Page 69 of The Prodigal Son

“It’s…” My voice trails because if I speak another word, I’ll crack and lose it. Instead, I let my big brother console me. It’s nice, but he’s not Jensen. Nothing compares to him.

Twenty

Jensen

The pins crash at the end of the lane, but I only stare numbly in the distance without truly seeing them. My mother cheers, and my dad gives her a high five, but I hardly move.

“You see that, Jens?” my dad asks, trying to cheer me up.

Shaking myself out of it, I force a smile. “Great job, Mom.”

They both give me a pitying look. But they don’t know what to say because they don’t know what’s wrong. I lied and told them I was just in a funk, and they accepted that.

I haven’t spoken to Isaac since last night. He texted me later, asking me to call him, but I ignored it. Nothing has ever hurt so much.

I figured that hanging out with my parents would help tonight, but so far, I think it’s making things worse. They want me to be happy. They’ve said that a thousand times throughout my life. My mother says it more than anyone.

And yet she was the first person to put the nail in the coffin. She was the one who signed me up for Eternal Harmony. Theperson who pushed me toward the ministry. The person who has set me up on the most dates.

She’s the reason I can never be with Isaac. The reason I will never be truly happy.

Needing to get away, I stand from the chairs and walk over to the bar. My parents are distracted with their friends, so I grab a stool and order a tequila soda, imagining Isaac could be here to drink it with me.

After the first sip, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “Hey, son,” my dad says as he takes the seat next to me.

“Hey, Dad,” I mutter without emotion.

He holds up a hand for the bartender to bring him a beer. And for a few minutes, he doesn’t speak. We just drink in silence.

Which is good. I don’t have anything to say to him anyway.

My dad is a retired cop and about as tough and as masculine as it gets. He’s tall like me but beefier and stronger. With age, his physique has changed, leaving him with a large beer belly and a balding head.

“So…things didn’t work out with Gabby,” he mumbles, with his pint glass to his lips.

I groan inwardly. “We’re just friends.”

“That’s good. She seems like a good friend to have.”

Nodding, I take another drink and think nothing of it. Then he continues.

“Friends are all good and fine, but at some point, I want you to find a partner.”

I laugh at his use of the wordpartner. “Is this a cop metaphor?”

He doesn’t even break a smile. “No, it’s not.”

I have to swallow, discomfort growing inside me. I stare straight ahead, not meeting his gaze as I casually reply, “I’m trying, Dad. I date but haven’t found the right girl yet.”

He clears his throat as if he’s reacting to my statement. When I glance sideways at him, he’s wearing a scowl and staring across the bar. What did I say?

We drink in silence for a few more minutes. Then, to my utter dismay, I hear a familiar song play on the radio. It’s an old Theo Virgil track, one of his breakout hits. The same one I had on my phone ringtone for a while. The one that made me obsessed with his music.

Tears prick my eyes, and I’m about two seconds from standing from the bar and hightailing it out of this bowling alley entirely.

“I like this song,” my dad mumbles.

“Me too.”

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