6. Declan
DECLAN
Fourteen days until OA Con
This just isn’t possible. There’s no way Ava Aimes is standing in my garage right now. I’m clearly hallucinating.
Her fists tug the pink fabric of her hoodie pockets to their limits, and the familiar gesture hits like a slap to the face. When she speaks, her voice is so sweetly soft it physically hurts. “Um, hey. You, uh, needed my help with something?”
Can hallucinations talk?
She shuffles in place, and I blink, only just refraining from rubbing a hand over my eyes in disbelief. She’s here. She’s actually here.
To help.
Sweet, baby Naruto.
She’s the friend Hiro arranged to take his place. My hand clenches, snapping my favorite shop pencil in half. “Hiro is so dead.”
Ava pales, taking a tiny step back toward the driveway, and once again I feel like a complete and total ass.
Can I seriously not just be normal when it comes to this girl?
Another glance at her wide hazel eyes—so familiar and yet not all at once—confirms I cannot.
There is nothing normal about her. She’s always been so much more.
It’s little wonder younger me fell so hard.
Current me can still feel the sting.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” I shake my head, uncertain where I’m going with this. Why are words suddenly so elusive? “I’m just surprised. I didn’t think you were into the convention scene anymore.” Or, you know, looking at me instead of through.
She bites her lip, and a part of me wilts knowing I’ll never feel that perfectly shaped mouth pressed against mine. Wait, what? Why would I care about that? I don’t. I’d rather rip out my own tongue than kiss Ava Aimes.
“I’m not.”
“Hmm?” I wrench my gaze away from her mouth, brain scrambling to remember what we were talking about.
“I don’t go to conventions anymore,” Ava says, her gaze skipping to the top of my workbench where years of old con badges hang from the upper shelf.
A tense kind of sadness creeps into her expression when she looks at them, and I have the sudden urge to rip them all down.
“Is that what you need help with? Making something for OA Con?”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling incredibly awkward in my own skin.
How is it possible for me to want to scream at someone and pull them in for a hug at the same time?
“It’s a bit more than that. You see, Hiro and I helped run a prop-building workshop with Grady Wells last year—you might know him, he was in that YouTube show, Junkies, where they scavenge junk yards and make props out of their finds?
Anyway, we were supposed to do it again this year, only Grady ended up double-booking himself.
Rather than cancel the workshop and disappoint everyone who’s already signed up, he convinced the convention to let me and Hiro run the workshop in his place.
Only now Hiro has some kind of grandparent party he has to go to in Spokane, so it’s down to just me.
Which, whatever, I’m sure I could handle things just fine on my own, but the con was adamant that there be at least two experienced makers running things.
Thus, Hiro’s so-called help in finding a substitute.
Although I’m getting the feeling he didn’t bother telling you the specifics of what I needed help with. ”
I suck in a breath, mirroring Ava’s pose with my hands shoved into the front pockets of my tattered shop jeans, and look up at the ceiling.
The urge to over-share runs strong when I’m nervous, but I manage to keep the bit about Grady’s summer collab offer to myself.
It’s not like she’d care much, anyway. “So it’s fine if you don’t want to get involved. I know you hate this stuff now.”
The unspoken and me hangs in the air between us.
I frown, forcing myself to lower my head and look her in the eye. Needing her to know how unbothered I am by her inevitable rejection.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other again, glances over her shoulder toward the open garage door.
Looks back at me and frowns. “It’s not that I hate it, I just…
” Her fists free themselves from her pockets, and she wraps her arms around her waist, gaze skirting off to the side. “It’s not that simple.”
There’s an understatement if I ever heard one. “Like I said, it’s fine. I’ll find someone else.”
Maybe.
Not likely.
She nods, but her face is crinkled with indecision. “Okay.” She turns, and a part of me feels like crying. From relief, of course. But then she pauses, looks back. “Are you sure, though? OA Con is only two weeks away.”
She knows the date? Pretty sure I didn’t mention that part. A flicker of something, let’s call it curiosity, sparks to life inside my chest. “Yeah, the fifth through the seventh. Workshop’s on Saturday.”
“That doesn’t give you much time to get ready, much less find someone else to help you.”
I shrug, watching the back and forth play out in her eyes. It almost feels like she actually cares. “It’ll be tight, but I’ll manage somehow.”
There’s a beat, and then her chin tilts up, determination edging out the uncertainty in her expression. “I’ll do it. We can run the workshop together.”
I can’t keep the disbelief from my voice. “You will?”
“Yes.”
Nope. Still doesn’t compute. “You’re going to attend Otakus Anonymous and help run a prop workshop,” I deadpan. “With me.”
Her complexion takes on a greenish hue, and I’m honestly concerned she might barf on the spot. I half-expect her to take it back, but her voice only wavers a little when she replies, “That’s right.”
“Oh. Well, that’s…” I trail off. Me and Ava, working side by side?
Is that really a good idea? Running something of this magnitude takes planning and prep work, and what if she ends up bailing on me and I’m forced to cancel?
It’s not like she hasn’t ditched me before.
I’d be better off with someone else. Anyone else, really.
Only, she does know her way around the shop, and she’s certainly made her fair share of props in the past. Her skills may be rusty, but there’s no arguing that she’d be a credible asset.
If she follows through, not only would I meet the con’s requirement, but I’d have a significantly better chance of impressing Grady with a well-run workshop.
And I really, really want in on that collab…
“All right, you’re on. We’ll run the workshop together.”
She swallows. “Great.”
Silence fills the space between us, a distance that stretches with each awkward moment. Say something, already. “Thanks, by the way.”
She startles, as if this is the last thing she expected me to say. Which doesn’t say a whole lot about my present attitude. Should probably work on that. “Oh, um, you’re welcome.”
I scrub the back of my head, pick at a glob of hot glue on the workbench. “Also, I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean the things I said.”
When I pluck up the courage to look at her, I find her gazing back at me with an expression that can only be described as wistful. “It’s already forgotten,” she says, voice soft and low.
I nod. Clear my throat. “Great. So… I guess I’ll touch base with you once I have more specifics about the prop we’ll be making in the workshop. We’ll probably want to get together at least once beforehand, do a bit of a dry run.”
She frowns, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Won’t you need help getting all the materials prepped beforehand? I… I could help, if… if you want.”
“It’s fine. You’re already doing enough.”
“If you’re sure…”
Am I imagining things, or does she sound a little disappointed? Or am I just projecting, an act of self-preservation born from the undeniable ache in my gut when I think of her walking away?
As much as I want to, I can’t let her go.
“Actually, if you have time, it’d really help me out to have you there.” Externally, I’m as cool as a spring breeze. She can help or not, it makes no difference to me.
Internally, I’m shoving my head under a rock and screaming.
Her eyes light up—just the tiniest flicker—but enough to stir the butterflies in my stomach. “I’ll make time. So, um, where do we start? Do you have something planned out already or…?”
It takes me an embarrassingly long time to tear my gaze away and grab my crafting journal off the workbench.
“I guess we can start by going over my notes and stuff.” I angle toward the kitchen, attempting to appear calm despite the chaos of nerves pinging through my system.
“We can talk inside where there are actual chairs.” I head for the door, but when I glance over my shoulder, Ava is still standing right where I left her.
Her wide-eyed gaze boring a hole through the kitchen door.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Something wrong with my house?”
She snaps to with a gasp, her cheeks flushing bright red. “No, of course not. I just…” She swallows. “Is your mom home?"
I frown in confusion. Why would she care if my mom’s home or not? “No, she’s at her weekend Zumba class. She won’t be back for at least an hour if she goes out for coffee afterward. My dad’s around somewhere though, if you wanna say hi.”
If she shakes her head any faster, it’s liable to fall off. “No, that’s okay. Let’s just go to your room.”
I trip on the threshold, coming a hair’s breadth away from falling face first into the kitchen, while my pulse leaps into a spastic jitter. “My room?” There’s a mortifying squeak to my voice, and I overcompensate with a gruff, “Sure. If you want.”
Stop freaking out. It’s just a room like any other.
A room where I sleep.
And dream.
About…
No one in particular.
Fortunately, Ava is too busy being paranoid to notice any awkwardness on my part.
Or at least, that’s my hope. After scanning the kitchen, she starts up the stairs, and my breath catches at the sight of her stocking feet padding up the carpeted steps, her hand skimming the walnut railing.
The ghost of a twelve-year-old Ava dances beside her, her sparkling eyes peeking over her shoulder at me while she shakes a movie-theater-style box of Sour Patch Kids. Smile bright as the sun.
“Coming, Dec?”
My hand grips the banister post, knuckles whitening.
“Are you coming?” Seventeen-year-old Ava looks down at me from the stairs, her expression hesitant. Worried, even. The memory fades to gray, and I’m left with a hollow pit in my stomach.
That Ava is gone, and she’s never coming back.
“Wrong way.” I nod toward a door on the opposite side of the kitchen. “I moved into the basement room after Jack left for college. Bigger space.”
“Oh.” A hint of pink skims her cheekbones, and she twists the ends of her sleeves as she walks back down the steps. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty sweet.”
There’s no excitement in our voices, just a flat awkwardness that grows with each passing moment. It’s the exchange of strangers, only worse, because we shouldn’t be.
And yet.
I lead her down the stairs to my room, which takes up most of the finished basement space, minus one small bathroom.
Regret sets in almost instantly when I see the piles of clothes littering the floor, the unmade bed, and—Gandalf take me—that damned anime girl pillow.
It mocks me from its place on the beanbag chair.
Maybe she won’t notice.
“So, I’ve made a few things since the last time you were here.” I gesture toward the wall where my completed props are mounted like hunting trophies, snatching up a pile of clothes from the floor and tossing them on top of the ridiculous pillow the second she turns away.
Her gaze moves slowly from one piece to the next, and a look of awe spreads across her face. “Declan, these are amazing.”
Pride swells in my chest, and I rub the back of my neck as I move to stand beside her. “Thanks. I thought they came out all right.”
“I’d say a little more than all right.” She glances at me, and I’m suddenly extremely aware of how close we’re standing. She ducks her head, and the faintest hint of oranges and honey wafts from her ponytail.
I take a step to the side before I do something embarrassing, like sniff her hair. Or, you know, back her against the wall and kiss her until those five years of hurt feelings fade into nothing more than a distant memory.
So she can, what? Break your heart all over again? Or better yet, she could tell Golden Boy, and then you could have both a broken heart and a bloody nose. Or have you forgotten about her six-foot-plus brick wall of an admirer?
Clearing my throat—ugh, she’s going to think I’m fighting a cold or something if I keep doing that—I nod at the silver-and-blue shield hanging in front of her. “Remember when we played Breath of the Wild together?”
She runs a finger over the shield’s beveled edge, a small smile curving her lips. “We were obsessed. Your parents must have thought I’d moved in, I was over so much.”
“And yet it was still crazy hard to keep from playing the few hours you weren’t,” I add, laughing softly. “But a promise was a promise.”
“You always were the best.” Her smile falls along with her hand, and she turns. “We should probably get started.”
Is what she says.
But it sounds a lot more like we should get this over with.
And she’s right. This is a temporary arrangement, a favor granted out of guilt, no doubt. There’s no point in reminiscing about the past when our future has such a concrete deadline. I need her help, not her friendship.
I flip my journal open, hunkering down on the bed while she settles into the spinning chair at my computer desk.
“So, I’m thinking we have them make something simple but fun, like a foam sword or, like, Thor’s hammer. Something they can make in a few hours but that has room for added detail if they get into it and want to elaborate.”
Ava nods, the chair spinning her in slow circles while she pushes against the floor. “Something with an anime focus, since it’s for OA Con.”
“For sure.”
“Something new, or are you thinking classic anime? Like Sailor Moon’s tiara or, I don’t know, Naruto-style ninja scythes?
” She tugs the elastic free from her ponytail, and her hair spills around her shoulders in loose, golden waves.
The band stretches between her fingertips while she thinks, and once again I’m left dazed and tight-chested by the familiar habit.
I loosen my grip on my pencil before I end up breaking a second one.
“Classic,” I reply, voice husky with emotion I’m trying desperately to tamp down.
It’s not easy, not with the love of my prepubescent life spinning circles in my desk chair.
I drop my gaze, locking it on the lined pages resting in my lap.
If I look at her like this much longer, I may never come back.
“On second thought, no.” I will not fall for this girl again.
If I have to build a wall around my heart a mile deep to keep her from reclaiming it.
“Let’s go with something new.”