Page 96 of The Prodigal Son

“What, Jensen? You know that is a sin. You know it’s wrong.”

“It’s not wrong. How could you say that to me?”

“Why are you mad atme?” she asks, sounding frantic. She’s scrambling.

“I’m not…mad at you.”

“Yes, you are.” I can hear the quiver in her voice. I don’t know if they are real tears or performative to make me feel bad, but I have an idea. “I’m not the one who will make your life hell when they find out, Jensen. I just worry about you and the way people will treat you.”

I hang my head in defeat. A sardonic laugh escapes my lips.

“Is that why you sent me to that program? Because you didn’t want the world to be mean to me?”

She’s quiet again.

“What program?” she asks after a tense moment.

“You know what program, Mom. Eternal Harmony. Remember them?”

“Jensen, why are you bringing all this up now? What is going on over there? It feels like you’re taking a lot out on me because of the way other people are reacting. I’m just trying to protect you.”

When I blink, a tear falls onto my lap. I hear the sincerity in her voice. Maybe she’s being honest, and this is all it was. A form of protection. Rather than embrace me and support me, she tried to change me for my own good. Maybe…she did have the best intentions.

And that’s the most tragic thing of all. Because the thing she did to protect me is the same thing that’s killing me.

In the corner of my eye, I see a door open, and Isaac emerges.

“Mom, I gotta go,” I mutter with a sniffle.

I don’t wait for her reply. Her upset voice echoes through the phone before I end the call. Quickly, I wipe my eyes and compose myself before the driver opens the door and Isaac climbs in.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He shrugs and then looks into my eyes. He catches the emotion on my face, the side effects of my tears that I can’t so easily hide.

“Everything okay with you?” he asks, frozen in fear.

Lying, I nod. “It’s fine.” Reaching across the seat, I hold his hand in mine.

The one thing I can count on with Isaac is that when it comes to heavy conversations, he’ll avoid them. This means when Itell him everything is fine, he’ll believe it—or at least pretend to believe it.

My knee bounces erratically on the drive from the label to wherever the tour bus is parked. Isaac wants to see the rest of his band because this involves them, but this entire thing has me feeling uncomfortable.

He wants to tell his band, and I’ll support that, but it just feels like the more people that know, the more likely this won’t stay under wraps for long.

His hand is the only thing I’m clinging to at the moment. I have to be here for him. He’s going through this too, and while my job is at stake, his public image is much, much bigger than mine. He has far more to lose if this all goes south.

“Change of plans,” the driver says, and I look at Isaac with concern. “The band is at the Hilton downtown.”

“Where’s the bus?” Isaac asks.

“The bus was public. Better security at the hotel.”

“Better security?”

Just then, we turn down the street and my jaw drops. There is a horde of people outside the tall hotel building. They are holding cameras and microphones, and there is nothing to stop them from walking right up to our SUV when the driver pulls up to the curb.

A few big men in black shirts are stationed there to open the door for us, but it’s immediately pandemonium.

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