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