Page 52 of The Crafting Con

Her palm slides across mine, and I savor the feel of it as I pull her up onto her feet. She wobbles, and I slip a hand under her opposite elbow until I’m certain she has her balance. I search her wide, gold-flecked eyes, her hand still tucked firmly within mine. “All good?”

She nibbles her lip, and again I force myself not to chase the motion with a bite of my own. “All good,” she whispers.

And is it just me, or does she sound as breathless as I feel? I clear my throat. Tell myself to let go of her hand. It takes a while for my fingers to respond to the directive, but eventually they do, palms still humming with electricity. I lift my bike off the ground and straddle it in place on the pavement. I pass her my helmet. “Here. Put this on.”

I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead while she buckles the helmet into place and steps up onto the pegs. And I’m glad I couldn’t drive here, because nothing has ever felt so right as Ava’s hands on my shoulders.

The smile that stretches across my face is so wide it hurts.

It’s still there when we return to my garage and crank up the Mad Caddies, easily polishing off the last of our prep work. It’s there when Mom invites Ava to join us for dinner, and I get to watch her and Dad throw increasingly corny puns back and forth over plates of spaghetti Bolognese. And it’s very much there when I settle onto the couch, with Ava close beside me and Monkey D. Luffy causing havoc on the screen.

Her eyes are at half-mast, and she leans into my side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I rest my arm along the back of the couch behind her head, not quite daring to go farther. She sighs, and I feel it deep in my soul.

“I don’t know if you know this or not, but my dad remarried a few years ago.” The words are softly spoken, Ava’s gaze never leaving the screen.

I follow her lead, keeping mine there as well. “To the woman?”

There’s no need to clarify which. We both know I’m referring to the infamous convention lady her dad was apparently cheating on her mom with before finally up and leaving altogether.

Ava nods. “Becky Wilson. Aimes, now.”

I grunt. I still can’t believe what a jerk my childhood idol turned out to be.

“They’re having a baby.”

“What, seriously?” I glance down at her in surprise, mentally trying to calculate her dad’s age. I know he and Ava’s mom were young when they had Ava, but still. “Aren’t they, like, too old to have kids?”

“Apparently not.”

“Huh.” Then, “How do you feel about that? Becoming a big sister?”

She shrugs, but I can see the fatigue rimming her eyes. “I don’t know. It hasn’t really sunk in, I guess.” She hesitates. “I don’t think Mom’s taking it very well.”

“Aw man.” I slide my arm from the back of the couch to around her shoulders, not as a move, but as what I hope is a bit of comfort. “I’m sorry.”

She rests her head on my shoulder, lids fluttering closed on another sigh. “I just want her to be happy, you know?”

I brush a lock of hair from her face, tucking it lightly behind her ear. “Yeah,” I whisper, voice rough. I brush a kiss against her hair as her breathing evens out. “I do.” I turn the volume down low, and the episode rolls over into another while the girl I was never able to stop loving falls asleep in my arms.

CHAPTER 21

AVA

Three days until OA Con

I can’t believe I fell asleep at Declan’s yesterday. More specifically, on Declan. The way my face ignited when his mom woke the two of us up, whispering that it was time for me to go home. My cheeks are still burning this morning.

Mom is up and about when I stumble down the stairs, although without the cooking and nursing a mega-sized mug of coffee. She looks exhausted, and I feel a stab of anger toward my father for making her this way. How dare he rub his happy little family in our face, when he couldn’t even be bothered to stick around and care for the one he started with?

A smaller, secret part rages at my mom for letting him affect her this much.

After all, I’m the one he’s replacing this time, not her.

But apparently, I’m not enough for either of them.

And why am I even bothering to try? My pulse flutters at the thought of letting go and just letting myself be. Is this how a skydiver feels as they stare out at the clouds, a breath away from taking that first jump?

If I jump, will it be a euphoric freefall?