Page 39 of The Crafting Con

Stasia: Good luck!

A little luck would be nice right about now, but the realist in me knows I’m looking at two less-than-desirable choices. Option A: I go home and tell Mom the truth about everything. The convention, working with Declan, all of it. Which, to be fair, is hardly scandalous. Aside from the lying bit, all I was really doing was helping an old friend. The caveat? She sees this sudden change in behavior as some kind of weird win for Dad. Rational? Hardly. Possible and potentially triggering? Absolutely.

Which leaves me with option B: Heap more lies onto the mountain I’m already feeding her. My stomach churns just thinking about it, but what am I supposed to do? I can hardly call Tyler and ask him out for frozen yogurt, even if that would, technically, make Stasia’s lie an almost truth. Maybe if Tyler were a jerk I wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s sweet and thoughtful and I would be an absolute heel if I went and led him on like that.

I should just tell her the truth. Rip off the BandAid and deal with the fallout if, and when, it comes.

I put my phone away and stare into the bathroom mirror. “It’s going to come out eventually,” I whisper. “These things always do.”

But what if⁠—?

“No.” I glare at my reflection, hands gripping the counter’s porcelain edge. “No more what-ifs. You’re going to go home and have an honest conversation with your mother.”

I take a deep breath in, slowly let it out.

No more lies.

I nod into the mirror and spin on my heel, heading for the door with purposeful strides. They slow when I approach the booth, chest squeezing at the sight of everyone laughing and donning brightly-colored headbands. They look ridiculous, but no one cares. They’re completely at ease with each other, and my heart aches to be a part of it all. Not that I want to replace Stasia and my other friends; I love them too. But the innocent geekiness dancing back and forth across the table calls to my very soul. Reinforcing the decision I’ve already made.

I want this.

But first, the hard part.

“Hey, guys.”

Declan’s face is bright as he looks over at me, the red pirate headband already nestled amongst his mass of dark brown hair, but something in my expression must betray my nervousness, because it immediately dampens into concern. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just… something came up, and I need to be getting home. Sorry.”

If I put this off, I may never find the courage again.

Declan scoots to the edge of the booth. “No problem, let me just order a ride real quick. I’ll go with you.”

“No, please.” I hold out my hands to stall him. “You should stay and frolic.”

He frowns, frozen halfway out of the booth. “But⁠—”

“Seriously, stay. I’ve already got a driver on the way. Female, highly rated. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure.” Declan doesn’t look sure at all.

“Totally sure.” I look around at the rest of the table, mustering up a smile. “This was a lot of fun. Thanks so much for inviting me.”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes, and I wave and slip away before Declan can insist on coming with me. While part of me wants that very thing, the bigger part is saying this is something I need to do on my own.

I pause in the doorway, casting one last glance over my shoulder. I’ll be back, and next time, I’ll stay all the way until the end. Wait and see.

I repeat that promise over and over in my head like a mantra as the driver takes me home, nerves ratcheting higher with each tick of the odometer. By the time I step out onto my front walk, they’re wound as tight as a drum.

My hands shake as I punch in the key code and open the front door.

I step inside, breathe. Call out.

“Mom?”

Her voice calls back from the kitchen. “In here.”

Right. Here goes. I kick my shoes off in the foyer and head into the kitchen, where Mom stands behind the island, chopping green bell peppers. The knife in her hand slams down with an intensity so fierce it sends a shiver down my spine. But that’s not nearly as concerning as what’s sitting on the counter beside the chopping board.