Page 14 of The Prodigal Son

It feels strange to be at the table alone with Lola, and I wonder if this was a mistake, but before long, others start to approach and see our empty seats and spare alcohol as an invitation.

The vodka goes down easy and the party blurs nicely around us. Some people recognize me, but it’s not like being surrounded by fans. Most of them are other celebrities or friends of celebrities.

As the night goes on, I let loose. I get flirty. Typical Theo behavior. I’m touching people and making inappropriate jokes, and I lose track of Lola because she caught the eye of some hot young actor.

A very good-looking guy ends up sitting next to me and telling me all about his Instagram page devoted to fitness, which I can’t be less fucking interested in. But I’m drunk, so I fake itand focus on how nicely muscled his thighs are and how good he smells and how nice his lips would look around my cock.

But I never make a move. I just listen to him go on and on about his career, hismessageand his values, and I never once nudge him to go to the bathroom with me to fool around.

Why? Because he knows I’m Theo Virgil, and it’s not worth the risk.

One pic of me hurrying off with a guy would ruin everything and at the beginning of my big tour.

Even when he places a hand on my thigh, I manage to talk him off, and I’ve never done that before. It all just feels so fucking unfair. Lola is in the corner of the bar making out with some dude she just met and I’m denying myself this fitness god because I’m afraid the world won’t like it.

When Lola and I finally stumble our way back to the SUV, I’m in a bad mood. I should be proud of myself for making the smart choice, but I’m not. I’m just pissed and still a little horny.

Deep down, it suddenly feels like I’m living in Truett Goode’s house again. Like the whole fucking world is Truett Goode’s house, and I’ll never be able to escape.

Four

Jensen

When I walk through the automatic doors of the bowling alley, the crashing sound of the pins greets me as I notice my parents in the center lane. My mom throws her hands up and cheers as all ten of the pins crash in a strike.

My dad gives her a high five as I approach them. As soon as they see me coming, they greet me with big smiles and warm hugs.

“You made it,” my mother says excitedly as she wraps her arms around me.

“Of course,” I reply, slinging an arm over her shoulders.

My parents are in a Monday night bowling league and I try to join them as often as I can. My dad is in his late seventies, happy in his retirement, standing just a few inches shorter than me, with light-gray hair and a cropped beard.

“How’s work been, son?” he asks as he runs a towel over the blue marble ball in his hands.

“It’s been good,” I say with a nod. “Had nearly twelve hundred at our last service.”

“That’s wonderful, baby,” my mom says, hugging her arms around my waist.

“Yeah. We can seat up to two thousand, so we’re getting there. I’m proud of how far we’ve come.”

My dad takes his turn to bowl, and I pour myself a drink from their pitcher of soda. My parents are hardworking people. My mom was a high school English teacher for nearly forty years, and my dad is a retired cop. We really are the quintessential American family.

They had me in their thirties after years of trying to conceive, making me an only child, but I have no complaints about my upbringing. They are the best people I know, and they did everything they could to give me a good life.

The door to the alley opens and I turn to see my parents’ longtime best friends, the Kozacks, walk in.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Mr. Kozack says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. He’s a burly man with a large belly and a receding hairline.

He and his wife greet my mom with hugs and handshakes. Then I watch their daughter walk in behind them.

Gabrielle Kozack is younger than me by twelve years, meaning she was just a child when our parents became friends. We’ve barely gotten to know each other, although it’s been over a decade. She is only twenty-eight and recently out of a long relationship.

It’s not at all her fault why her presence makes me instantly uncomfortable.

“Jensen, you remember Gabby, right?” my mother asks sweetly.

“Of course.” I reach out a hand to shake hers, but she goes in for a hug first. It’s awkward, but I try to play it off, feeling my mother’s lingering gaze on us as we embrace.

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