Page 22 of The Crafting Con

“So. You and Declan, huh?” Stasia nudges my side, and I snap to attention, face heating. Stasia’s purple-and-gold-glittered brow lifts with a curious arch, gaze narrowing in on my telltale flush. “How’s that going, anyway? Hiro seems to think things are well underway, and yet you’ve barely said two words about it.” She kindly refrains from mentioning the staring.

I throw a panicked glance over Stasia’s shoulder, where both our moms sit perched on the metal bleachers together. Mom’s attention is locked on the game, and I breathe a quick sigh of relief that she doesn’t seem to have heard us.

“I haven’t said anything,” I whisper, “because I don’t want my mom to find out. Conventions and cosplay and everything that goes along with that was Dad’s territory. I don’t want her thinking I’m switching allegiances or something.”

Stasia mercifully lowers her voice. “Dude. Your parents have been divorced for as long as I’ve known you, and you’ve been a total mama’s girl the entire time. I doubt she’s gonna care if you go to some random convention that may or may not remind her of your dad.”

One would think that, and yet I’ll never forget the way the car swerved four years ago after an advertisement for the convention came on over the radio. How pale Mom’s face had gotten as she pulled into the nearest parking lot, hands visibly shaking. He’s not going to be there, Mom. I promise. She’d sworn she was fine, that it didn’t matter if he was. It just caught her by surprise was all. I’d believed her right up until I found the bottle of Jack Daniels beside the bed. I made two calls that day: one to her sponsor, and one to Dad. Warning him that if he even thought about attending OA Con, he’d be dead to me.

I was thirteen years old, but the memory burns as if it were yesterday.

It’s not a memory I’m comfortable sharing, not even with Stasia, so I opt for the lesser reason. “It’s not just some random convention. It’s the one I’d go to with him every year. He’d always be on some panel or another, being fawned over by rabid fans, and I’d be right there beside them, heart eyes and all. What if the woman he left her for was right in front of my face, and I missed it because all I could see was how awesome he was?”

“So what if she was?” Stasia counters. “Your dad’s actions were his alone. You weren’t there as his babysitter, you were his kid.”

That gnawing pit of worry that always forms when I think of my dad settles in my gut. “I know, but…” I shrug. “It’s complicated.”

Stasia looks like she wants to argue, but ultimately bites her tongue, letting me off the hook with a hum of disbelief before perking up and tilting her head toward the sidelines, where Declan adjusts the purple-and-gold strap on his snare drum. “Speaking of complications, I still want to know what’s going on with Declan.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Is what your mouth says, but your eyes are saying otherwise.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Hush, the band’s coming on. I want to watch them.”

“Watch them? Or the drummer rocking the snare in the back?”

“Quiet, you.”

“Mm-hmm. That’s what I thought.”

I bump her hip with mine, and she wraps her arm around my waist, the two of us leaning into each other as we watch the last of the lacrosse players jog off to their respective benches, leaving the field free for the band to do their thing. And okay, yes. Maybe I do focus on a certain drummer whose hands move with a rhythm that does funny things to my stomach. He stands a solid head and shoulders above the girl playing beside him, his narrow hips and impossibly long legs somehow looking even better than usual in the black uniform slacks with their shiny gold stripes racing down each side. Even the ridiculous hat looks more jaunty than nerdy resting atop his thick, dark hair.

My heart flutters as I recall him standing shirtless in his kitchen. The faintest hint of sculpted muscle working its way to the surface. I lick my lips, mouth suddenly dry.

When did the gangly, gap-toothed boy from my childhood become so… so…

I swallow.

So Declan.

It takes me longer than it should to realize the band has stopped playing, the members trotting back to the sidelines. Well, not all of them. A handful remain, positioning themselves in front of the bleachers where a microphone has been set out. The lacrosse team jogs out to form a semi-circle behind them, and I glance at Stasia, wondering if she knows what’s going on. She shrugs, but I swear a flicker of unease passes through her eyes before she focuses on the group setting up. A murmur ripples through the crowd as people lean forward, curiosity piqued. The brass section lifts their instruments to their lips, and the crowd falls silent, waiting.

But it’s not the horns that sound off the first note, but a deep, honeyed voice from behind them. “Weeeeeeeeell….” A set of broad shoulders slips through the cluster of musicians, and a tousled head of golden hair turns my way, parted lips curving into a grin when our eyes meet. Fingers curling around the metal stand, Tyler croons into the microphone, his gaze locked on mine with the first words of “Shout” echoing across the field.

The crowd goes absolutely bananas, their voices crashing over each other as they join in, belting out the iconic response. And suddenly the lacrosse team is singing along, and tambourines have appeared out of nowhere. And Tyler is singing directly at me, and people start to notice—my mom notices, her smile stretching so wide I’m afraid she might hurt herself.

My head reels, icy panic clawing up my throat.

The entire lacrosse team is looking at me now, and Tyler’s walking toward me, and he’s saying something, everyone’s saying something, but I can’t make sense of it over the ringing in my ears.

Tyler drops to a knee in front of me, and the words he’s singing suddenly sink in.

“Say you will… go to prom with me?”