11. Ava
AVA
Eight days until OA Con
I’m in no mood to be at a party tonight, but Stasia was so insistent, I couldn’t say no.
If nothing else, it’s giving me some much-needed space from Mom, who brings up Tyler’s promposal pretty much every other sentence.
I have to bite my tongue with increasing frequency, the fear that I’ll let my true feelings slip driving me to distraction.
And then there’s Dad, who continues to blow up my phone for some obnoxious reason.
I’m tempted to block his number entirely.
What I really need is sugar. Stat.
“Hey, Stace, did you get those mini-donuts I like from Tori’s Bakery?” I rise up on my tiptoes to search the upper shelves of the Evanses’ pantry, but the elusive pastries are nowhere in sight.
Stasia pokes her head into the tiny six-by-six-foot room dedicated entirely to snacks. “Check behind the granola.”
Sure enough, the pink bakery box is tucked behind three plastic containers full of homemade granola on the middle shelf.
“Why’d you hide them back there?” I laugh, pulling the box out and sliding the cranberry granola—or cran-gran as Stasia’s dad likes to call it—back into place beside the banana-gran.
“Are you kidding me?” Stasia takes the box from my hands and arranges it on the counter with the other snacks we’ve laid out for tonight.
“Ben came here straight from practice and made a beeline for the pantry. If he’d known those were in there, there wouldn’t be any left.
Boy can do some serious damage when he’s in a calorie deficit. ”
“Oof. Good point.” I lean back against the counter and give my friend an exaggerated once over. “Speaking of damage, you are absolutely killing it in those boots.”
Stasia preens, striking a pose in her heeled boots, high-waisted black mini skirt, and cropped sweater.
“A queen has got to slay.” She cocks her head, eyeing my ensemble.
“Or, you know, curl up with a good book.” She arches a brow.
“I love me some cozy vibes as much as the next girl but what’s with the leggings?
And that sweatshirt looks like it was made for the Rock, not a five-foot-six, teenage girl. ”
I glance down at my outfit, hands curling into the sleeves of the oversized University of Washington sweatshirt. “What? I was cold.”
“And the only warm option in your closet was a coffee-stained circus tent?” Stasia pokes at a faded brown splotch decorating the front of my shirt and frowns. “You are aware this is a party, right? Not girls’ night.”
“Yes,” I say slowly, giving her my back while I load blackberry seltzers into the fridge.
“I just felt like being comfortable.” That, and I knew Tyler would be here.
Thus the launch of Operation: Friend Zone.
I may not have had the stones to turn down his promposal, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to get pressured into dating him.
Attending prom together is a slippery slope, however, and with him being such good friends with Ben, and Ben being attached to Stasia’s hip…
Well, I can see the lines getting blurred.
Which means establishing clear-cut lines right off the bat.
And what better way is there to say “I only see you as a friend” than dressing like you can’t care less what he sees you in?
It’ll work.
It has to work.
“You know what?” Stasia says brightly. “Own the cozy, I love it. You do you.”
I throw her a suspicious glance over my shoulder. “I will, thanks.”
“Awesome. Oh, by the way, I invited a few extra people. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s your house.” I close the refrigerator door, keeping a can of seltzer for myself. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Stasia shrugs. “It’s just, they’re not part of our usual crowd, and with your history and all, I’d hate to make things awkward.”
My fingers still, the aluminum tab of my drink half cracked. “Who’d you invite, Stace?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Just a few friends I’ve been meaning to hang out with more, like Adrianne and Hiro.” Her lips twitch, eyes glinting with mischief. “Declan.”
I try hard not to react to this bombshell.
Although, given the smirk spreading across Stasia’s face, I doubt I’m successful.
My hands flutter over my hair, which is pulled back in a sloppy bun.
The elastic of which suddenly feels much too tight.
And my lips are awfully dry. I should have worn chapstick. Or lip gloss.
Oh God, there’s a huge coffee stain on my giant shirt.
What am I even wearing?
“I knew it,” Stasia hisses. She does a quick scan of the kitchen, as if to ensure we’re still alone, then proceeds to once again jab me in the chest. “You have a thing for Declan.”
“What? No.” The audacity of this girl, thinking I’m harboring a secret crush on my childhood friend. “Declan and I are tentative friends, at best. Not even.”
“A tentative friend you’ve got the hots for,” Stasia insists, propping her hands on her hips.
“What hots? There are no hots here, I promise you.”
“If you haven’t got the hots, then why’d you just take your gross sweatshirt off?”
“What are you—” I look down at the shirt in my hands, the bright blue racerback I’d been wearing underneath now on full display. When did that happen? Burying my face in the wadded-up fabric, I let out a muffled groan. “I’m losing my mind.”
“And that,” Stasia says, pulling the sweatshirt away from my face and gently tugging the elastic free from my hair, “is the first honest thing you’ve said all night.”
I bite my lip, staring silently at my overly observant friend. She pulls a tube of lip gloss from a hidden pocket in her skirt and holds it out to me with a knowing smile. I hesitate for all of a moment before accepting it with a resigned sigh and swiping it over my lips.
Strawberry. Nice.
Stasia tilts her head, waiting.
My shoulders slump. “I’m going to prom with Tyler.”
She nods. “I’m aware.”
“And I’m helping Declan with his OA Con workshop.”
“Again, nothing I don’t already know.”
“And…”
“Yeah?”
My hand tightens around the pink-capped tube. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“So we’ve established.” When I don’t answer, Stasia nudges my foot with the toe of her boot. “Just tell me one thing.” She waits for me to look up and meet her eyes before asking, “Do you like Tyler?”
“Everyone likes Tyler.”
“Not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “No. I don’t like Tyler. Not the way you’re implying.”
“Excellent. Now tell me, how do you feel about Declan?”
I look away with a shrug. “I don’t know, he’s… Declan.” My oldest friend. My biggest regret. “It’s not like that with us.”
Stasia’s lips press together, and the look she gives me is clearly unconvinced.
“It’s not like that now, maybe”—she plucks the lip gloss from my fingers and wiggles it in front of my face—“but time has a way of bringing these things to the surface. Now, I’m going to go fire up the speakers and make sure Ben hasn’t been messing with my playlist. Feel free to pop upstairs and help yourself to my closet, should you wish to change.
Or not. Up to you.” She places my sweatshirt on the counter with a wink and sashays out of the room.
“Such a drama queen,” I mutter, snatching up the discarded shirt. Fully intending to put it right back on. Only my cell vibrates against my leg before I can, and I pause to pull it free of the stretchy side pocket. My heart flutters when I see a new text from Declan.
Declan: Why did the Viking buy a secondhand boat?
My mouth curves into a grin.
Me: I don’t know, why?
Declan: Because he couldn’t fjord a new one.
I snort-laugh, rolling my eyes as I type.
Me: Dork.
Declan: You know it.
I do know that, and it’s doing nothing to calm the flurry of butterflies in my stomach. I look at my phone, adrenaline kicking at my pulse, then down at my sweatshirt. And for reasons I can’t bring myself to acknowledge, because they’re disastrous at best, I run upstairs to change.
Because maybe I don’t need to be quite so cozy.