Page 145 of Surfer's Paradise

“I want to be part of this,” he growled. “I want to be part of your life.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, throat tight. “Since when?”

“Coco.”

“Don’t. I said—fucking, don’t. You took me for granted. That I would always be there, idolizing you from the shadows, as you fucked every model in sight.”

His eyes darkened.

She continued, “Isaac, time for us to face it. This childhood friendship—we’ve outgrown it. We are different people now. I’m different now. This is in the past.” She motioned between them. “Let me move on.”

Silence stretched between them. Music and laughter floated from the distance. The party—the life—went on, just steps behind her.

Rosie’s eyes shimmered in the shadows. She wasn’t crying. Not yet.

“Go home, Isaac,” she said softly.

He looked at her, like he wanted to say something—wanted to say everything. But his jaw clenched, his fists curled, and he didn’t say a word.

She turned.

Walked away.

And didn’t look back.

Chapter 28

The porch creaked under Isaac’s boots as he stepped up, the cool Signal Hill air sliding across his skin like a memory. He hadn’t been back in a while, but the place still fit around him like an old jacket.

The house looked the same. Same brown stucco. Same cracked driveway. Same beat-up welcome mat his mom refused to replace.

He dropped down on the top step, leaned back into the railing, and exhaled. His ribs throbbed. His ego worse. His whole body buzzed with leftover adrenaline and whatever the fuck that was.

Rosie had told him to go home.

So… he did.

He hadn’t meant here, not exactly. But this is where his truck ended up.

The screen door behind him creaked open.

“You look like hell,” his dad said, stepping outside with two beers and that dry-ass tone he always used when he was trying not to say I told you so.

Isaac cracked a faint grin. “Appreciate it.”

Tom Rayleigh eased down beside him, handed him one of the bottles.

They drank.

No talking. No need. The quiet settled between them, same as always—cicadas buzzing in the hedges, a dog barking three blocks over, the porch swing creaking in the neighbor’s yard. Signal Hill at night. Sleepy. Familiar. Honest.

“You were up in Malibu?” his dad asked finally.

Isaac nodded once. “Yeah.”

Tom took a sip. “Didn’t go great, I take it.”

“Nope.”

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