Here With You (13 page)

But he had a feeling it was only just reappearing, and that it'd be stronger than
ever.

Because of Nicole.

Chapter Fifteen

It was cold, and sitting on the cold concrete curb wasn't helping matters. Rachel
huddled in her jacket, hating the wind. It felt like winter in San Francisco even
though it was spring.

A shadow fell over her.

Glancing up, she saw Aaron looming over her like a giant. The instant happiness she
felt surprised her.

"Hey," he said.

Rachel wanted to tell him to go away but she couldn't make herself say the words.
She heard the paper she was waiting to give Griffin Chase crinkle in her hand, and
she forced her grip to relax.

Aaron took her silence as an invitation and sat down next to her. "What's going on?"

"What makes you think something's going on?"

He pointedly looked at her head.

Her hand went to the ski cap she's put on because she'd been so cold. "I'm just trying
out a new look."

He grinned. "It's working for you."

The door to Romantic Notions opened. Rachel sat up, alert, but it was only an older
woman who walked out. She slumped back down. Where was he? Had she missed him? Maybe
he'd gone back to Los Angeles or wherever.

He couldn't be gone. The
–sons
would torture her for the rest of her life if she didn't get Griffin Chase to make
her poem into a song.

"You must have a major thing for underwear," Aaron said, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She glanced at him. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it's like you're casing the joint. Are you planning a heist?"

"Of course not."

He grinned. "I love it when you get prissy."

"I'm not prissy," she said, hearing the prissiness in her voice.

"
So why are we sitting here?
"

"
I'm
sitting here because I'm waiting.
You're
sitting here to plague me.
"

He didn't take the hint, simply asking, "What are you waiting for?"

She couldn't say she was waiting for Griffin Chase. Then she'd have to say why, and
she wasn't ready to confess that much to a boy she barely knew, even if he was cute
and funny and smart. So she said, "Nothing."

"Then come have a drink with me."

"I can't."

"Come on. Grounds for Thought has awesome chocolate chip cookies, and they bake a
batch to be ready specially after school."

"I—"

"We still haven't gotten together to talk about my term paper. You promised you'd
help."

She hadn't, but she figured it wasn't the time to point that out. "I'd be risking
my life if I had a drink with you."

"Your life?" His brow furrowed.

"Madison told me she'd gut me if I didn't stay away from you."

"Isn't that reason enough to come eat cookies with me?"

She looked at Romantic Notions. She could keep an eye on the door from inside the
coffee shop and rush out if Griffin Chase showed up. "You're right. Let's go. But
we sit in the front."

Aaron stood up. "If only I'd known Madison was the way to your heart sooner."

"If you're going to be caustic, I'll stay here."

"Caustic?" He grinned and hiked his bag and hers onto his shoulder. "I love how you
talk."

"I don't talk in any way," she mumbled as she got up and dusted off her butt.

"I noticed it the first time I saw you. You walked into class your first day late,
and Michael pointed to the clock and asked if you were lost, and you replied 'No,
just temporally challenged.'"

"You heard me?"
She thought she'd said
i
t quietly.

"Yeah." He laughed as he held the door open for her. "It cracked me up."

She walked by him, feeling her face go red as she brushed the front of his jacket.
She hurried inside to a table in the front. It wasn't exactly by the window, but from
the chair on the right she had a good enough view.

Aaron walked up and set their bags next to the table. "What would you like?"

"I can get it," she murmured, reaching for her bag. Her dad always gave her wads of
money. As if money made up for the fact that he was never around.

"It's my treat." Aaron put his hand on top of hers.

She froze, looking down at where he touched her. His hand was warm and big, making
her feel small and delicate. She felt a funny tingle in the pit of her stomach, and
she looked up, startled.

Smiling, he withdrew his hand. "Mocha?"

"Hot chocolate," she replied, rubbing the back of her hand on her jeans to get rid
of the tingly feeling.

"Be right back."

Sitting down, she watched him stride to the counter. The blonde was there, and he
greeted her by name.

His smile was so nice.
He
was nice. She wasn't sure why he was being nice to her. She wanted to resist it,
but she liked it. She'd never been into the boys at her school in Manhattan, because
whenever she looked at them she remembered when they were six years old and lame.
Her mom had always said she'd know when a boy was right for her.

Was Aaron right?

Rachel had no idea. She wished her mom were here so she could ask.

He came back with a plate of cookies. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I got a bunch
to share."

"Why do you hang out with me so much?" she heard herself blurt out.

He blinked at her, like the question surprised him. "Because I like you."

"You don't know me."

"I know you like snickerdoodles."

She looked down at the cookie in her hand. "I like cinnamon."

"I know you live with your dad, and that you're sad about your mom," he continued.
"I know you're witty and are a writer, even if you don't write much."

"How do you know that?" she asked with a frown.

"You have that red diary, but it's all blank."

The notebook her mom gave her. She swallowed. "You noticed that?"

He shrugged as he snagged a chocolate chip cookie for himself. "It's hard not to notice."

The blonde brought their drinks, smiling at them. She was pretty, but it was the happiness
in her eyes that caught Rachel's attention. "Here you go," she said, setting them
on the table. "Let me know if you need anything more."

She watched the lady walk away, knowing Aaron was studying
her
. She avoided eye contact for as long as she could, and then scowled at him. "I'm
not really interesting."

"I think you are." He pushed her hot chocolate toward her. "What do you like to write?"

She shrugged, dipping a finger in the whipped cream and licking it. When she realized
he was still staring at her. She hated that her face flushed. She hated that she liked
him staring at her.

"Are you going to leave me hanging?" he prompted her. "You know I'm going to imagine
you write limericks or something."

"Limericks?" She raised her eyebrows.

"There once was a girl from New York. She thought she was a total dork—"

"I'm not a dork!" she protested. "And I don't write limericks. I write stories and
poems."

"A-ha!" He held a finger in the air. "The way to get you to answer is to insult you.
Your hair is..."

She waited for him to finish, and when he didn't, she frowned. "Is my hair that bad?"

"It's actually really pretty," he admitted sheepishly. "I couldn't come up with anything
bad to say about it."

Something inside her softened, and before she could think about it, she said, "I don't
write very much anymore."

"Because of your mom?"

She nodded, startled that he'd guess it. "Sh
—
she used to buy me notebooks and encourage me to write. She was a freelance editor.
She loved books.
Loved
them. One time my parents had a fight because she went to bed to read in the afternoon,
because she wanted to crawl into bed with the hero."

"It must have been a hot book."

"I think it was a historical." She smiled a little, remembering her mother describe
the book, so excited to get back to it. "She used to tell me that books stay with
people and become their best friends, even after the person was gone."

"Do you want to be a writer?"

She shrugged. "I haven't thought of it much."

"I don't believe that."

"What do you want to be?" she asked, wanting to turn the tables on him but also curious.
Okay—mostly curious.

"If I could be anything, I'd play pro golf. I like soccer a lot, but I only play it
because we don't have a golf league in school."

"Seriously?" Rachel bit her lip to keep from grinning.

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." She didn't really know anything about it, except that it was boring and
you wore plaid. "And if you don't make the pro golf team?"

"Circuit," he corrected. "Then I'd like to be a research scientist."

She pretended to gag.

He laughed. "Well, it's a hundred times better than being a writer. "

"No, it's not." She leaned forward. "When you're a writer, you can be anything for
a little while. A golfer, a scientist, a pretty girl, a millionaire, or a rock star.
You could try something new each day."

"I get it." He nodded. "So if it's so satisfying, why don't I ever see you writing?
Your diary is blank."

She gulped without taking a sip of her hot chocolate, afraid she'd choke. "My mom
got that notebook for me. I don't want to write in it."

He didn't say anything.

She told herself she didn't care if he did or not, because there was no way he'd understand.
If she filled it up, she wouldn't have anything left of her mother's.

Aaron said very softly, "I didn't know her, but I bet she'd have wanted you to use
it."

Then he surprised her by adding, "Maybe sometime you'll let me read something you
wrote."

No way. Never. Just the thought of it made her gut cramp.

But then she saw her mom's gentle smile, always encouraging her. So she swallowed
and shrugged noncommittally.

"I'll take that." He grinned at her and picked up another cookie.

On her walk home, Rachel realized she'd forgotten all about Griffin Chase.

Letting herself into the house, she told herself it was okay. He probably hadn't been
there anyway, and hanging out with Aaron had been nice.

As she locked the door, she heard a sound in the kitchen. Confused, wondering if the
housekeeper was still there, she went to check it out.

It was her dad, drinking a glass of the vile green juice he'd started drinking since
they moved here. He was scrolling through his phone, probably checking email. He was
always working.

He glanced up when she walked in and smiled. "Hi, sweetheart."

She felt a pang of jealousy at the contentedness on his face. Why was she the only
one who felt miserable? She mumbled something as she opened the refrigerator and got
out a bottle of water.

"I made reservations out for dinner."

Frowning, she turned around. "Why?"

"Because they supposedly have a lobster mac and cheese to die for, and I know how
much you love that."

"I loved mom's lobster mac and cheese." She wanted to take back the surly words the
second her dad's happy expression melted.

"You should give it a try, Rachel," he suggested gently. "You might like this, too.
There's no reason to deprive yourself of something you love just because your mom
is gone. She wouldn't expect you to just stop enjoying life."

Except that it felt wrong to enjoy anything when her mom was dead. A surge of anger
boiled in her chest, and she glared at her dad. "I know you haven't."

He sighed. "Rachel, I just want you to be happy."

"Then leave me alone," she murmured, stomping all the way to her bedroom. She closed
the door and went directly to her laptop. Dropping her head on her desk, she exhaled.
Then she sat up and began to type.

———————————————————

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Life sucks.

Dad is acting WEIRD.

Tonight he wanted to take me to get lobster mac and cheese. You know I only like yours.
What's he trying to do? And does he seem happy?

Also (and not related to the previous issue) there's this boy. His name is Aaron,
and he's really nice. He gets me in a way no one else has, not even Dad. Except you,
but you're gone.

How do I know if I like him?

I don't have anyone to ask. Dad wouldn't understand. I'm not sure Dad even knows who
I am anymore.

What should I do? I think I like him. It doesn't seem fair to like him though. I shouldn't
be happy, not when you're gone.

———————————————————

Chapter Sixteen

Lyrics and chords had been echoing in his head the entire week—since the morning he'd
woken up with Nicole at the Four Seasons.

He paced in KT's sound studio, hands in his pockets. Fortunately, his friend sat at
her piano, focused on a song she was writing for her sister and not paying attention
to his mania.

It was driving him crazy—that one strain of a melody, over and over. Sweet and soft,
with the potential for an edge. Just like Nicole. Elusive, also like Nicole.

Their relationship had consisted of furtive hook-ups whenever they got a moment alone.
The illicit lovemaking, hidden from Susan's attentive eye, made him feel like a teenager.
He told himself it was hot and exciting, but the truth was he wanted the intimacy
of sleeping with Nicole at night, too. Maybe if he could hold Nicole, he might be
able to pin down the damn music in his head.

Setting his notepad on the closed lid of KT's grand piano, he picked up one of the
guitars she kept in the corner, sat on a stool, and began to play the tune. He hummed
a little with it, feeling lyrics on the tip of his tongue.
Here with you now...