Page 36 of Catch and Release

“Damn,” Willa said. “I felt some nibbles, but wasn’t sure.”

“Hate it when that happens,” he said. “Don’t worry, though. I brought some extra bait.”

“Knew I’d be losing my bait so easily, did you?”

He laughed—quietly, though, so he didn’t scare off the fish.

“Nah, just thought I’d do my best to earn brownie points with my fake girlfriend.”

Yeah, he was going to milk the fake girlfriend thing for all it was worth.

Maybe he could convince her to drop by more often and scare the tourists away.

Maybe she’d want to be his real girlfriend.

He shook away the thought and brought his attention back to his rod. Back to Willa. She cast her line back into the water again after baiting it, and slowly started reeling.

“So,” Willa said.

Shawn grinned. “So.”

“Scooby?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll never get out of that nickname.”

“Why does Grams call you that?”

He bit back a smile. “When I was 5, I was obsessed with Scooby Doo. Had the lunchbox. Watched the cartoons every Saturday morning. And I dressed up as Scooby for Halloween.”

Willa laughed. “That’s cute.”

He wondered if his pounding heart would give away how much he loved her laugh—if she could hear it over the gentle crashing of the waves.

“You’d think,” he responded, feeling his cheeks redden. “But I went a bit overboard with it. Made my family call me Scooby and treat me like a dog, did tricks for Scooby Snacks, did the voice—the whole nine.”

“You didn’t,” she giggled.

“I did. And then, I refused to take the costume off for two weeks. I imagine that was not a fun experience for anyone involved, but I loved it. And Grams has called me Scooby ever since.”

Willa fell into a fit of laughter, clutching her stomach and wiping her eyes.

“Oh my god, that might be my favorite story ever,” she said.

He couldn’t hold back the grin that stretched across his face as he watched her laugh, trying to memorize the unadulterated glee she was exuding. Once her laughter died down, she stole a glance at him, and he could’ve sworn he saw her cheeks flush as he held her gaze.

“Did she raise you?” Willa asked softly.

Shawn stiffened. “Her and my grandfather.”

Willa looked back to her rod, giving him space. It was vulnerable—raw. He wanted to tell her this part of his story, but it never got easier to talk about.

“My parents died when I was two,” Shawn continued. “Car accident on I-98. I barely remember them, but Grams and Pop… They helped me. To remember them. To grieve. To navigate life without them. They put me in therapy pretty early on. I’m grateful for that.”

She gave him a grim smile. “I’m sorry.”

It was all she could say. “Thanks.” He reeled in his line and cast it back out. “I know my parents were good people. That they loved me. And being raised by Grams and Pop was... well, it could’ve been a lot worse. I had a really good childhood, and I know how lucky I am.”

He loved his grandparents dearly. Missed Pop every day. Savored every moment with Grams, even when she made him want to rip his hair out. And he knew he was lucky to have grandparents who loved and supported him—who knew therapy was what he needed, who refused to let the stigma around it keep their grandchild from getting the care he needed.

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