Page 25 of The Crafting Con

A strange sort of nervous energy hums through my system, shaking me to the core. Why does the thought of Ava wanting to say no to Tyler make me want to shout with victory? And why does the thought of her going along with something she doesn’t want to do make me equally mad? My hands alternate between flexing and clenching into fists at my sides. Stasia glances down at them, a knowing look creasing her face for a split second before it turns back-to-business with new numbers being called out.

She sprints into action when the teacher yells, “Numbers eight and thirteen,” her legs pumping so fast the other team never stands a chance. She jogs back into place, her breathing only slightly heightened from the exertion, and turns to me fully for the first time since starting this strange conversation.

“I’m having a party at my house tonight. You should come. Bring Hiro along too.”

Is Stasia Evans seriously inviting me to a party? I immediately envision the typical “cool kid” parties I’ve seen in movies and shows, with half-dressed teens dancing drunkenly around sprawling mansions while the jocks play beer pong and do keg stands outside. So not my scene. Still…

“Ava will be there,” Stasia adds offhand, as if this is a completely unrelated and trivial comment that will in no way affect my decision.

The million and one reasons I have for saying no fly out the window, and the world officially turns upside down as some bizarro-Declan takes over and asks, “What time?”

CHAPTER 11

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.