I'll Stop the World (21)

Lisa nodded. “Have to look perfect for the paper.”

He smiled at her, his eyes flicking over the sleeveless lavender blouse that Veronica had helped her pick out. “Well, you nailed that.”

Lisa’s face tightened as she returned his smile. She fought the desire to cross her arms, cover herself up. Relax, she told herself, trying to remember the way she used to feel when he looked at her like that. Maybe it had never sent butterflies soaring through her stomach, but it had been at least pleasant.

She’d always gotten along well with Shawn, so when he first asked her out at the beginning of junior year, it felt like such a simple thing to say yes. And for a while, it had been nice. He made her laugh and was easy to talk to, and even if she didn’t swoon over him the way the other girls at school did, it was impossible not to notice how handsome he was. They had fun together. It should’ve been easy to get swept away by him.

But although she kept waiting to fall head over heels, her feet remained stubbornly planted on the ground.

Eventually, he’d said the thing she had been dreading for months, and she hadn’t been able to say it back, as much as she wished she could. For a moment, she’d been relieved. Now that he knew she didn’t feel the way she was supposed to, she was certain he’d cut her loose and find someone who could love him back.

But he hadn’t. She’d broken his heart, and still he stayed, leaving her holding all the pieces.

Now that she knew what it was like to say it to someone and mean it, she wished more than ever that she could give those pieces back. But he didn’t seem to want them. So she shaved off tiny bits of her heart and offered him those instead—nothing much, just what she could spare. Barely more than crumbs, really.

It wasn’t enough, for either of them. But it was all she had to give.

“Did you tell your dad about the award?” she asked.

He nodded stiffly. “Didn’t go great,” he said under his breath.

“Really? He wasn’t even a little bit excited?”

Shawn shook his head, pressing his lips together. “It’s my own dumb fault. I should’ve realized his hang-up about college was never about the money.”

“What’s it about?”

“Rothman and Son.”

“Oh.” Lisa sighed, wishing she could take Shawn’s father by the shoulders and shake him. He had such an amazing son, but he refused to see it.

This was the part Lisa couldn’t explain to Charlene, because she knew she’d never understand. It wasn’t just about the campaign. Lisa couldn’t break up with Shawn because he didn’t have anyone else. Everyone liked him, but barely anyone really knew him. “Shawn, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

She frowned, knowing how much Shawn had risked—how much they both had—to get that award. Nothing was a bigger deal to him than this. “Listen, even if your father—”

But she was cut off when Veronica clapped her hands breathlessly, eager to get the not-brunch underway.

As Jim and Diane took their seats and the photographer started snapping pictures, Shawn’s expression changed like a channel, flipping from frustrated to cheerful in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it was unnerving to Lisa, just how good he was at dusting away the parts of himself he didn’t want anyone else to see, leaving nothing but a gleaming facade.

Then again, maybe that’s what made them perfect for each other. Both of them knew how to put on a show.

Lisa went through all the proper motions as the photographer clicked away, smiling for the camera and holding Shawn’s hand between their plates and feeding Emmie bites of muffin. She laughed at Jim’s jokes—but not too hard, not opening her mouth too wide or showing too many teeth—kept her shoulders straight, her ankles crossed, her elbows off the table.

When it was over, the photographer claimed he had some great shots, and Lisa was sure he did. The photographs would undoubtedly be beautiful.

They just wouldn’t be real.





Chapter Twelve


SHAWN

His father was in the garage when he got home from brunch, his tools and supplies spread out before him on the pristine concrete floor. Saturdays were maintenance days, when Gabe Rothman meticulously inventoried, catalogued, and cleaned all the tools of his trade, down to the smallest scrap of copper wire. Even though Shawn doubted that anything changed significantly enough from week to week to warrant this level of reorganization, his father was insistent that it was necessary.

Shawn hurried up the driveway, hoping to get into the house before his father spotted him.

“In here, son,” Gabe called.

Shawn halted just a few feet from the front door. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, steeling himself, then walked over, loosening his tie and shrugging off his jacket. His father’s garage was cleaner than most people’s kitchens, and there were plenty of hooks and bars on which a jacket could hang, but everything had its purpose here, none of which was clothing storage. He draped it over his arm instead.

“Where have you been this morning?” Shawn’s father asked. He bent over an array of needle-nose pliers, each lined up perfectly parallel to the one beside it, and made marks on a clipboard.

“I was invited to have brunch with Lisa’s family,” Shawn said, swallowing. “Remember, I told you on Thursday—”