Page 124 of The Prodigal Son

This is mercy.

Thirty-Seven

Isaac

The plane lands early, and I briefly consider going to a hotel to sleep off the jet lag, but I decide to just go straight to his house. I couldn’t rest if I wanted to. Not being this close to him and having so much to work out together.

When I land, I switch my phone off Airplane Mode, and there’s one text from Jensen that chills me to the bone.

I’m sorry.

But when I call, it goes to voicemail. He must be sleeping.

I practically run to the taxi stand. It’s six o’clock in the morning, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll wake him up if I have to. We just have to talk this out and everything will be fine. I’ll probably be on a plane back to South Carolina by tomorrow morning.

I’ve never actually been to Jensen’s house, but I have the address, so I give it to the driver and wait anxiously in the back seat as he drives us there.

Jensen still doesn’t pick up.

The drive is agony. It’s only twenty minutes, but it feels like hours. I distantly recognize my song playing on the radio and how incredibly trivial it feels. It’s just a song. And I’m just a singer. Like either of those really fucking matters compared to love and the people in my life who make it worth living.

Would I really put my love for Jensen aside because of this one stupid fucking job?

When the cab driver pulls into a nice suburban neighborhood, I feel closer to Jensen. I sit upright in my seat and eagerly wait for him to stop in front of one of the houses. It’s a white brick two-story house where we stop, and I pay him so quickly, I’m tempted to just toss him my credit card and run.

When the transaction is done, I leap out of the car and dash up to the front door. I bang on it loudly and pull out my phone to call him again.

No answer on either.

“Jensen!” I shout, although drawing attention from neighbors probably isn’t a good idea either.

When a few moments pass without a response, I decide to try the knob. To my surprise, the handle turns and it opens. He leaves his door unlocked at night?

Pushing it open slowly, I call his name once more. But again, no answer.

When I step inside, I hear the crunch of something under my boot. My eyes cast downward in confusion. There’s water and glass on the floor.

Something isn’t right here.

My skin buzzes with panic as I scream his name. “Jensen!”

Barreling into his house, I notice the broken TV in the living room, and I worry for a moment that he was attacked or someone broke in. He’s nowhere to be seen downstairs, so I head for the stairs, calling his name with worry the entire time.

He has to be okay.

He’s just sleeping.

I run first for the door on the right, which appears to be a primary bedroom. The curtains are pulled closed, and the bed is unmade.

Then I run into the connected bathroom and stop in my tracks. He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the tub with his knees bent and his head hung between them. It reeks of vomit.

“Oh my god,” I shout as I launch myself toward him, putting myself between his legs and forcing his head up to look at me. He’s pale, likereallypale. His face is sweat-soaked and his eyes dazed. It’s a sight I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life, burned into my memory like a scar.

“Jensen, what did you do? What’s wrong?” I cry in a panic.

His face contorts in anguish as he starts sobbing. “I…fucked up.”

“Baby, what are you talking about?” I ask as I look around him on the floor. My eyes stop on the orange pill bottle on the white tile floor. I breathe fast, the panic setting in.

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