Page 31 of The Crafting Con

That moment on the patio, though…

I close my eyes, recalling the flicker of heat in Declan’s gaze after I’d called his face handsome. The way my heart stuttered in response.

What would he have said if Tyler hadn’t come barging in to drag me away?

More importantly, what did I want him to say?

It hardly matters, seeing as he left while I was singing backup to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.” Must have gone around the side of the house, since he didn’t come in through the back doors. I know, because I watched them throughout the entire song. Made a beeline for them after giving Tyler a quick high five and suggesting he sing the next song with Maya Diaz, who looked more than happy to oblige.

At least someone had a good night.

I close the manga I picked up on a whim from the library with a sigh and grab my phone. More missed calls from Dad, along with a series of unanswered texts.

Dad: Hey kid, I still can’t seem to get through to you. Call me back!

Dad: I have exciting news. Call me.

Dad: I know you’re busy, but I really need to talk to you.

Dad: Ava Louise Aimes, answer your damn phone.

Yeah, hard pass. I have enough going on in my life right now. The last thing I need is to deal with his crap.

There’s a tap at my door, and I instinctively shove the manga under my pillow before calling, “Come in.” After all these years, seeing me reading manga shouldn’t be a trigger for Mom’s depression, but I can’t quite shake the lingering fear. It’s too ingrained.

“Hey, sweetie.” Mom pokes her head in the room, her blonde bob falling across her forehead. “I just wanted to let you know I booked us appointments at Delia Rose’s for mani-pedis on Friday. Let me know if I should add another one for Stasia.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks,” is what I say. Inside, I’m spiraling into full panic mode at the realization that both prom and OA Con are next weekend. I mean, obviously, I knew that they were, but it didn’t quite hit me until right now.

“And I was going to book you a hair appointment for Saturday,” Mom continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I was thinking sometime around three would be good? So you still have plenty of time to do makeup and get dressed before photos, but not so early it gets ruined.”

“Um.” What time did the workshop run again? From eleven to twelve? I’ll need time to drive back from Seattle, but that should be fine, right? “Three o’clock sounds good.”

“Wonderful.” Mom crosses over to the bed and sinks down beside me, pulling me into a bear hug. “I can’t believe my baby girl has gotten so grown-up. Where does the time go?”

I lean into her embrace, savoring her solid warmth. Pride fills my chest when I think of how far she’s come since Dad left. There was a time when I wasn’t sure she’d ever be the mom I knew again, and fear became my constant companion. But we did it. We broke through the storm clouds Dad left in his wake. We survived.

Would Mom be thrilled to know I was going to OA Con? Doubtful. But would it really hurt her to know, or am I stressing over nothing?

Maybe I should just tell her.

“Your father called, by the way.” Mom draws back, nose wrinkling the way it does anytime she mentions Dad. Like she just caught the updraft from a sewer plant. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, to be honest. “And while I fully support your right to avoid his man-child drama, when it starts spilling over toward me, I ask that you at least consider calling him back once in a while. The man is like a dog with a bone when he wants something, and if he pesters me anymore, I’m gonna get fleas.”

“Could be worse,” I deadpan. “You could get worms.”

“Oof, don’t even suggest it. Every time you go out there, I worry you’re going to get dragged to one of his infernal conventions and come back in some kind of full body animal suit, like one of those, what do you call them?”

I arch a brow. “Furries?”

“Yes, those.” Mom shudders. “Give me the willies.”

They’re just people who like dressing up in costumes. It’s not like they’re stalking old ladies and stealing babies for dinner. I refrain from saying this out loud, however, because I’m still stuck on the words worry and infernal conventions. None of which bodes well for my confession.

If I told her, she wouldn’t stop me from going.

But it would hurt.

Like I’m siding with Dad after all this time.