Page 122 of Surfer's Paradise

Because he didn’t do commitment.

Not because he was selfish.

Not because he wanted to be a player.

But because he couldn’t fall in love.

He wasn’t that guy.

Not built for it.

Not wired for it.

He didn’t know how to be what she needed.

Isaac exhaled, heading back to the kitchen.

He scooped another bowl of pasta, eating mindlessly, mechanically, barely tasting it, barely paying attention to the TV playing in the background.

His thoughts were somewhere else.

Somewhere behind that shut door down the hall.

She didn’t say she was done with him—not exactly.

But she might as well have.

She had drawn the line.

And for the first time in his life—

Isaac had no fucking idea how to cross it.

He cleaned up, shutting off the lights, going through the motions of normalcy.

By the time he hit his bed, it was nearly eleven, and he was still tense, still wired, still aching.

He could hear her.

Soft, quiet movements in the guest room.

Her door was closed.

Shutting him out.

That shouldn’t bother him.

It did.

Isaac exhaled sharply, slipping his hand under the sheets, gripping himself, working himself to relief.

It was rough, fast, frustrating, unsatisfying.

Even as he groaned into the quiet, even as his body tensed and finally released—

He still felt empty.

Still felt like trash.

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