13. Ava
AVA
Seven days until OA Con
Last night was a train wreck. First Declan was acting all weird and standoffish, then Tyler goes and challenges him to some over-the-top Ping-Pong showdown, because he loves to compete so much he can’t comprehend anyone not feeling the same.
And then he calls literally everyone down to watch?
I could have wrung his ridiculously thick neck.
That moment on the patio, though…
I close my eyes, recalling the flicker of heat in Declan’s gaze after I’d called his face handsome. The way my heart stuttered in response.
What would he have said if Tyler hadn’t come barging in to drag me away?
More importantly, what did I want him to say?
It hardly matters, seeing as he left while I was singing backup to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.” Must have gone around the side of the house, since he didn’t come in through the back doors.
I know, because I watched them throughout the entire song.
Made a beeline for them after giving Tyler a quick high five and suggesting he sing the next song with Maya Diaz, who looked more than happy to oblige.
At least someone had a good night.
I close the manga I picked up on a whim from the library with a sigh and grab my phone. More missed calls from Dad, along with a series of unanswered texts.
Dad: Hey kid, I still can’t seem to get through to you. Call me back!
Dad: I have exciting news. Call me.
Dad: I know you’re busy, but I really need to talk to you.
Dad: Ava Louise Aimes, answer your damn phone.
Yeah, hard pass. I have enough going on in my life right now. The last thing I need is to deal with his crap.
There’s a tap at my door, and I instinctively shove the manga under my pillow before calling, “Come in.” After all these years, seeing me reading manga shouldn’t be a trigger for Mom’s depression, but I can’t quite shake the lingering fear. It’s too ingrained.
“Hey, sweetie.” Mom pokes her head in the room, her blonde bob falling across her forehead. “I just wanted to let you know I booked us appointments at Delia Rose’s for mani-pedis on Friday. Let me know if I should add another one for Stasia.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks,” is what I say. Inside, I’m spiraling into full panic mode at the realization that both prom and OA Con are next weekend. I mean, obviously, I knew that they were, but it didn’t quite hit me until right now.
“And I was going to book you a hair appointment for Saturday,” Mom continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I was thinking sometime around three would be good? So you still have plenty of time to do makeup and get dressed before photos, but not so early it gets ruined.”
“Um.” What time did the workshop run again? From eleven to twelve? I’ll need time to drive back from Seattle, but that should be fine, right? “Three o’clock sounds good.”
“Wonderful.” Mom crosses over to the bed and sinks down beside me, pulling me into a bear hug. “I can’t believe my baby girl has gotten so grown-up. Where does the time go?”
I lean into her embrace, savoring her solid warmth.
Pride fills my chest when I think of how far she’s come since Dad left.
There was a time when I wasn’t sure she’d ever be the mom I knew again, and fear became my constant companion.
But we did it. We broke through the storm clouds Dad left in his wake. We survived.
Would Mom be thrilled to know I was going to OA Con? Doubtful. But would it really hurt her to know, or am I stressing over nothing?
Maybe I should just tell her.
“Your father called, by the way.” Mom draws back, nose wrinkling the way it does anytime she mentions Dad.
Like she just caught the updraft from a sewer plant.
I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, to be honest. “And while I fully support your right to avoid his man-child drama, when it starts spilling over toward me, I ask that you at least consider calling him back once in a while. The man is like a dog with a bone when he wants something, and if he pesters me anymore, I’m gonna get fleas. ”
“Could be worse,” I deadpan. “You could get worms.”
“Oof, don’t even suggest it. Every time you go out there, I worry you’re going to get dragged to one of his infernal conventions and come back in some kind of full body animal suit, like one of those, what do you call them?”
I arch a brow. “Furries?”
“Yes, those.” Mom shudders. “Give me the willies.”
They’re just people who like dressing up in costumes. It’s not like they’re stalking old ladies and stealing babies for dinner. I refrain from saying this out loud, however, because I’m still stuck on the words worry and infernal conventions. None of which bodes well for my confession.
If I told her, she wouldn’t stop me from going.
But it would hurt.
Like I’m siding with Dad after all this time.
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.