Here With You (A Laurel Heights Novel) - By Kate Perry Page 0,9
before someone from school saw her lurking outside the shop. She went across the street, drawn by the Wi-Fi sign in the window of the coffee shop called Grounds for Thought.
She glanced in the window, wondering if she should enter. No classmates at least.
The blond woman at the counter looked up and waved her in.
Now she was going to look like a spaz if she didn't go in. Well, she wanted to check her email anyway. This was she could do it and still be around people, even if they were strangers. Someone was better than no one.
Sighing, she pushed open the door.
The aroma of coffee hit her as soon as she stepped inside. Just like her mom's office. She closed her eyes and breathed it in. She pictured playing on the floor between the reams of manuscripts while her mom sipped from her "Best Mom in the World" cup and edited one of her author's works. When she opened her eyes again, she almost expected to be transported back.
The blonde smiled. "It smells delicious in here, doesn't it? Are you looking for anything in particular?"
"Um, no." She checked out the glass case of pastries and pulled out her wallet. "Maybe just a hot chocolate and a Madeleine."
"Got it." After the quick transaction, the woman smiled again. "Want to sit down? I'll bring it over to you."
"Okay. Thank you." Rachel picked a table in the back corner and dragged her laptop out of her bag. While she waited for it to boot up, she flipped open her phone and checked for texts.
Nothing. She frowned at her cell. She'd only been gone a month but it was like her friends had forgotten her already. She couldn't remember the last time they'd texted.
"Nice," she muttered darkly. "Well, screw them."
She closed her phone and shoved it back in her bag's pouch. She glared at the pouch. If she let them go, she wouldn't have anyone left. So she took the phone back out, sent a quick text to her closest friend, Diana, and tucked it away again.
"Here you go, honey." The woman from the counter set a large cup topped with fluffy mounds of cream. "I hope you like whipped cream."
"I do. Thank you," she added politely.
The woman looked like she wanted to say something, but Rachel looked down and willed her to go.
It worked. She felt a shift of air as the woman went back to work. Rachel waited another minute to make sure and then opened her Gmail account.
No emails except for spam. Not shocking—her old friends always preferred texting. She liked email more. Texting was such an imprecise method of communication. Her mom and dad used to email her—all the time, even if they were in the other room and wanted her get ready for bed.
Rachel hit "Compose Mail" and began typing.
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From: [email protected]
Subject: New School
Hi Mom.
I have this stupid homework assignment where I have to write a letter to someone. You're it.
Okay—it's not stupid. I know you're thinking how much I love writing letters. Remember when you helped me find that penpal in Switzerland when I was nine? I picked her because her name was Rachel too. She loved to ski, and her handwriting was as foreign as the way she wrote.
I'm at another new school. In San Francisco, but it might as well be Timbuktu. It was Dad's brilliant idea. I've been wondering if he's in league with Satan.
I hate it here. I hate this new school. I hate the people who giggle and run around like the world is perfect and sunny when it's dark and lonely and sad.
I hate that you won't be answering this email.
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"Hey."
Rachel slammed the laptop shut, her head jerking up.
A boy stood over her. He was in a couple of her classes—she'd noticed him the first day, when he walked into English, surrounded by a bunch of his friends—so she guessed he was a sophomore too, even though he was so tall. His brown hair dipped into his blue eyes, and he pushed it back before sticking his hand in a jean pocket.
His mouth quirked. "Are you plotting some kind of crime? Going to rob this café of its croissants?"
She wanted to say something clever, something like what she'd write, but her tongue went all paralyzed in her mouth and it was all she could do just to mumble "No."
He stared at her, probably waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, he said, "I'm Aaron Hawke, and you're Rachel Rosenbaum."
"How—"
"I