Page 19 of The Crafting Con

I’m just trying to be healthy.

Arms officially turned to spaghetti, I rake my fingers through my mop of hair in lieu of a comb, slap on some deo, and shuffle upstairs for breakfast. I head straight for the pantry and scrounge up some cereal, which I proceed to eat straight from the box while turning back to the kitchen.

Mom sits at the table, an amused smile on her face. “Morning.”

The sweetened corn puffs I just stuffed in my mouth lodge somewhere in my throat when my gaze falls on the girl sitting across from her, all rosy-cheeked and anxiously biting her lip. I swallow and miraculously avoid choking.

“Hey, Declan.” Ava eyes me warily, like a rabbit caught out in the open. When her gaze falls briefly to my bare chest, it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to fold my arms over it. I do, however, shift the cereal box a touch higher.

“Ava. Hey.” I lean against the counter, super casual. The cereal box crinkles in my white-knuckled grip. “What’s, um, what’s up?”

Her mouth twitches, the faintest hint of a smile tilting her lips. “I was just telling your mom about the workshop. I thought maybe we could do some more prep this morning? If you’re not busy,” she hurries to add.

What I wouldn’t give to—for once—not be taken by surprise when it comes to this girl. I’ve finally managed to stop thinking about yesterday’s encounter (okay, maybe not completely, but mostly), and now she’s hitting me out of the blue with another one? I need time to process, damn it. Not to mention, shower.

“I was planning to hit up The Hobbyist this morning. Now that we’ve settled on making Sally’s daggers from Bofuri, I need to pick up enough supplies for the twenty people signed up to make them, plus practice pieces and examples. Can we schedule a time after school this week instead?” When I’m more mentally prepared. Not to mention, fully clothed.

“But Declan, honey, that’s perfect,” Mom says, looking back and forth between us. “You can take Ava with you!”

My eyes widen, panic clawing at my lungs. Ava looks equally startled.

“Oh, but⁠—”

“That’s really not⁠—”

Mom silences our protests as she stands, one hand coming to rest on Ava’s shoulder. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see the two of you hanging out together again. It’s been far too long.”

Could she lay it on any thicker? And what’s with the big, shimmering eyes? You’d think her estranged daughter had just returned from overseas, not her son’s childhood friend from down the street. A panicked glance at Ava tells me there’s no way she’s going to object any further. Not with my mom beaming over our supposed reunion. And I don’t particularly feel like being disowned today, so I guess that means we’re doing this.

I set the cereal box on the counter and sigh. “Lemme get dressed, and we’ll go.”

The drive to The Hobbyist starts out in awkward silence, with Ava keeping her face turned toward the window, seemingly focused on the passing trees and the occasional sparkling glimpse of Lake Sammamish. But when I turn the radio up for an old Bosstones’ song that comes on, she glances over at me, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Why can’t ska musicians listen to dubstep?”

A surprised laugh bubbles up my chest before I even hear the punchline. “I don’t know, why?”

Her eyes dance in my periphery, and her smile blooms into the most adorable grin I’ve ever seen. It’s all I can do to keep from veering off the road at the sight of it. Not that she notices, her gaze facing forward as she says, “Because whenever the beat drops, they have to pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!”

It’s ridiculously cheesy, and yet I burst out laughing anyway. It’s hard to feel awkward in the wake of a full-on dad joke. “Okay, my turn. What’s the difference between a bull and a ska band?”

She twists in her seat, angling toward me. “I don’t know, what?”

“A bull has its horn up front and its ass in back, while a ska band has its ass up front and horns in the back.”

She snort-laughs, hands running down her face. “You did not just say that.”

“You started it,” I point out with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes, face still lit with a glow that warms my entire being. “Touche, salesman.”

And just like that, she’s Ava again. My Ava.

It’s enough to douse the aforementioned warmth, the terrifying realization chilling me to the bone. My Ava is nerdy and fun and makes every moment you’re with her feel special. My Ava is a beautiful butterfly, enticing you to chase her until you’re lost in a field of wildflowers. My Ava is a heartbreak waiting to happen, and I’d be an idiot to tempt fate by spending even one second longer in her presence.

And yet.

“Here we are.” I pull into The Hobbyist’s parking lot, fingers drumming a nervous beat along the steering wheel. Ava tracks the movement with an expression that could almost be described as wistful.

“Did you and Hiro ever start that band together like you planned?” she asks, her own fingers fiddling with her seat belt. “What was it going to be called again? Game On?”