28. Chapter 28
Chapter 28
T he porch creaked under Isaac’s boots as he stepped up, the cool Signal Hill air sliding across his skin like a memory. He hadn’t been back in a while, but the place still fit around him like an old jacket.
The house looked the same. Same brown stucco. Same cracked driveway. Same beat-up welcome mat his mom refused to replace.
He dropped down on the top step, leaned back into the railing, and exhaled. His ribs throbbed. His ego worse. His whole body buzzed with leftover adrenaline and whatever the fuck that was.
Rosie had told him to go home.
So… he did.
He hadn’t meant here, not exactly. But this is where his truck ended up.
The screen door behind him creaked open.
“You look like hell,” his dad said, stepping outside with two beers and that dry-ass tone he always used when he was trying not to say I told you so.
Isaac cracked a faint grin. “Appreciate it.”
Tom Rayleigh eased down beside him, handed him one of the bottles.
They drank.
No talking. No need. The quiet settled between them, same as always—cicadas buzzing in the hedges, a dog barking three blocks over, the porch swing creaking in the neighbor’s yard. Signal Hill at night. Sleepy. Familiar. Honest.
“You were up in Malibu?” his dad asked finally.
Isaac nodded once. “Yeah.”
Tom took a sip. “Didn’t go great, I take it.”
“Nope.”
Another beat of silence.
“Rosalie’s thing?” Tom asked.
Isaac nodded again, staring out at the street.
“She’s come a long way,” Tom said quietly. “We’re proud of her. She stops by now and then. Checks in on your mom.”
Isaac didn’t answer.
Tom shifted, elbow on his knee, his voice low. “She used to sit right there. You two with your Walkman, one earbud each. Laughing like a couple of idiots. Playing those burned CDs—what was that girl band?”
Isaac cracked a smile. “Hole.”
“Right.” Tom smiled faintly. “She was like our fourth kid.”
“She didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Isaac muttered, eyes on the dead lawn.
“She had us.”
That landed. Hard.
Isaac leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think I fucked it up.”
Tom didn’t say anything.
“She didn’t want me there,” Isaac said.
Tom gave that a long, quiet pause. Then: “You’re used to being enough just by showing up.”
Isaac looked at him.
“Look,” Tom said. “You’ve always been like this. Driven. Focused. Bullheaded. And Rosalie’s always known how to let you be all those things. But now?” He took another drink. “She doesn’t need you like she used to.”
Isaac swallowed hard.
“I remember the night her mom died,” Tom went on. “She showed up here with a bloody t-shirt and no shoes on. Her house was a crime scene. Mom gave her clean pajamas, made up the guest bed. You sat on the floor beside her until she stopped crying.”
Isaac nodded slowly. That memory was burned into him. He’d promised her he would never let anyone hurt her. And he stayed up, watching over her all night.
“She clung to you like you were the last good thing in the world,” Tom said.
“She’s not that girl anymore.”
“No,” Tom agreed. “She’s a woman now. And not just any woman. She’s building something. A name. A future. And you? You gotta figure out if you’re gonna be beside her… or in the way.”
Isaac bristled. “I’m not trying to control her.”
Tom watched him.
After a minute, Tom added, “You can’t just show up, Isaac. Not unless you’re willing to stay. Not unless you’re okay just standing beside her while she wins.”
Isaac ran a hand over his face. His ribs ached. His chest ached worse. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Women aren’t puzzles, son.”
“She doesn’t trust my intentions,” he said.
“Then prove her wrong.”
The porch fell quiet again. Isaac stared at the spot where Rosie used to sit—skinny knees pulled to her chest, glasses too big on her face, dark hair in tangles. Always smiling at him like he was her whole world.
Now, she was building her own.
Without him.
* * * * *
After a fitful sleep, Isaac woke up in the guest room in his parents’ house. It was too quiet. Too clean. The kind of place you couldn’t fully relax in because it didn’t really belong to you anymore. Isaac stared at the ceiling for a beat, then dragged himself out of bed.
He laced up his running shoes and hit the cracked sidewalks of Signal Hill, slowly jogging past stucco houses, cypress trees, and sleepy neighbors watering their lawns. The coastal air clung cool to his skin, but the sun was already rising sharp over the hills, heating his back. His ribs ached—still not healed—but it felt good to get out, to sweat. He was careful, keeping pace slow, easy. He didn’t need a reason for any more time off work.
He showered. Shaved. Ate the toast and eggs his mom insisted on making. He was halfway through his coffee when his phone lit up.
Rosie:
We need to talk.
He stared at the screen for a second. His heart picked up.
He replied fast.
Isaac: Yes we do.
A pause.
Rosie: Coffee shop?
Isaac: I’ll pick you up. Where are you?
A longer pause this time.
Rosie: I almost don’t want to give you my new address… stalker.
Isaac: Come on, Coco. For fuck’s sake.
Another beat.
Then:
Rosie: Echo Park. 1211 Laveta Terrace. Apartment 302. I’m free this morning.
Isaac: Be there in one hour.
He grabbed his keys. Pulled on a black t-shirt, jeans, boots. And drove.
The closer he got to Echo Park, the more he slowed down—not the truck, but his thinking. He hadn’t been up here much. This part of LA was hills and trees and old Spanish-style buildings crammed beside newer units. Gentrified, but not polished. A mix of bougie and broken-down.
Laveta Terrace was one of those streets that looked different depending on how you tilted your head. Quiet. A little too quiet. Some houses were restored and hipster-clean. Others had peeling paint and broken porches. Every car looked like it either belonged to a starving artist or an undercover tech bro.
He parked half up on a curb and stepped out, scanning the block. Old palms swayed against the bright blue morning. Dogs barked in the distance. Some guy across the street was chain-smoking on his stoop. But it didn’t feel unsafe—just lived-in. Real. Still, his instincts clocked every corner, every blind spot, the broken lock on the apartment gate.
She lived here?
He wasn’t sure if it pissed him off or made him proud.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor. Found 302. A narrow green door with chipped paint and a small hanging plant by the frame. He paused for a beat, running a hand through his hair, trying to decide if he looked like a dick for showing up in boots and black again.
Too late now.
He knocked twice.
Then waited.