Page 137 of Surfer's Paradise

Chris and Shay must have told her. She must have heard.

But still—nothing.

Not a check-in.

Not a “you okay?”

Not even a bullshit excuse for why she hadn’t reached out.

It was fine.

Except it wasn’t.

Because if the roles were reversed, if she’d been the one who got caught under a current, slammed into a rock, nearly fucking drowned—

He wouldn’t have waited.

He wouldn’t have thought twice.

He would’ve been there, because that’s what you do for people who matter.

And maybe that was the part that pissed him off the most.

Isaac sat at the kitchen table, leg bouncing, fingers drumming against the wood.

His phone was face-up. Mocking him.

The half-eaten plate of food sat in front of him, untouched for an hour now.

He didn’t want to sit here anymore.

He needed to move.

He needed to go to L.A.

Find her.

Make her talk to him.

Make her look at him.

He stood up, ignoring the sharp pull in his ribs.

Snatched his keys off the counter.

Fuck it.

It was time.

Chapter 26

The freeway cut through golden hills as Isaac wound his way north, the sun spilling low across the Pacific, tinting everything in molten light. The ocean was a flash of silver on his left, the highway stretching long and impatient before him. The A/C fought the creeping heat. Traffic had started thickening around Dana Point—by San Clemente, it was a crawl.

He had the windows down anyway. Salt air, open road, old punk rock humming low through his speakers.

His ribs still ached—three hours in a truck didn’t help that—but he needed this drive. Needed the motion. San Diego was closing in on him. He couldn’t sit still anymore.

His phone buzzed in the console tray. Mom.

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