Page 90 of Surfer's Paradise

Dom:

Then why are you standing outside like you just got divorced from someone you never had the balls to marry?

[pause]

Isaac:

I’m going home.

Shay:

Translation:

“I’m going to repress everything and bench press until I hallucinate clarity.”

Adam:

Let him go.

Heath:

Someone check on him in six hours.

He’s going to end up sorting ammo alphabetically by emotional trauma.

Colson:

Too late. He just texted the quartermaster to “refresh his dive kit.”

Chris:

Oh he’s not running from feelings.

He’s submerging them.

Isaac stood on the curb with his cigarette burning low between his fingers and the group chat open in his other hand—each message brighter and louder than the last.

Shay narrating.

Chris throwing gas.

Adam dropping silence that said more than words.

And Dom—fucking Dom—landing kill shots like he was back behind a scope.

Isaac’s jaw flexed so hard it ached.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then he gripped the phone like he meant to break it.

Just shatter the goddamn thing against the pavement.

Crack the glass. Split the logic board. Let it bleed.

It wouldn’t stop the truth.

Wouldn’t unmake the moment in that bed.

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