Page 14 of The Crafting Con

“If you’re sure…”

Am I imagining things, or does she sound a little disappointed? Or am I just projecting, an act of self-preservation born from the undeniable ache in my gut when I think of her walking away?

As much as I want to, I can’t let her go.

“Actually, if you have time, it’d really help me out to have you there.” Externally, I’m as cool as a spring breeze. She can help or not, it makes no difference to me.

Internally, I’m shoving my head under a rock and screaming.

Her eyes light up—just the tiniest flicker—but enough to stir the butterflies in my stomach. “I’ll make time. So, um, where do we start? Do you have something planned out already or…?”

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to tear my gaze away and grab my crafting journal off the workbench. “I guess we can start by going over my notes and stuff.” I angle toward the kitchen, attempting to appear calm despite the chaos of nerves pinging through my system. “We can talk inside where there are actual chairs.” I head for the door, but when I glance over my shoulder, Ava is still standing right where I left her. Her wide-eyed gaze boring a hole through the kitchen door. I fold my arms across my chest. “Something wrong with my house?”

She snaps to with a gasp, her cheeks flushing bright red. “No, of course not. I just…” She swallows. “Is your mom home?"

I frown in confusion. Why would she care if my mom’s home or not? “No, she’s at her weekend Zumba class. She won’t be back for at least an hour if she goes out for coffee afterward. My dad’s around somewhere though, if you wanna say hi.”

If she shakes her head any faster, it’s liable to fall off. “No, that’s okay. Let’s just go to your room.”

I trip on the threshold, coming a hair’s breadth away from falling face first into the kitchen, while my pulse leaps into a spastic jitter. “My room?” There’s a mortifying squeak to my voice, and I overcompensate with a gruff, “Sure. If you want.”

Stop freaking out. It’s just a room like any other.

A room where I sleep.

And dream.

About…

No one in particular.

Fortunately, Ava is too busy being paranoid to notice any awkwardness on my part. Or at least, that’s my hope. After scanning the kitchen, she starts up the stairs, and my breath catches at the sight of her stocking feet padding up the carpeted steps, her hand skimming the walnut railing. The ghost of a twelve-year-old Ava dances beside her, her sparkling eyes peeking over her shoulder at me while she shakes a movie-theater-style box of Sour Patch Kids. Smile bright as the sun.

“Coming, Dec?”

My hand grips the banister post, knuckles whitening.

“Are you coming?” Seventeen-year-old Ava looks down at me from the stairs, her expression hesitant. Worried, even. The memory fades to gray, and I’m left with a hollow pit in my stomach.

That Ava is gone, and she’s never coming back.

“Wrong way.” I nod toward a door on the opposite side of the kitchen. “I moved into the basement room after Jack left for college. Bigger space.”

“Oh.” A hint of pink skims her cheekbones, and she twists the ends of her sleeves as she walks back down the steps. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty sweet.”

There’s no excitement in our voices, just a flat awkwardness that grows with each passing moment. It’s the exchange of strangers, only worse, because we shouldn’t be.

And yet.

I lead her down the stairs to my room, which takes up most of the finished basement space, minus one small bathroom. Regret sets in almost instantly when I see the piles of clothes littering the floor, the unmade bed, and—Gandalf take me—that damned anime girl pillow. It mocks me from its place on the beanbag chair.

Maybe she won’t notice.

“So, I’ve made a few things since the last time you were here.” I gesture toward the wall where my completed props are mounted like hunting trophies, snatching up a pile of clothes from the floor and tossing them on top of the ridiculous pillow the second she turns away.

Her gaze moves slowly from one piece to the next, and a look of awe spreads across her face. “Declan, these are amazing.”