Page 147 of Surfer's Paradise

The porch fell quiet again. Isaac stared at the spot where Rosie used to sit—skinny knees pulled to her chest, glasses too big on her face, dark hair in tangles. Always smiling at him like he was her whole world.

Now, she was building her own.

Without him.

* * * * *

After a fitful sleep, Isaac woke up in the guest room in his parents’ house. It was too quiet. Too clean. The kind of place you couldn’t fully relax in because it didn’t really belong to you anymore. Isaac stared at the ceiling for a beat, then dragged himself out of bed.

He laced up his running shoes and hit the cracked sidewalks of Signal Hill, slowly jogging past stucco houses, cypress trees, and sleepy neighbors watering their lawns. The coastal air clung cool to his skin, but the sun was already rising sharp over the hills, heating his back. His ribs ached—still not healed—but it felt good to get out, to sweat. He was careful, keeping pace slow, easy. He didn’t need a reason for any more time off work.

He showered. Shaved. Ate the toast and eggs his mom insisted on making. He was halfway through his coffee when his phone lit up.

Rosie:

We need to talk.

He stared at the screen for a second. His heart picked up.

He replied fast.

Isaac:Yes we do.

A pause.

Rosie:Coffee shop?

Isaac:I’ll pick you up. Where are you?

A longer pause this time.

Rosie:I almost don’t want to give you my new address… stalker.

Isaac:Come on, Coco. For fuck’s sake.

Another beat.

Then:

Rosie:Echo Park. 1211 Laveta Terrace. Apartment 302. I’m free this morning.

Isaac:Be there in one hour.

He grabbed his keys. Pulled on a black t-shirt, jeans, boots. And drove.

The closer he got to Echo Park, the more he slowed down—not the truck, but his thinking. He hadn’t been up here much. This part of LA was hills and trees and old Spanish-style buildingscrammed beside newer units. Gentrified, but not polished. A mix of bougie and broken-down.

Laveta Terrace was one of those streets that looked different depending on how you tilted your head. Quiet. A little too quiet. Some houses were restored and hipster-clean. Others had peeling paint and broken porches. Every car looked like it either belonged to a starving artist or an undercover tech bro.

He parked half up on a curb and stepped out, scanning the block. Old palms swayed against the bright blue morning. Dogs barked in the distance. Some guy across the street was chain-smoking on his stoop. But it didn’t feel unsafe—just lived-in. Real. Still, his instincts clocked every corner, every blind spot, the broken lock on the apartment gate.

She lived here?

He wasn’t sure if it pissed him off or made him proud.

He climbed the stairs to the third floor. Found 302. A narrow green door with chipped paint and a small hanging plant by the frame. He paused for a beat, running a hand through his hair, trying to decide if he looked like a dick for showing up in boots and black again.

Too late now.

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