Page 49 of The Crafting Con

“Well, that’s cool that you guys are working on something together. Hey, is he going to prom on Saturday? Maybe he and his date can share our limo. The more the merrier, right?”

The guileless sincerity in which he suggests this makes me smile in spite of myself. He really is a sweet guy. The kind my mom would be thrilled to invite over for dinner and a movie night. The Dean to our Lorelai and Rory.

Only, everyone knows Dean isn’t going to make Rory happy in the long run…

My gaze strays back down the hall, searching for a mess of dark brown hair, and that battered shop hoodie I kind of want to steal for myself. “I don’t think he’s going,” I reply, distracted by visions of Declan in a tux. Lean and tall. Sleek, but with an added touch of nerdiness in his bow tie or cuff links. He’d probably be a terrible dancer. Hopeless, really.

We’d have an absolute blast.

“Bummer.” Tyler starts walking backward. “I’ve gotta get to homeroom, but I’ll see you at lunch. Nacho day,” he adds, turning to his friends. There’s a chorus of hoots and hell yeahs as their herd moves down the hall.

I watch him disappear inside a classroom, wishing I had even an ounce of his natural charisma. Maybe then, I’d be able to make Mom happy, despite Dad walking out on us. Replacing first her, and now me. My chest aches, threads of bitter what-ifs wrapping around my heart, squeezing and slicing.

Maybe then, he never would have left in the first place.

Declan and I have apparently shifted into parallel universes, as I never catch more than a passing glimpse of him all day. I do, however, text him a joke involving escalators, to which he responds with one about mermaids crossing the ocean. They’re ridiculously corny and Stasia would never stop making fun of me if she ever saw our thread.

They’re the best part of my day, and I’m feeling buoyant when I come home from school, ready to make a quick change into my shop clothes and run down to Declan’s to finish up our preparations. And maybe sneak in an anime or two, if there’s time. (I’ll make time.)

The mood shifts, however, when I step inside the foyer and see Mom’s purse hanging on the coat rack, her work heels stored neatly in the shoe bench. Did she get out early? I peek into the kitchen, but there’s no sign of her.

I dump my backpack on the floor and call up the stairs. “Mom? You home?”

No answer.

My pulse kicks up, and I take a deep breath, willing myself not to freak out. I’m sure everything is fine. I slip off my shoes, taking the time to tuck them away in the bench, and pad calmly up the stairs in my stocking feet. “Mom?”

Nothing. Maybe she’s out on the deck? The weather is unseasonably nice today. Maybe she opted to work from home. I stop in front of her bedroom and rap my knuckles on the door before cracking it open. “Mom? You in here?”

A muffled groan lures me the rest of the way in, and I peer through the faint light at the bed, the bright spring sunshine blocked by heavy, room darkening curtains. Mom lifts her head off the pillow.

“Oh, Ava. You’re home.” She blinks groggy eyes and squints at the neon numbers glaring from her alarm clock. “Is it that late already? Shoot. I only meant to lie down for a minute.”

“Are you sick?” I perch on the side of the bed and rest my hand on her forehead, checking for a temperature. “It’s not like you to be in bed at this hour.”

Not anymore, anyway. But we don’t talk about the time before.

“I’m fine, just a bit of a headache is all.” She sits up and brushes a clump of blonde hair away from her face. “How was school?”

“Good.” I skim her bedside table, and my heart stutters at the sight of an empty whisky bottle—one of those tiny ones like they serve on airplanes. Mouth dry, I scan the floor for others, but it’s clean. A quick check of the wastebasket tucked beneath the table shows only crumpled paper and tissues. I swallow, going back to the singular bottle.

A drink to relax before bed, that’s not so bad.

Like she said, she’s not an alcoholic.

Dad’s news threw her for a loop, that’s all. It’s just a momentary hiccup, nothing like before. Anyone would be thrown off to hear their ex is having a baby with someone else. She just needs a chance to adjust.

I paste a smile on my face. “Can I get you anything? Water, ibuprofen?”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie.” Mom stretches out of bed, the crisp, fitted pantsuit she put on this morning now wrinkled beyond recognition. She looks down with a grimace. “I’m just gonna hop in the shower, then catch up on the mountain of emails that have undoubtedly piled up while I was in here sleeping the day away.” She laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

My lips strain to keep their smile in place.

She’s up.

She’s showering.

She’s verbal.