Page 17 of The Prodigal Son

“Gabby is such a nice girl. I think she’s perfect for you, Jens.”

I clear my throat. We’re getting dangerously close to uncomfortable topics of conversation. I don’t want to upset her. All I want is to make my parents proud, so I put on a brave face and remember to breathe.

This is how it’s meant to be. It’s not too late to change.

Old mantras come back, echoing through my mind like habits.

Growth is possible. God makes everything possible.

“She is a nice girl,” I say with false confidence.

“I’d love to see you two together,” she murmurs innocently. “A mother could dream.”

“She’s a lot younger than me. That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me? Gabby is in need of guidance. She needs someone to take care of her, and you could do that. You two would make a lovely couple.”

“Enough, Mom,” I say with humor in my tone.

“I know, I know. I won’t meddle.”

When she touches my arm, the love in her words and her touch is apparent. How could I suspect my mother of anything less?

“I just want you to be happy. Is that too much to ask?”

I pull her into a hug and kiss the side of her head. “Not at all, Mom. But you don’t have to worry. I am happy. I promise.”

“Good, baby.”

As she pulls away, she pats my arm and stares into my eyes. I catch something in her expression that sours the warmth in my stomach. It’s like she’s acknowledging the elephant in the room with her eyes. The thing we don’t acknowledge anymore.

She stares a moment too long. A little too serious. A little too concerned.

But instead of talking about it or giving this awkward thing room to breathe and grow, we shove it in a drawer and slam it shut. We don’t need to look at it, or remember it, or think about it.

Why would we when we can just move on and pretend it doesn’t exist?

With that, I say goodbye to my mother, opening her door so she can climb into the passenger seat. My dad waves to me before I slam her door shut and send them off.

When they’re gone, I take a deep breath. And when I’m alone, I don’t open the drawer. I don’t take out that nagging truth or memories from the past. I don’t revisit any of that. I just keep it out of sight and get into my car.

Next week, I’ll go on that trip with Gabby. Maybe we’ll have a few drinks at the concert and end up making out before the end of the show. Maybe we’ll catch a cab back to the hotel together and end up having wild, uninhibited sex in one of those queen beds. Maybe we’ll cuddle and talk about our future and make plans to see each other again.

Maybe it will all end up okay. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The more I play out the scenario in my head, the more it feels like someone else’s life.

Because it certainly doesn’t feel like mine.

Five

Isaac

The crowd chants the words of the song back to me, and the echo of voices is incredible. Tonight’s show is in an amphitheater, and I think I love this even more than stadiums. The dark night sky covered in stars makes for an amazing backdrop that even the bright lights over the stage can’t dull.

It’s enough to distract me from the fact that I still haven’t written a word in almost two weeks. The muse will come back. It has to.

We always start off the show with a loud banger to get the crowd excited. It’s not my most recently popular song, but it’s familiar enough that major fans know the words and sing along.

---