Page 7 of The Prodigal Son

Luke’s reply comes in.

This is his way of saying good luck on your tour.

I chuckle to myself.

That’s sweet of him. Tell him I said

Putting my phone on the bench, I do a few lazy sets, pulling the wide bar down without really counting. When I’m tired, I stop and pick up my phone again.

No messages. Just a couple thousand tags on social media that I can’t check anymore. It’s nice, but I miss being a real person on Instagram instead of a celebrity.

Not that long ago, I could respond to fans and message people. Now, all I’m allowed to do is post stuff to my stories to appear “relatable,” and even that has some very strict guidelines from my publicist.

All in all, it’s fucking lonely.

But how the fuck can I be lonely? I’ve got two point nine million followers. I have a loyal band who are my best friends. And Luke is always just a phone call away.

It would just be nice to have someone around—always around. To share meals with and come home to and bitch about nonsense. Not a phone call away. Not a stranger in a club or on the internet. More than a friend. Like a long-term fuck buddy.

I’m pretty sure that’s a boyfriend, idiot.

Eventually, I give up on my lazy workout when I hear my stomach rumbling. After ditching the gym equipment, I order some Thai food from my phone and lounge on the couch until it arrives about thirty minutes later.

The girl who delivers it does a double take when I answer the door. She stares at me dumbfounded while I’m reaching my hand out for the bag of food.

“Uh…here you go,” she stammers before passing it over.

“Thanks,” I laugh.

As soon as she smiles back, she curls a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know who you are,” she stammers sweetly. “I’m a huge fan.”

I start to close the door but stop to soak in some of her adoration. I mean…who doesn’t love attention?

“Thanks,” I reply, showing off the signature Theo Virgil dimples. She giggles again.

“Would it be rude to ask for a selfie?” she asks.

“Of course not.” Laughing, I set down my food and step outside as she pulls her phone from her pocket.

“Oh my god, I’m shaking,” she says. “This is crazy.”

When she eventually gets her phone up, selfie camera on us, I lean in next to her and throw up a cheesy backward peace sign as I grin brightly.

She snaps no less than a dozen pics before pulling away. When our eyes meet again, her gaze lingers, and I realize she’s working up the nerve to ask for something else. Maybe my number. Maybe a conversation. Maybe more.

She’s thinking right now that she has a chance. But she doesn’t. Not on God’s green earth or any other planet, for that matter. I have about as much interest in getting in bed with her as I do with a cactus, which is to say,none.No offense to her, of course. Just not my type.

Still, I’m thinking that I should flirt with her for no other reason than to keep up the whole straight-guy charade. But I’m too fucking hungry, so I back away as she works herself up to say something more. I slowly close the door, politely saying, “Have a good one.”

Taking my lunch to the kitchen, I dig in and scroll through videos on my phone. They’re all pointless, mindless entertainment. And for a while, it works to distract me from the loneliness.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m at the top of my game. Living on top of the world. I’m going on a fucking tour—a real one.

It doesn’t matter that I’m hiding this super intimate part of myself from the world. It doesn’t matter that all of my fans think I’m straight. Or that I haven’t seen my entire family together in eleven years.

Like I said, it’s fine.

The loneliness, the shame, the fear. All of that shit is Isaac’s problem, not Theo’s. Because things will probably never be as good as they are right now.

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