Page 164 of Surfer's Paradise

“What the hell happened?” she asked, trying to stay calm, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not mine.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Isaac.”

His jaw worked. He turned out onto the street. “I just need a minute. You gotta trust me.”

“That’s not an answer.” Her pulse pounded. Her mind raced through a thousand possibilities, none of them good. “Did you… fight someone?”

His eyes flicked to hers briefly. “Rosie.”

“What?” she demanded, suddenly furious. “You show up with blood on you, no explanation, acting like this is normal—what the hell happened?”

“I took care of something,” he said, voice like steel.

“That’s not an answer either, Isaac!”

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, jaw tight. “You just gotta let this one go, alright?”

She stared at him, heart thudding. He wasn’t angry—not at her. He was wired. Tense. Quiet in that way that meant he was holding back something dangerous.

“You’re trying to protect me,” she said slowly.

He didn’t respond.

Rosie’s stomach twisted. “Who was it?”

A beat. Another.

Then—

His voice was so low it barely registered. “Not now.”

Rosie turned to look at him fully, trying to search his face for some clue, some truth—but he was shut down. A wall. Something about him had shifted, and she didn’t know what.

And just like that—Rosie realized. This was Day One of being Isaac’s girlfriend. And it was already terrifying. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t ready. But somehow, somewhere deep down,she knew—whatever happened behind that building, whatever blood was on his hands—

It was for her.

And whether she wanted it or not…

He was already all in.

It was just after 5:30 p.m. when they pulled away from the community center.

They drove in silence for miles. The sun hung low behind them, turning the sky a dusky lavender as the city unspooled in streaks of motion-blur through her window. Rosie kept sneaking glances at Isaac, but he stayed locked in—one hand on the wheel, the other flexing and releasing in his lap, tension still radiating from him like steam off asphalt.

Finally, somewhere past the freeway on-ramp, he spoke.

“You got any art shit this weekend?”

Rosie blinked. “What?”

“Plans. Events. Meetings. Gallery shit. Anything?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. I’m clear.”

“Good,” he said, voice low, decisive. “We’re stopping at your place for a bag. You’re coming back to San Diego with me.”

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