Page 2 of The Crafting Con

AVA

FIVE YEARS LATER

Twenty-one days until OA Con

There’s a six-foot-wide Tetris grid of neatly labeled shoeboxes staring me in the face as I teeter tiptoed atop my stool. And, for the life of me, I can’t remember what I was looking for because all I can see is that singular blank one. Black lid, black-and-white checkered base; once home to a pair of pink Vans twelve-year-old me saved four months of allowances to purchase. Twin to a green pair down the street whose owner has surely outgrown them. I certainly haven’t seen him wearing them.

Declan and I haven’t spoken since I ended things five years ago.

I wonder if he even remembers we were friends?

“Earth to Ava. You gonna grab those glitter pens anytime soon, or are you having too much fun showing off your sweet calves?” Stasia’s bemused voice snaps me back to the present, and I suck in a steadying breath as she comes up behind me, craning her neck to peer up at the stocked closet shelves. “I mean, I get it. You run these Sammamish hills like a friggin’ beast, and your legs have the muscles to prove it, but Sal’s stops serving breakfast at noon, and I need my pancake fix, like, yesterday.”

I force a laugh, mentally applauding my acting skills when it comes out almost natural. “As if you couldn’t sweet-talk them into making you some at any given moment. You’ve got that entire kitchen staff wrapped around your pinkie.” My gaze lingers on the black-and-white box a beat longer, then reluctantly shifts to the others, and I read the carefully printed block letters that inventory every last item stored inside. Assorted ribbons, embroidery floss, thread, felt, hot glue sticks. Where are those glitter pens?

“You’re not wrong,” Stasia concedes, abandoning her spot at my side in favor of belly flopping across the lavender comforter spread over my queen-sized bed. She’s scrolling through her phone as she says, “Oh, hey, lacrosse practice wrapped up early. Ben’s looking to get food—is it cool if I invite him to join us?”

“Sure.” I’m only half listening, still searching for the elusive glitter pens. “You know I love Ben.”

Stasia snorts. “Dude, you’re lucky I’m not the jealous type. Most girls don’t wanna hear their super-hot, blonde bestie say they love their boyfriend.”

I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see my face. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. Not that it would matter. Ben is so gone for you, I’m not even sure he notices I’m there half the time.”

“He is pretty obsessed, isn’t he?” Stasia hums as she taps away at her phone’s screen. Texting Ben, no doubt.

“In the most uncreepy and non-stalkerish way possible.” My gaze falls on a brown box decorated with a simple white label that reads gel pens and glitter glue. I grin. “There you are.” Naturally, said box is on the very bottom of the shoebox stack. Directly underneath—my pulse flutters—the checkered one. My fingers brush the unlabeled box for one nerve-tingling moment before gently tugging the one below, attempting to wiggle it free of the grid.

“Ben wants to know if Tyler can come too? They drove to practice together.”

I hesitate, hand pausing mid-pull. Do I want Tyler to be there? If he comes, and it’s just the four of us, it’ll feel suspiciously like a double date disguised as a group hang. Something Stasia and Ben have been not-so-subtly pushing for, the idea of their two best friends hooking up the final box to check on their perfect couple bingo card. Even Tyler seems to be leaning into it.

So why does my stomach turn to lead at the thought?

“Tyler Denning? The captain of the lacrosse team?” My mom’s voice comes out of nowhere, bright and perky. After all these years, I still love how happy it sounds. “Oh, he is cute. That wavy blond hair and all those muscles? He could give Zack Morris a run for his money, he’s so swoony. Absolutely invite him.”

My grip tightens, and I glance over my shoulder to find her setting a basket of folded laundry on the bed next to Stasia, who looks up at her with the indulgent grin she saves especially for my mother. She tilts her head, her straight brown hair cascading over one shoulder while she feigns confusion. “Zack Morris? Who’s that?”

Mom’s lips purse, and she wags her finger at Stasia. “Don’t make me enforce another Saved by the Bell marathon. You know I’ll do it.”

“Ooh, that Zack Morris.” Stasia nods. “The curly-haired nerd who wore all those circus pants and suspenders. Now I remember.”

“Not. Funny.” Mom gives Stasia one last glare before swinging her laser-focused gaze my way. And I swear there are actual stars dancing in her eyes as she beams up at me. “I knew that boy liked you, the way he kept looking over at us during Thursday’s game.” She claps her hands together. “I bet he’s going to ask you to prom! Oh my gosh, the picture the two of you would make. I could die happy with that photo gracing my mantel.” She sighs, visions of evening gowns and prom poses no doubt filling her head.

My shoulders tense, and I jerk the box free in one fell swoop.

It does not come quietly.

A cascade of cardboard comes pouring off the shelf, and I stumble backward, falling off the step stool to land solidly on my butt. Thank God for the mid-twentieth-century wall-to-wall carpeting craze that my mom has yet to update despite her top-tier real estate cred. The plush cream fibers minimize the sting to my backside. They do not, however, prevent the corner of a rogue box from nailing me in the forehead. A pain that is all but forgotten when said box bursts open, spilling its contents across the floor.

The checkered box.

The one I packed with shaking hands and tear-stained cheeks five years ago.

The pieces I was too weak to throw in the fire.

I can’t move. Or breathe, for that matter. My brain screams for me to do something, that Mom is right behind me, witnessing this betrayal, but the message shorts out well before it reaches the rest of me. All I can do is stare at the spread of glossy photos half-buried under a hodgepodge of old convention badges, costume accessories, and—my heart stutters—a fraying, pink-and-green friendship bracelet. My fingers twitch, the sweetest ache whispering to life in my chest.

The urge to scoop it up and slip it over my wrist hits strong.