Page 98 of The Prodigal Son

“Isaac,” Jensen barks. “His name is Isaac. If we’re going to discuss his personal life, the least you can do is call him by his real name.”

My heart bursts so large in my chest I can barely breathe as I glance up at him with adoration in my eyes.

Martina continues, “Isaac, we fully support your decision to either make a statement or stay silent in this scenario. However, we would be remiss not to warn you that making a statement of this caliber during your first major tour at the height of your success—and at the precipice of award season—could have a harrowing effect on the trajectory of your career.”

It’s like she’s just placed hundred-pound weights on my shoulders.

“Jesus,” Lola mutters with annoyance. I glance over at her and she gives a subtle shake of her head. I don’t need her to say another word for me to understand that she’s saying I don’t need to listen to this corporate bullshit.

But Martina is right. And Lola is right. And Jensen is right.

And every voice in the world could be screaming at me at once and it wouldn’t make any of this easier to decide. Or make any of these choices more right than the other. It has to be up to me and Jensen.

“I can’t decide anything right now,” I say with defeat.

“And you don’t have to,” Martina replies, touching my hand. “But if that’s the case, we need to discuss behavior and boundaries.”

“Like what?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.

“Staying out of the public eye for the next three or four days. After that, you should only be seen alone or with your bandmates. Don’t give them any fuel for their fire. No more hotel stays. You have to go directly from your bus to the stage and back. And that’s it.”

The weight just feels heavier. I want to look at him so badly, but I’m afraid. What she’s implying is that Jensen and I can’t be together anymore, at least for a while. What if he agrees? What if he thinks this is more than he wants to deal with and I’m not worth it?

“Okay,” I murmur sadly as I glance down at the video replaying over and over on her phone. He looks so protective in the clip. Because that’s who he is—my protector. The only person in this room concerned with protecting Isaac over Theo. And I can’t even see him anymore.

“You have a few days’ break after your next show in Chicago and then some television appearances we have set up. It will be the perfect opportunity to redirect the conversation publicly. During your break, we can fly you back to Austin, and you can spend that time in your house, out of the public eye. Sound good?”

I swallow what feels like knives in my throat. “So I can’t see him at all?”

The air in the room turns thick with that one question. In a tiny room full of my closest friends, and that one admission is stifling. I couldn’t imagine it on a massive scale.

“Just for a little while,” Martina says with a fake sweet smile. “You’re right. It will blow over, mostly. But when the public sees there’s something to grab onto, they will. Don’t give them anything. At least not until you’re ready. Then you just need to give us a heads-up first so we can devise a plan.”

I nod. Everyone around me stands up, but I’m frozen in place. For the first time in a few minutes, I glance up at Jensen. There is so much stress on his face it breaks my heart.

“Can we just…have the room for a few minutes?” I ask.

Martina nods. “Of course. We’d be happy to escort Mr. Miles wherever he needs to go when you’re done.”

Her words land like cement in my stomach. Ihatethis.

“Thanks,” he mutters angrily.

Rio shakes my shoulder in an act of support before he leaves the room. Lola gives me a tight smile. Waylon and Hugh both wave at me with sympathetic expressions.

As the door closes, I turn toward Jensen. There are no words left to say. Nothing we haven’t discussed or faced. There is just the circumstance and its overbearing, suffocating weight.

And when there are no words left to say, there is only action. I stand from my chair and cross the room, hoping I make it into his arms before the tears come.

He closes the distance, pulling me tight to his chest. Burying my face in his neck, I squeeze out the tears in my eyes as I clench them shut tight.

“I’m so sorry,” I sob.

“Don’t be sorry,” he replies. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You’re just saying that,” I argue. “But I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” he asks, forcing out a sad laugh.

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