Page 45 of The Crafting Con

My legs are little more than wobbling gelatin, but somehow, somehow I find myself standing once again. I draw my shoulders back, breathe. I have what I need to get through this. One step forward, chin lifting. All I can do is my best. Another step, another breath. I can handle these feelings. I pause with my ear to the door of Mom’s office, and listen.

Silence.

I move on, repeating my mantras until I’m in front of her bedroom door. My fingers flex, rising to rest on the knob without turning it. A deep breath in, and I listen. The opening strains to “My Girl” by the Temptations waft through the door, muffled laughter and grainy voices woven throughout, and a fresh wave of pain threatens to knock me back to my knees.

She’s watching my baby videos.

Reliving a time when Dad was still my dad.

When he was her husband, not Becky’s. She always used to talk about her pregnancy like it was some kind of fairy tale dream—minus the swelling and backbreaking labor. She’d go on and on about Dad treating her like a queen and anticipating her every need. The way he’d stepped up after I was born and changed every diaper he could. The way he’d rock me to sleep with a bottle, or pace the nursery for hours on end, patiently patting my back and whispering stories about space cowboys and aliens in long red coats.

And now he’s going to do it all again with Becky?

With this new baby?

He’s already replaced his wife. A fresh wave of silent tears, bitter and burning. Why not replace his daughter? He’s been needing a new convention mascot.

I leave Mom to her videos and schlep into my room, falling onto the bed and curling into as tight a ball as my body will allow. The afternoon sun shines bright through the window, too bright for these wretched feelings clawing at my chest.

I drag a pillow over my face, and finally release the scream that’s been burning in my lungs.

CHAPTER 18

DECLAN

Five days until OA Con

Ava didn’t come over after school. Which is fine, it’s not like we said Monday for sure, so much as a vague “this week.” And it’s not like I can’t cut out a bunch of foam pieces by myself. So long as she’s there on Saturday to check the convention’s boxes, I can manage. Besides, is it really the week before a convention if you’re not pulling back-to-back all-nighters? Which reminds me, I’ve still got to weather Jenni’s staff. And do a final seal coat. And… and I seriously need to get my head on straight, stop thinking about Ava and what she may or may not be doing with Tyler right now. If I don’t, I’m not going to get anything done.

Right. Time to focus.

But first…

I open our text thread and shoot off a belated response to her joke, just in case she thinks I’m upset about her leaving to hang out with Tyler yesterday, and is therefore avoiding coming over. Am I upset about it? Yes, obviously, but that’s not something she needs to know. I watch the screen for an embarrassingly long time before I put myself to work, tracing the patterns onto the foam with a silver Sharpie and cutting them out.

Trace, cut, stack. Trace, cut, stack.

I check my phone again, just in case I’ve accidentally silenced my notifications.

I haven’t.

She’s probably with Tyler. Making plans for their big night. My hand jerks through the foam, cutting much too far in. I toss the ruined piece with a growl of frustration and grab a fresh one. With my luck, she won’t even show up to the workshop on Saturday, and then I’ll really be screwed. What was I even thinking, counting on Ava for something so important? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I’m the world’s biggest idiot.

Groaning, I boot up my laptop before I sink into a full-on sulk and go onto YouTube. A quick scroll through my subscriptions reveals a new video from my favorite, Seattle-based prop makers, Cracked Crafts. I press play and get back to work, Will Foran’s voice filling the background with talk of laser cutting and painting techniques. I slip into my happy place. Simply crafting.

The first blush of orange and pink sunset is painting the sky when my phone buzzes beside my laptop.

Hiro: Wanna come over for dinner tonight? Mom’s making her famous dumplings, and Dad’s picking up some sushi to go with them.

My mouth waters just thinking about it.

Me: Say less. I’m in.

Hiro: Sweet. Come on over. We eat in thirty.

Me: On my way now.

I fire off a quick text to my parents letting them know I’ll be MIA for dinner, do a super-fast washup in the shop sink, then grab my keys on the way out to my truck. I’m just settling into the driver’s seat when my gaze happens to stray to the little playground up the street, tucked in the center of the cul-de-sac. A cherry tree in full bloom is sprinkling little white petals across the grass, casting shade over the three-person swing set.