Page 32 of The Crafting Con

And if the hurt starts to fester, what will she do then?

I can’t go back to how it was before.

I won’t.

“I’ll call Dad soon and get him off your back,” I promise, gathering my phone and scooting up off the bed. “But right now, I’ve gotta go meet Stasia at the mall.”

“Wearing that?” Mom quirks a brow at my paint-speckled, long-sleeve tee with a hole under the armpit. Perfect for working a Dremel. Not so much for hitting the mall with your bestie.

I tug self-consciously at the sleeves. “Stasia, um, thought it’d be fun to pick out new outfits for each other to wear while we’re there. You know, like in Pretty Woman.”

“So long as you don’t max out the credit card like they do.” Mom stretches up and pulls me into a quick side hug. “You know, I’m half tempted to blow off the house showing I have scheduled and go with you.”

“No! I mean, you can’t just ghost potential buyers,” I hurry to amend, guilt pricking my already overworked conscience at the flicker of hurt on Mom’s face. But what am I supposed to do? Say, “Actually I’m going over to Declan’s—you remember, the boy who pretty much personifies everything about Dad aside from his ego? Yeah, we’re crafting together again. For a convention. You know, basically everything you hate.”?

“I suppose you’re right.” Mom sighs and runs a hand down the length of my French braid, tweaking the end. “How did I raise such a responsible kid?”

“Pure luck, really.”

Mom laughs, soft and achingly bittersweet. “Thank God something in my life turned out right.”

My chest tightens as she heads toward the door, questions piling up in my throat. Are you okay? Is there a problem at work? Do you want to talk about it? What can I do? I bite my lip, fear holding my tongue. Things have been better. Easier. And even if it’s all a facade, I’m not sure I’m ready to rock the boat.

For now, selfishly, I remain silent.

Declan’s garage door is open when I make my way down to his house, sparkly blue rain boots splashing through spring puddles while droplets patter steadily against my umbrella. I shake it out as I duck inside. Any remaining worry over Mom slips away at the sight of Declan bent over his workbench, tracing dagger patterns onto thick foam sheets. His messy brown hair falls over his forehead, skirting his lashes. His expression is the picture of concentration. A faded gray T-shirt skims his lanky frame, the hem flush with the fraying waistband of his shop jeans. Which are a story all of their own, with their myriad of paint and glue stains, dusty and ripped to hell and back.

Soft as all get out.

I take a mental picture, filing it away as Declan in his element, before quietly clearing my throat. When he looks up, I smile. “No fair. You started without me.”

He wipes his palms on the sides of his jeans. “Sorry. I get antsy knowing there’s material nearby just waiting to be worked on.” He gestures to the foam. “I was prepping these to be cut, if you wanna start there?”

I sidle up beside him and grab a utility knife from his magnetized tool strip. “On it.”

We settle in to work, each focused on our respective tasks while Rancid streams fast but quiet from speakers mounted on the wall. The blade I’m using to cut out the patterns is razor sharp and slides through the heavy-duty foam with satisfying precision. When Declan finishes tracing the last piece, he grabs a knife of his own and joins me with quick, simple cuts. Since the workshop will be held at the convention center, everything we do needs to pretty much be accomplished with a utility knife, glue, sandpaper, and paint. Pre-cutting the main pieces is a crucial time saver, but we’re leaving the daggers’ edges to be beveled on site by the attendees.

Once all of the foam pieces have been cut and lightly sanded, I plug the hot glue gun in for what is my favorite part—layering everything together to make a single prop. Seeing the details come together in all their 3D glory never fails to make me smile. Although painting is a close second.

“It’s a shame we can’t use an epoxy on these.” I make a few jabbing motions with one of the foam cutouts. “It’d go on so much smoother.”

“Yeah, but then you’ve gotta factor in fumes and needing ventilators. Not to mention there wouldn’t be time to let them set properly.” Declan picks up a cut-out blade of his own and hefts it as if testing its weight. He slashes it down in front of me, his expression sobering into ultra-serious. “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

I immediately fall into a fencing pose, foam wobbling in front of me. “Ah, but it is not I who shall die this day, my friend. En garde!”

He swipes his blade at mine, and the foam pieces bounce off each other as I parry.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” I crow, pushing forward with my own attack. Declan takes a step backward while he dodges my hit, only to trip over the box fan we have running by our feet. He tumbles back onto the floor with a startled yelp, and I press my advantage, towering over him as I aim the tip of my foam blade at his chest. “Yield, or taste the wrath of my steel.”

He fake snarls. “Never.”

“Then I’m afraid you will have to die.” I draw my foam back and swing down in one mighty arc, but Declan scuttles backward like a crab, blocking my strike as he jumps to his feet.

“You fight well,” he says, his breath coming faster now. “But I know something you do not.”

“Oh?” I arrange my features in a mask of scorn. “And what is that?”

Declan tosses his prop to his other hand, smirking triumphantly. “I am not left-handed.” When he lunges forward, I snatch the foam blade and tuck it beneath my armpit, feigning a slow and agonizing death.