Page 57 of The Crafting Con

I fire off a text to Hiro, the need to scream about this to someone—anyone—overwhelming my senses.

Me: Dude. Ava’s dad is gonna be at OA Con?!! Have you heard anything about this?

I practically leap off my bed and into my computer chair. Phone scrolling no longer suffices. I need the big guns for this internet search. I pull up the convention’s website, toggle over to the Special Guests page, scroll down.

Fracking toasters. It’s true. His big, stupid face grins back at me from the screen, complete with his trademark disheveled hair (blond, like Ava’s) and icy blue eyes. I click on the link to his appearances, praying that he’s at least scheduled for Friday or Sunday. But of course, that’s a pipe dream. Saturday, Main Stage, 2 p.m. Fracking gorram toasters.

My phone pings with an incoming text from Hiro.

Hiro: Duuuuuude. That SUCKS.

Me: Seriously.

Hiro: Have you told her yet?

My fingers freeze over the keypad, uncertainty sweating bullets down my spine.

There’s no way Ava is going to miss this. Not that Archer would deign to walk around the con unattended, but she’s bound to see his name on the signage. Or someone at the workshop will mention the upcoming panel. I mean, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s kind of a big deal in the anime universe. The sheer amount of popular characters he’s voiced is mind-blowing. Add in his charming facade, and the fans go absolutely nuts over him. Hiding his presence is a non-option. Heck, he might even mention it to her himself.

She’s going to find out, and she’s not going to be happy about it.

But do I tell her myself, now? Give her an out to avoid seeing him in the exact type of setting that led to his infidelity? If I do, and she opts to skip the workshop, I’ll be screwed. The powers that be were extremely clear about the two-person minimum. Whether or not I can handle running the workshop on my own is moot—if it’s just me, they’ll cancel the entire thing.

And if they cancel the workshop, Grady may very well change his mind about doing a summer collab with me. I mean, why would he, if I can’t even manage the one thing he asked of me? If I lose this opportunity, who knows when I’ll ever get another one?

No Ava equals disaster.

But not telling Ava…

That’d be more than a disaster—it’d be a betrayal. So I guess there’s really no question after all. I’ve gotta do it. Preferably face-to-face, given her recent panic attack. The last thing I want is for her to take off alone on some kind of night run.

Me: Not yet, but I will. Tonight.

Hiro: Just don’t get distracted and flake out on her like you did me the other day. My mom is still mad that you never showed up to dinner. Her dumplings got cold from waiting.

I grimace. Note to self: hold off on going to Hiro’s for a while.

Me: Sorry again!

I swipe over to Ava’s and my text thread.

Me: Hey. You busy? There’s something I need to talk to you about.

I expect to wait awhile, but those three little dots pop up almost immediately.

Ava: I need to tell you something too. Meet at the park in five minutes?

My hands vibrate with nerves, the expediency of her response and the less-than-awesome news I’m now honor-bound to share wreaking havoc on my ability to type words. The number of times I rewrite sounds good before it stops getting autocorrected to song goose is embarrassingly high.

I take a hot second to refresh my deodorant and check my teeth for food before grabbing the closest hoodie and heading for the sliding glass doors separating my split-level basement room from the backyard. It isn’t until I slip it on over my T-shirt that I realize it’s my shop hoodie, i.e. the most worn and fraying article of clothing in my wardrobe. On the plus side, it’s actually clean, so I opt to leave it on, and jog around to the front. Six houses up the street, a shadowy figure slips through the streetlight’s soft glow and crosses to the playground. Heads straight for the swings.

I hesitate, both eager to join her and not at all ready to be the bearer of bad news. Eventually my legs move, propelling me up the walk. Ava waves when she sees me, her feet kicking off the wood chips in a gentle motion. I wave back, holding my greeting until I’m seated on the neighboring swing.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” The tips of her shoes skim through the cedar chips, slowing her to a halt, and my heart kicks when I take in the light pink Vans—the perfect complement to the green pair I have shoved in a box beneath my bed. Too small to wear, too special to throw away. My heart speeds even faster at the sight of a green-and-pink bracelet dangling from her wrist. Not a replacement, but the original.

She still has it.