Page 160 of Surfer's Paradise

“You’re my girlfriend,” he said again, steadier this time. “We’re together. It might not be the perfect answer, but it’s the honest one. You just have to let it go where it goes. You just have to let me try.”

She swallowed, voice small. “So I just give you the chance to break my heart?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled her into his chest again, wrapped his arms around her back, held her close.

His mouth brushed the top of her head. “A long time ago, one night, I promised I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

He paused, breathed her in.

“That includes me. That—I can promise.”

Chapter 31

East Los Angeles

The farther they drove, the more familiar it felt—and not in a good way.

Isaac leaned his elbow against the door, watching the blocks roll by. This wasn’t the glossy part of L.A. This wasn’t Malibu’s wide drives or West Hollywood’s curated grit. This was East L.A.—where the paint peeled off apartment buildings, corner stores had iron bars on their windows, and teenagers leaned too hard into cars that weren’t theirs.

The place reeked of something he couldn’t quite shake: desperation.

And maybe familiarity.

He’d seen places like this overseas. Seen kids barefoot on cracked pavement, seen gangs posted up like checkpoints, seen that undercurrent of hard living carved into the bones of the neighborhood. Nothing about it surprised him. What surprised him was that Rosie was here. That she’d chosen this place.

He parked in a lot tucked behind the community center. Dirt lot. Uneven gravel. A mangled old chain-link fence wrapped around the edge, a busted security camera mounted up top, rusted and tilted.

Isaac stepped out of the truck slowly, careful not to tweak his ribs. They still throbbed, dull and persistent. Every inhale reminded him he wasn’t 100%—but nothing was keeping him from seeing this.

He followed Rosie inside, keeping a few steps behind her.

The building smelled like floor wax and cafeteria food. Cheap tiles. Old plastic chairs. The air conditioning was doing its best, but it wasn’t winning. A few folding tables had been pushed aside to make space for a projector, a screen, and a semicircle of chairs. Half a dozen people were already there—stakeholders, community partners, a few of Greg Taylor’s top nonprofit reps.

Rosie stepped forward into the room like she belonged there.

And Isaac stood back, silent, unseen.

She’d changed. He knew that. He’d been watching it in pieces, but this was different.

Jeans. White tee tucked in. A black blazer over top. Hair twisted up, clean and elegant. Red lipstick. Heels—those sharp blackones that made her legs look even longer. Her glasses were off. No paint under her nails. Just this poised, quiet power radiating off her like heat.

She started speaking.

Isaac didn’t sit.

He found a corner in the back and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, keeping his gaze locked on her—and everything else.

She presented the mentorship pilot with that slow, self-assured confidence he’d never quite been able to name before. Slide after slide, she walked them through the plan—how the art would serve as a foundation for trauma recovery. How these teens would build portfolios, explore their stories, speak in colors and textures when words failed.

He listened.

And he watched.

Everyone in the room was nodding. Engaged. Her audience was with her.

But Isaac?

He wasn’t watching the room.

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