Page 95 of The Prodigal Son

The look in his eyes guts me. He’s looking to me for support, and once I leave, he’ll be alone, dealing with all of this.

Fuck it.

I reach across the back seat and grip his hand in mine. “Forget I said anything,” I say. “I’ll be here. Okay? I’ll stay.”

“Okay,” he replies with relief. “Let me just go in and talk to them. I don’t think it will take long. Then we can go find Lola and the others. We can still stay in a hotel tonight if you want.”

I nod, although my stomach is turning with anxiety.

“Okay.”

The driver opens Isaac’s door and escorts him into the building while I wait alone in the car. My mind feels like it’s falling into a familiar spiral. I close my eyes and breathe.

Then, it feels like retracing my steps. How did we get here? I went to a concert with a woman. I started a harmless conversation with a man. Then…

A montage of moments over the past month with Isaac cascades through my mind on a reel. It all seemed so natural. So…unavoidable. There was never a moment where I considered stopping. But so many opportunities.

How can one person have so many regrets and none at the same time? I don’t regret a single moment with Isaac, and yet…

My actions are not the problem. I am.

Loving him isnotevil. So why do I feel so sinful?

My head and my heart are at war.

The logic reminds me that it’s what they did. The harmtheycaused. So why can’t I just forget it? Why can’t I function without it? Why can’t I say to hell with everything and do what my heart so desperately wants? To tell the world that I love a man who loves me back and fuck anyone who has a problem with that.

My phone rings and I nearly jump. The driver is still standing outside, leaving me alone in the SUV. I pick up my phone to see my mom’s picture on the screen.

My gut is telling me not to answer it. Deep down, I know she won’t tell me what I need to hear right now. But that iota of hope that she will wins and I swipe the call.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, forcing my voice to stay flat and calm.

“Hey, baby,” she replies in her sweet voice. “I just got a call from Gabby’s mom,” she says, and I’m wincing before she even finishes that sentence.

“She said she saw you on Facebook with some big country singer. I told her you were going on a lot of trips out of town, but I had no idea you knew him personally.”

She’s doing a good job of masking her voice, but I know her too well. I can pick up on every single tell. She’s not curious. She’s worried.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, I do know him personally,” I say.

“Really?” she says, and it’s dripping with presumptuousness. “How do you know him?”

My eyes are stinging as I stare straight ahead, my gaze unfocused and my mind whirling. I’m tired of dancing around this unspoken thing. I’m tired of my mother and I pretending we can have a real relationship that is unharmed by the actions of the past.

“I think you know, Mom,” I mutter lowly.

I can hear her breathing on the other line, but she doesn’t respond. Not at first.

When the line grows too awkward, she rushes to fill it with something light.

“Oh, Jensen,” she says, like I’ve just admitted that I failed to use a coupon at the grocery store. Not that I just admitted to a relationship she considers forbidden and sinful.

“Mom,” I mutter.

“I don’t know what you’re telling me this for. That isyourbusiness.”

“Mom, please.”

---