  In all reality, I know I probably won’t—see him around campus I mean. There are thousands in my freshman class and who knows how many total for all grades. The small flicker of hope inside of me dwindles away and I frown. Why is it that when you have a random encounter with a gorgeous guy your chances of seeing him again always go from possibly to not at all in a matter of seconds? The thought of it totally bums me out.

  I’ve had that before with the lifeguard who saved my life three summers ago. But the thing is; I still see him. Every year when I walk onto the beach he flashes me his perfect smile from his bright red lifeguard chair. “Hey, kid,” he greets me with a chuckle. “Am I going to have to keep a close eye on you today?”

  What I always want to tell him is; I hope so. But I never do. I usually end up blushing and look down at my feet, mumbling a string of incoherent words. Elliot makes me feel the same way and I just met him. He makes me feel like I’m a scattered all over inside, bits and pieces of cubed cheddar placed sporadically on a party platter. I gaze at him intensely and he kind of reminds me of Drake, the lifeguard who saved my life and it’s unnerving. I swallow hard and start playing with my fingertips. Will I ever be able to act like myself around gorgeous guys? I snort softly. Probably not.

  Elliot smirks and grazes his teeth along his lower lip. “I look forward to it, Robin.” He starts backing away. “Have a good tour. I’ve got my own to get to.”

  “You’re a freshman?” I shout as he distances himself from me.

  “Yep!”

  Elliot smiles and disappears from my view and a wide smile curls on my lips.

  For my sake I hope that the “maybe” of me seeing him again turns into a definitely.

  ~3~

  Six Months Later

  Missing someone gets easier every day because even though it's one day further from the last time you saw each other, it's one day closer to the next time you will. ~Author Unknown~

  “Robin Sue Mason! You’d better be up there packing!” Mom shouts from the bottom of the steps.

  “I am!” No I’m not.

  “Good because we’re leaving in forty-five minutes with or without you!”

  I glimpse over my shoulder at my empty suitcase then back at my open laptop. A tiny grin crawls across my lips when I read the post on Drake Robertson’s Facebook wall.

  Another summer in Paradise.

  I’d asked him if he’d be my friend on Facebook last summer and I honestly didn’t think he’d say yes. But he did and I remember more clearly than anything the palpitations my heart made after he’d answered me.

  Heat rises to my cheeks and my face tingles as I admire his picture. He saved my life three summers ago and we’ve been to same beach cottage in Paradise, Maine every summer since. But he’s never looked or thought of me the way I think of him. In fact, most of the times he’s seen me he’d give me a playful punch to the arm and say, “What’s up, kid? You surviving vacation this year?”

  I’d roll my eyes and reply, “Yes.” But that I really want to say is I know I’ll survive because you’ll be there to save me.

  He’s my own personal superhero. Or at least I like to think of him that way. And it seems like the only time I’m accident prone is when he’s around.

  Most of all, I wish he’d look at me like I’m not a kid. Hopefully this year he will because I don’t look the same as I did last year, much less three years ago. I hit puberty late, not filling out until a month before my senior year. Now I feel like I look more womanly, with curves and a b cup-size I can actually fill out.

  I close my laptop and plop down next to my suitcase and sigh. If Mom hopes to leave in forty-five minutes, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint her because I have no idea what to pack.

  Just then Whitney bursts through the door singing, “We’ve got two tickets to Paradise!” I laugh, falling onto my side as she drops her duffle bag onto the floor. Whit is always so animated. “What the heck are you doing?” she asks glancing from my suitcase to my face. “You haven’t packed anything!”

  “I don’t know what to bring,” I whine and puff out my bottom lip.

  Whit rolls her hazel eyes. “I’ll help you.” She starts rummaging through my drawers. “I think I’m more excited about this vacation than you are,” she says, elbows deep in my underwear drawer.

  “Beats serving cones at the Frosty Dream.” Whitney has a summer job at the local ice cream shop.

  “You got that right,” she huffs. “I think sand in my bikini is more appealing than sticky, melted ice cream in my hair.”

  I laugh. “So true.”

  Whitney stops rummaging and picks up a pair of my undies, turns around and holds t
hem up. “Dude, what’s with all the granny panties? You don’t have one cute pair of underwear in this drawer?” She stretches out the pair of white bikini briefs in her hands. “Haven’t you ever heard of Victoria’s Secret?”

  “And what is her secret?” I ask sarcastically.

  “She designs cute underwear,” Whit says as she slingshots the underwear at my face.

  The panties skim my cheek and I pick them up and toss them over my shoulder. “Whit, you know I like to be comfortable and I can’t be comfortable with some skimpy pair of underwear riding up my crack. Besides, nobody is going to be looking at my underwear.”

  She grabs a handful of my skivvy’s and shoves them into my suitcase. “You never know.” She gives me a mischievous wink. “Maybe Drake will decide you’re too hot for your own good this year.”