Page 48 of The Crafting Con

Declan held me in the grass at the playground until the chill seeping up from the earth became too cold to ignore. Then we combined our strength to retrieve Persnickety from his cherry-blossom perch, with me standing precariously on Declan’s shoulders, one hand on the trunk for balance as I scooped Snicky up with the other. The reward for our heroics? Matching scratches. The saying “no good deed goes unpunished” was clearly referring to stubborn felines.

I crept into the house by nine and checked on Mom. Her lights were out, and judging by the soft snoring sounds coming from the mom-shaped lump in her bed, she was already sound asleep. I hoped that was a good sign.

I, on the other hand, did not have such luck. I spent most of the night tossing and turning until my sheets were tangled around my legs, the pillows strewn about the floor. By the time I fell asleep, the sun was already starting to make itself known. My alarm chirped shortly thereafter.

I drag myself out of bed, grumbling mindlessly as I shuck off last night’s running clothes and schlep into the shower. I consider making it a cold one, hoping to jolt myself awake, but that plan lasts all of two seconds after the icy water hits. I crank up the heat and decide a double shot of espresso will work just as well without the added torture.

Mom is already in the kitchen by the time I make it downstairs, dressed for work and stirring a pot of something that smells like heaven. I float over to the stove like Pepé Le Pew, drawn by the mouthwatering notes of cinnamon apple.

“Homemade oatmeal?” I wrap her in a hug while leaning over her shoulder and sniffing appreciatively. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re the best mom ever? ’Cause you are.”

“I’m aware.” She gives me a peck on the cheek. “Now make yourself useful and pour us some orange juices, will you? I’m just about ready to dish up.”

“How about I pour you an OJ, and we rig up some kind of coffee IV for me. Send it straight into the bloodstream.”

Mom shoots me a sympathetic grimace while scooping oatmeal into rustic ceramic bowls. “Rough night?”

“Something like that.” I pour her juice and shuffle over to the espresso maker.

She’s quiet as she sets our bowls on the table, and I kick myself when I glance over my shoulder and see the worry etched across her face. The last thing I want is to add to her stress. That glass of wine scratches at my brain, ensuring I never fully relax. “I just stayed up too late watching old Gilmore Girls episodes. You know how addicting it gets.”

Her expression eases, and she smiles while she blows on a spoonful of oatmeal. “That I do.”

I finish making my coffee and join her at the table, letting out an exaggerated moan as I breathe in the brown sugar and comfort of the oatmeal. “This smells amazing.” I scoop up a heaping spoonful and pretend to melt in my chair when it passes my lips. “Absolute perfection. I swear, you’re like a breakfast savant or something.”

Mom brushes my compliment off with a laugh. “I don’t know about that, but I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” I say around another mouthful. “Thanks for getting up early to make it.”

She leans across the table and tweaks the end of my braid. “Anything for my sweet baby.”

It’s an endearment she’s used a million times or more, but the moment the words tumble from her mouth, it’s like the temperature instantly drops twenty degrees, the word baby echoing silently through the room.

The smile on Mom’s face flickers and dies.

Oatmeal sticks to the roof of my mouth.

Mom picks up her juice. Sets it down. Stares into her oatmeal.

My own stomach tightens at the reminder of Dad’s impending spawn, his second chance at a favored child. My replacement.

I choke out the first thing I can think of, desperate to cast a little light on this looming shadow. “Stasia said Ben made dinner reservations at Tony’s for the four of us before prom, so if you want to do photos at Pine Lake Park, we should probably plan to be there by five. Stasia’s cousin, Tracy, is a cosmetology student, and offered to do our hair and makeup for free, so we’ll start getting ready over there by three if you wanna come with.”

The distraction works, the allure of prom effectively pulling Mom free of her spiraling funk. Her expression brightens. “If you’re sure I won’t be in the way?”

“Absolutely not.” I reach across the table, clasping her hand in mine. “I’m always going to want you with me. You’re my number one.”

I keep an eye out for Declan when I get to school, equal parts anxious and eager to see him. Last night felt like a turning point in our friendship, a reset of sorts, but with an added layer of tension any time I think of the way his arms felt wrapped around me. He did that to comfort you because you were a sobbing mess, I remind myself sternly. It wasn’t meant to be romantic.

And yet I’m sure I heard his heart pounding as loud and fast as mine.

“There she is! My lucky charm.” Tyler’s voice cuts through the crowd like sunshine on a rainy day, bringing smiles to everyone around us while he and a handful of his teammates make their way down the hall. They’re wearing their white home jerseys, and nearby hands are immediately held out for fist bumps and high fives when they pass. Tyler bounds to my side, grinning widely. “You coming to the game tonight? Chapel Hill is going down.”

I grin and slap his proffered hand, his puppy-like excitement as contagious as ever. “Can’t today. I’m working on a project with Declan after school.”

“My man Declan.” Tyler grins. “I haven’t seen him since our Ping-Pong match. How’s his forehead doing? I think I might have got him pretty hard on that last shot.”

“He’s fine,” I deadpan, but Tyler just continues to grin in that happy-go-lucky, everything-is-awesome way of his. Honestly, I’m pretty sure the latter is his personal theme song.