Page 11 of The Crafting Con

Nope. No way.

Not happening.

Only…

His face that night when we met in the park and I told him I couldn’t hang out with him anymore, it was so utterly crushed. Like I was ripping his heart straight out of his skinny little chest. And then every night for weeks, I would see him sitting out there on the swing set, slump-shouldered and alone. Not even swinging, just waiting for a friend who would never come.

That boy, the one I left waiting all these years, he deserves all the help I can give him.

Even if his older self is kind of a jerk.

What about Mom? She’s been doing really well lately, but are you sure you want to drag her down memory lane? You’ve gone to all the trouble of amassing this pristine little nothing-Dad-related bubble around the two of you; do you really want to risk popping it now?

I frown, drumming my fingers along the side of my mug. Yes, it’s a risk, but a small one. She’s working this morning, so she won’t question where I’ve gone, and it’s not like anything outside of these next few hours is going to change in the long run. Who knows if I’ll get another chance to make amends?

A few hours spent crafting in Declan’s garage?

Harmless.

A spark of excitement kindles deep in my gut, a tiny smile tugging at my mouth. “Okay, I’m in. Let’s go.”

“Awesome!” Stasia walks with me to the front door and steps into her knee-high boots. Bending down to zip them, she adds, “Be sure to text me the deets later. Like, all of them. Leave nothing out.”

I freeze midway into my running shoe. “You’re not coming with me?”

“To do crafts with Declan in his garage? Um, no. That is all you.”

Okay, now I’m hyperventilating for real. It’s one thing to woman up and face my mistakes with Stasia at my side cheering me on. But to do it on my own? At his house, no less? “On second thought, this may be a bad idea. I mean, he’s probably working on some kind of costume prop, and I’ve been focusing more on posters and spirit swag. I doubt I even remember how to make a helmet pattern anymore.”

“The fact that you know you’re supposed to have a pattern for something like that tells me you’re gonna do just fine.” Stasia gives my ponytail a gentle tug, her voice reassuring. “You’ll do great, Ava. He’s gonna be stoked to have you there.”

Not according to my stomach. Pretty sure I’m a second away from hurling. “I don’t know, Stace…”

“Nuh-uh. None of this wishy-washy, I-don’t-know nonsense. I said you’d be there, and you’ll be there. Now toughen up, damn it, and show me some of that sweet Viking blood.”

I shove my foot the rest of the way into its shoe and reluctantly straighten up, hands stuffing nervously into the pockets of my pink hoodie. “For the last time, I don’t have any Viking blood. Literally none of my ancestors were Vikings.”

Stasia’s eyes narrow, and she gives me a suspicious once-over. “You sure about that?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Huh. Between the blonde hair and the face you make when someone leaves the cap off a Sharpie, I just assumed you came from a line of pillaging, bloodthirsty warriors.”

“Hilarious.”

“Always.” Stasia holds the door open for me, her brown eyes glinting with challenge. “Now get your butt out the door, and show that nerdy band geek what he’s been missing.”

“He’s not a nerdy band geek,” I protest, jogging down the front steps before I can chicken out and change my mind.

“He’s in the marching band, Ava. Have you seen their uniforms? They have tassels.”

“I think they look sharp. And they sound amazing.”

“Spoken like a true friend,” Stasia calls as I turn down the sidewalk toward Declan’s house. “See? You guys are gonna pick right back up where you left off. Just don’t get any ideas about replacing me as your number one bestie. I own that spot.”

“No worries there. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t spit in my face,” I mumble, tossing a wave over my shoulder while Stasia peels out of the driveway. She honks when she passes me, and then I’m alone.

Declan’s garage door is open, brass-heavy music already drifting out into the morning air.