Page 67 of The Crafting Con

I wish she didn’t feel like she has to hide.

Me: Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.

A moment of hesitation, then,

Me: For the record, I believe you’re a whole lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. You just haven’t tapped into it yet. You’re like a boss in Final Fantasy. Just when you think they’ve been beaten, they go and reveal their true form.

Ava: Ha. I’m not so sure. Also, if you’re going to use FF as a reference, then the true form would have to be followed up by their true true form. And then their ultimate true true form. Not sure I have that many in me. :P

Heh, touche. Still,

Me: Nah. Ava Aimes has got it all. Trust me.

There’s a pause, and I wonder if she’s going to leave it at that. But then,

Ava: I do trust you, Dec. Always.

Ava: Now go get your convention on.

The smile on my face stretches from ear to ear as I pull out my box of foam cutouts and start going through them, one by one. And you know what?

They’re perfect.

CHAPTER 27

AVA

One day until OA Con

Declan’s words play through my mind all day, and the more I think about them, the more I want to believe that they’re true. Can I really do it? Can I step inside that convention center and face my father in what used to be our most treasured setting? The only way I can tolerate his presence over the summer is because his apartment in Manhattan is memory-free. It hasn’t been tainted by betrayal.

I feel nauseous just thinking about it.

And yet…

I can’t help but wonder.

By the time Stasia drops me off after school, I’m like a vibrating ball of nervous energy. I want to go, like, really freaking bad. And you know what? It’s not fair.

Why should I be the one cowering at home when he’s the one at fault?

Why do I continuously give up the things that make me the happiest?

You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.

I step inside the house. Take a long look up the stairs toward Mom’s office. Her car is in the driveway. Chances are I’ll find her in there.

My hands clench into fists.

If I can’t be honest with the parent who stayed, how can I expect to face the one who left? You can do this, Ava. Declan’s right. You are stronger than you think.

I march up the steps with focused strides, nerves jangling and chest tight. I can’t keep doing the same things and expect different results. If I want things to change, I have to change myself.

Right. I can do this.

I stop outside her door and give it a gentle rap with my knuckles.

Mom’s voice drifts through the door, pleasant but with that distracted edge it gets when she’s working. I step inside and immediately feel a little calmer, surrounded by the room’s simple decor, the cream-colored walls brightened by the sunlight streaming in from the window behind Mom’s desk. A green, hanging spider plant—the kind that can survive just about anything—casts long shadowy fingers over the ivory, shag rug. And there, in the center of it all, is my beautiful, precious mother. Her black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the end of her nose, her blonde bob tucked behind diamond-studded ears. Her eyes light up when she sees me, her lips tilting into a smile that stabs at my heart.