Page 91 of The Prodigal Son

Twenty-Seven

Isaac

I’m onstage. The lights just keep getting brighter and brighter the more I sing. It’s hard to tell where the stage ends and I begin. The crowd and I are one. The mass of bodies is alive with energy, and I’m feeding off them, singing my heart out and dancing with the band.

But then, the stage lights go out. I can’t see the crowd, but I can feel them. They become a mob, and I’m holding the mic as they get closer, their low voices mumbling my name in a deep, terrifying cadence.

I cling to the mic and just keep singing. With my eyes tightly shut, I sing and sing and sing until I run out of song and I forget the lyrics.

The horde is smothering me, surrounding me until I can’t breathe anymore.

“Jensen!” I shout into the mic, begging him to save me. But the moment his name comes out of my mouth, I realize I’ve said too much.

The crowd is angry now, clawing at me, punching me, trying to yank my guitar from my hands.

“Jensen,” I cry, trying to get my instrument back, but they’re too strong and the strings cut my hands as they steal it from me.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, but when I search for him in the crowd, he’s not there. Just hazy visions of faces I recognize—Luke, my mother, Adam, Caleb. They’re angry at me. For reasons I don’t understand, they’re shouting at me.

Someone shakes me, and I spin around to see my father. He slaps me across the face hard, and I start to cry like a child.

“Jens…” I sob.

“I’m here,” the voice says again, sounding close but not close enough.

My father grabs my shoulders and shakes me again.

“Stop!” I shout.

The sound of my own voice jostles me awake. I stare into the darkness, someone else staring back. I panic, pushing him away until I can figure out who is hurting me.

“Baby, it’s me,” Jensen whispers.

I blink again, trying to make sense of his face in my bed. Then I glance around and see that it’s not my bed.

It takes a moment before it all comes back, and I collapse onto the hotel bed.

“Fuck,” I groan. “I’m sorry.”

He comes closer carefully without touching me. “Don’t be sorry. You had a bad dream. What can I do?”

Holding my hands over my face, I’m surprised to find moisture on my cheeks and temples. Shit, was I crying?

Taking deep breaths, I relive the whole thing in my mind. The terror feels fresh and real. The way the crowd turned on me. The way Jensen never showed, no matter how much I begged for him. The anger on my family’s faces.

Where the hell did that come from?

“Isaac, you okay?” he presses.

“I’m fine,” I mutter coldly as I roll out of bed and walk toward the bathroom. I can feel his concerned eyes on me as I leave him in the bed alone. It makes me feel like an asshole.

Once in the bathroom, I douse my face with frigid water. To my relief, Jensen doesn’t follow me. He gives me the space I need because, well, he’s fucking perfect like that.

I run a soft white towel over my face and stare at the man in the mirror. He has dark circles under his eyes. Is this exhaustion? Am I going too hard? But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when everything is going perfectly.

Is it stupid to think of going home to my family at a time like this?

Is it stupid to think of coming out?

---