Page 64 of The Crafting Con

We play around for a solid two hours, going from laser tag to the go-karts to the arcade. Tyler tries to get me to go on the bumper boats, but I draw the line at getting hit by water guns from every angle. So we grab slushies and camp out at the picnic tables instead, dying our tongues neon blue with the sugar-filled concoction.

I shiver, my thin sweater warm enough for the spring sunshine but not for a stomach full of ice. I set my plastic cup down with a sigh and rub my arms.

“Hits hard, doesn’t it?” Tyler says, popping the top off his own drink and chugging down the remainder. He finishes with an exaggerated shiver of his own. “Flippin’ frigid.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks off to the side, at me, then off to the side again. I’m about to ask him what’s wrong when he speaks up, his voice unusually serious.

“So. You wanna talk about the parking lot?”

No. Yes. Both.

I shake my head. “I’m not even sure where I’d begin.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“The beginning, huh?” I give him a small smile. “We’re talking five years of baggage over here.”

Tyler shrugs, clasping his hands behind his head. “I’ve got time.”

He seems sincere, and I’m tired to death of keeping it all in. So I let the story spill out in all its gritty details, holding nothing back. Tyler listens quietly until the end, and I slump forward with relief when I finally finish, a shaky laugh slipping from my lips. “Which brings us back to ‘Do.’”

Tyler hums a soft chuckle.

Silence settles around us, and I breathe freely for what feels like the first time all day.

It feels unbelievably good to lay it all out. Cathartic, really.

After a moment, Tyler speaks up, breaking the silence. “My dad left when I was seven months old. Got sick of all the crying and diaper changes, I guess. They were really putting a strain on his budding music career.” He lets out a rueful chuckle. “Pretty sure he works retail now, so I guess ditching us didn’t help.”

I frown and reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, moving his hand away as he runs them both through his hair instead. “It’s fine. His parents—my grandparents—were actually pretty great. Totally stepped up and helped my mom in all the areas their idiot son failed to. Grandpa Jack was the one who taught me how to play lacrosse. Comes to all my games. They’re awesome.”

I give him a small smile. “They sound awesome.”

“Anyway, my dad doesn’t so much as send a birthday card for, like, fifteen years, then he shows up out of the blue when I turn sixteen and is all, ‘I’ve changed. Give me another chance to be your dad.’ Etcetera, etcetera.” He rolls his eyes. “Classic mid-life crisis bullcrap.”

I roll the slushy cup between my palms. “What’d you do?”

“Told him to go to hell. Grandpa Jack was all the dad I needed, and at that point in my life, I really didn’t need another.”

“So you guys still don’t talk at all?”

“Nope.”

I bite my lip, thinking of my own dad. “Do you ever regret it? Not giving him another chance?”

“Honestly? No. I don’t.” He crumples his empty cup, aims, and chucks it into the trash can across the lot like it’s the easiest thing ever. “Will I someday? Maybe. But that’s the thing though. There’s no set answer, no right or wrong action to take. You and I both have lousy dads who walked out on us, but our circumstances are also completely different. We’re completely different. So just because I didn’t want to give my deadbeat dad a second chance to mess up my life, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk to yours. But also, it’s okay if you don’t. You just gotta do whatever feels right down here.” He slaps his stomach and grins. “Declan, though, you should definitely talk to. He’s a pretty cool little band geek.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Declan is not little, you’re just freakishly large.”

“I kind of am, aren’t I?” He flexes his arm. “Oh yeah. That’s the stuff.”

I cover my face with my hands as I let out a laughing groan. “You are such a dork.”

“You love it,” he jokes. “My amazing body aside, now that I’ve finished foisting all my unsolicited advice on you, I do have a bit of a favor to ask. About prom. And totally feel free to say no.”

I let my hands fall back into my lap, curiosity piqued. “I’m pretty sure I owe you about twenty favors. What’s up?”

A hint of red creeps into his cheeks, and my jaw just about scrapes the picnic table. Never have I seen this boy blush before. Now I’m really curious.