I step off the plane into the familiar Austin airport terminal. The weather is several degrees warmer here than it was in Minnesota, so I immediately remove the jacket I'm wearing and fold it over my arm.

I'm tired and weary; the nearly three-hour flight had been long and turbulent. It had been delayed by inclement weather back in Minnesota, which makes the arrival in the Texas heat that much more welcoming. The little girl next to me for the entire flight was one of the chattiest people I had ever met. Her name was Annie and she was only six and she was flying to see her daddy and was I going to see my daddy, and did I like turkey, because she did, and stuffing, too? And when the plane hit its turbulent patches, she started to cry, her sobs getting louder with each bump. I did my best to calm her, but I was still a stranger and my efforts were largely unsuccessful. I'm grateful the flight is over, as I walk away from the terminal, where Annie is safely in the arms of a tall blonde man.

I have only my carry-on (it is, after all, only a five-day trip,) so I bypass Baggage Claim and head for the main entrance. I relish in the comforting din of Southern accents all around me. It sounds like home, it feels like home, and I'm glad to be here.

I walk out the main doors of the airport and search for the black Ford Bronco my mom's been driving for as long as I can remember.

It travels slowly down the street just as I exit, and I'm pleased with my mother's perfect timing and wave my arms in the air, flagging her down like an air-traffic controller.

She pulls over to the side of the road. I quickly throw my bag into the backseat then slide into the passenger's seat next to her.

"Hey, baby," she leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek.

"Hi, Mama," I reply, clicking my seatbelt buckle and giving her a reciprocating kiss on her cheek. "You had perfect timing."

"I've been circling for the past fifteen minutes," she laughs, and I join in.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault - I couldn't find parking for the life of me," she shrugs and pulls up to a red light. "So how are you, honey? How's school going?"

"It's been good, Mama."

"You makin' the grades?"

"Doin' the best I can."

She looks at me, smiles softly. "That's all I can ask of you." She turns right at the second stoplight and then asks, a teasing lilt in her voice, "Meet any boys?"

Yes, my mother knows of my sexuality. She is a very big part of my life; she has been since the moment I was born, but even more so when my father died when I was ten. She has raised me and my brother Luke, who is four years my senior, and she's more than my mother, she's my confidante. I can tell her anything, which may seem unusual to other teenage boys...but Mama's just...the one person I've always known I could count on.

She's a bit smothering, but she really does mean well.

I roll my eyes, but answer truthfully. "Sort of, Mama."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that...there's this boy, and..."

"And...?"

"And, honestly, Ma, I'm pretty sure I'm in love...I'm in love and he's in love...but we can't be together."

"Well, if that isn't the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard...you say you're in love?"

"We both are."

"With each other?"

"Yes."

"Then...?"

"It's a long, complicated story, Mama."

"Well, we've got ourselves five days."

We stop for take-out Chinese on the way home, because there's no way Mama's cooking the day before Thanksgiving.

"Is Luke home, too?" I ask as she pulls the car into the driveway of our modest split-level Austin home. I'm amazed by how happy I am just to see my house. I've missed it here, and the house seems to glow with warmth and safety.

"His classes aren't over until the evenings on Mondays and Wednesdays, but he should be home around ten or eleven."

I smile. I really have missed my brother, even though he's my complete opposite...not to mention sort of a pompous ass.

We put his lo mein in the fridge, and hunt for drinks at the same time. Mama has lemonade made, even though it's November, because she knows it's my favourite. I pull out the pitcher and grab two glasses from the cupboard.

My mother is setting the food out on the dining room table. I stop in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room and watch her bustling about, sorting her food from mine and setting the provided plastic silverware next to the cartons. Plates right now would be a hassle, but Mama sets everything up as if we were eating a fancy meal.

After we've eaten and are really only picking at the leftovers, she levels me with a stare.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not really. Want some of my sweet and sour chicken?" It's an awkward, obvious subject change, and my mother is not the type to let subjects drop.

While we were growing up, she always felt it necessary and important that Luke and I know she was here for us, that she would always be here for us. She always wanted us to talk to her, to let her know about problems and issues.

At age ten, when your father dies in a car accident and it's a huge shock to your system, when you're not sure how to function, how to act, where to turn...it's nice to know your mother's there, smiling through her tears and wiping away yours and waiting to just listen.

At age eleven, when you watch your much-idolized, fifteen-year-old brother leave for days at a time, refuse to talk to you or your mother...when you watch a wonderful, smart human being virtually self-destruct, smoke and drink and shout hate-filled rants around the house...when you know he's really slowly suffering inside, just like you are, and that he's dealing with it the only way he can...when you see how hurt your mother gets...it's nice to know she'll still be patient and smile through those tears and let you crawl into her lap and listen to you and love you. And to watch her do it for Luke when, nine months later, he broke down and came to his senses all at the same time.

And, at age thirteen, when you're sent to California all by yourself, away from this strong support system, when you know something's missing and you're only starting to realize you just might know what it is. And when it finally solidifies, and it's concrete in your mind and you're so young, really, and coming to terms with your homosexuality...it's nice to know that your mother waits for your class every night..and when you're finally home and you decide to tell her and you're both smiling and crying...it's nice to know your mother has an open mind and will listen.

"So there's this boy..." she prompts me, bringing me back into the present.

I sigh. I'm not worming my way out of this one. This is where Mama seems smothering. I know I can talk to her, I like talking to her...but sometimes, I just really don't wanna say anything.

"It's Adam." Apparently, this is not one of those times. Or I'm just not in the mood for putting up a fight.

"Adam, the sweet boy whom I met at the final Goodwill Game?" she asks. All our parents had been given tickets to come see the game against Iceland. Luke had even taken time off from his summer job to watch me play.

I nod. "The one and same."

"With the wrist?"

"Yes, Mama."

"He's cute!"

"Ma!" I groan. She always does this. I think she thinks it's "supportive." It's embarrassing is what it is. I most certainly do not want to discuss the attractiveness levels of anyone with my mother, especially not Adam.

"I'm sorry," she holds her hands up. "I was only commenting."

Then she fixes me with another pointed look until I buckle once more under the scrutiny and tell her everything that I can remember, from beginning to end, from Goodwill Games to yesterday.

"I know you're not going to like this," Mama says after a few moments contemplation. I had been worrying through the silence that her sentence would begin with this, "but I think Adam may have the right idea here."

I slump in my chair, defeated. My own mother isn't even on my side.

"Listen, Dwayne." She pats my knee. "I don't mean that you and Adam should be apart – maybe you two could have a wonderful relationship together. But right now...you can't starta relationship based on false pretenses."

"I don't have any fal–"

"Baby, you do. Humans aren't perfect. It's part of what makes us unique and wonderful. I'm not sure why Adam has earned such a high place in your eyes, but you can't put people on pedestals, Dwayne. They'll alwaysfall down. Always."

I nod softly, focusing on pushing the last few grains of rice around the bottom of the container. What she says makes sense. Why does Adam have such a high place in my eyes? Because he's perfect – but how do I know he's perfect? Because...because he is. I don't know if I could ever explain it to someone else – I don't even know where I'd start, how I'd try – it's just something I know. It's like...everything he touches turns to gold, everything he does is right. He's got the looks, he's got the hockey talent, he's got the intelligence and the grades to prove it. He's got the sense of humour and the perfectly-made bed. Everything people strive for is embodied in Adam. He just has it; it comes naturally. And if...if Adam touched me, if Adam chose me, maybe I'd be golden, maybe I'd be right. Maybe I just want Adam to be a part of my life to make me feel whole, to make me feel a little bit of perfect.

Mama, thankfully, is content with letting me silently contemplate. I think she thinks she's getting through to me. Maybe she is. Sometimes I don't even know what I think anymore.

The door opens and slams.

"Hello?"

I jump up at the sound of my brother's voice, eager for the distraction, equally as eager to see him. I run to the front hall, where Luke is just hanging his jacket (the winter evenings always have a slight chilly bite) on the rack.

"Luke!" I throw my arms around him.

"Dwayne!" He is taken aback by my blatant affection for a minute, before he returns my hug. "How've you been? How's school?"

"It's fine, it's good. I'm...okay." He notes my change of adjectives but has decided to let it slide for the moment. It's really easy to read my brother; I see everything in his eyes.

My brother and I get along quite well. We look a lot alike – we have the same eyes and the same nose...his jawline is a little more define, and I unfortunately, got stuck with the bigger ears. We have the same smile and identical laughs. It strikes me suddenly how much I've really missed him, and I tell him so.

"Bro! Aw!" He takes the humourous way out, as he tends to do. "I never knew you cared." He wipes away his imaginary tears and pretends to blow his nose on my shirt sleeve.

I roll my eyes. "Still the same old Luke."

"It's only been a coupla months, Dwayne – certainly not enough time for me to have grown up."

I laugh at him, and he joins in momentarily. We both walk back to the dining room, where Mama is throwing away her and my Chinese cartons.

"Lukey!" She wipes her hands on a towel and hugs him before grabbing his chin with one hand and kissing his cheek. "Your dinner's in the fridge. Sorry your brother and I didn't wait for you. He was hungry and we started to talk a little...you know how it's much easier for Dwayne to talk over food."

My mom's always blunt like that. And she always talks about people in front of them, like they're not standing right there.

And...I never realized I'm more comfortable and open with a plate in front of me and a fork in my hand. But when I think back on my life, it's actually true – a quirk I never picked up on. Maybe Adam and I should have a discussion over dinner.

That sounds just like a date, and suddenly I'm blushing, my neck burning and my ears turning crimson. I explain this sudden colour change by fanning myself and commenting on how hot it is in the kitchen. I don't think Mama or Luke bought that explanation but neither wants to ask what's on my mind...Mama probably has a pretty good idea who is is, but she at least has the good sense not to mention that. If I feel it's necessary to tell Luke (which I probably will – my brother is intelligent and gives good advice), I'd like to do so in my own time and on my own terms.

"Here, Dwayne." My mother holds out my fortune cookie, and I unwrap it and crack it open. I pop a triangular piece into my mouth as I smooth out the tiny slip of paper between my fingers.

Do not worry. Who among us is perfect?(1)

I almost laugh, but I manage to control myself. This is like a movie, this is so fitting. I tuck the slip of paper into my pocket and tell myself I'll hold onto it. The supposedly-rhetorical question still has an answer in my mind: Adam.

I yawn lengthily and announce that after a long flight and a good meal, I need my sleep. Mama and Luke let me go without much fuss, and I wonder if they'll be up late talking and worrying about me. I drop the thought as I burrow under my blankets in my old, comfortable room and drift off to sleep.

(1) No lie. I've gotten this fortune before in a cookie. Oh, and, um, hi! I know it's been awhile (to say the least) but...I want to finish this.