Page 106 of The Prodigal Son

“This is for you,” he mumbles into the mic. “You know who you are.”

The crowd cheers as if he’s dedicating it to them. I cover my mouth with my hand as I stare at him. He’s thousands of miles away, still loving me.

The song is as beautiful as it was the first time I heard it. He’s growing more comfortable with it, I can tell. Every time he plays it, he riffs on the bridge a bit more, and on that last chorus he adds some grit to his voice, practically growling out the last few lines. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest at the sound, and a warm arousal pools in my groin.

God, I miss him.

I wish I were backstage right now, waiting for him. I’d pull him into the closest bathroom, and I’d get on my knees for him in a heartbeat. I’d show him who his true biggest fan is.

When the song comes to an end, I lie down in my bed and prop up the phone to watch him as I fall asleep.

At some point in the middle of the night, my phone rings and wakes me. I pick it up and see his name on the screen. With a smile, I swipe the call.

“Hey,” I rasp, still half-asleep.

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“It’s okay,” I mumble. “How was the show? I watched some of it on some grainy live stream.”

“It was great. The crowd was crazy tonight.”

“Good,” I reply. “Where are you now?”

“On the bus in bed. I miss you.” He sounds tired. His voice has a slightly gritty edge to it, like it often does after his shows.

“I miss you too,” I reply sleepily. “I listened to the song.”

“Did you like it?” he asks as if he needs my validation. As ifmyopinion matters. I chuckle lightly as I reply, “I fucking loved it.”

“Good.”

After a few moments of silence, I sleepily add, “Isaac…”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m ready.”

He pauses before replying. I know I don’t need to clarify what I’m ready for. He already knows.

“I think I’m ready too,” he says, and the sound of his familiar voice goes straight to my heart.

“You’re coming to Austin tomorrow, right?” I ask.

“Yeah.” There’s a quiver in his voice, and it sounds like excitement.

“And you want to go to your mom’s for dinner on Sunday night before you head out again for the TV appearances?”

He takes a deep breath, and I wish more than anything that I could hold his hand in this moment.

“Yeah, I do,” he replies. “I’m ready.”

“Then let’s say fuck the rules. I’ll be there with you.”

“Once we tell them, Jensen, there’s no going back,” he says with a tone of caution.

“Good,” I reply as I close my eyes again, my phone resting on my cheek. Already drifting back to sleep, I add, “I don’t want to go back.”

Thirty-One

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