Thanksgiving is quiet and fairly uneventful, small and comfortable.

Aside from Mama and Luke, Mama's parents (Grandma and Grandpa Stevens, aka Gamma and Pa), Aunt Linda and her husband Eric, their two kids Jamie and Ryan, Uncle Michael and his wife Rowena enter our house and crowd around our dinner table every year. This year, as usual, Mama and Gamma started cooking straightaway, at nine o'clock in the morning, and it is the smell that wakes me up at eleven.

I wander downstairs after getting ready for the day and dressing up a little, in khakis and a blue button-down. Thanksgiving isn't formal but my family makes a small effort to dress up. Everyone has arrived already, and I feel a little out-of-the-loop. I don't doubt that my mother told everyone to let me sleep, that I was having a bit of a rough time, and my thoughts are confirmed when both my aunts corner me and assure me that everything will be fine, that all people in my situation – and I'm sure they mean that on many levels – go through hard times.

I thank them quietly and assure them that I'm working everything out. I hug them long and hard and thank them again, leaving them staring after me, undoubtedly wishing they could help. My family is close-knit and fiercely protective. There are only ten of us, and I'm close with every member of my extended family.

After I find and greet everyone else, I make my way to the kitchen. I'm put in charge of mashed potatoes, which has been my role since I had the arm strength to whip the potatoes smoothly. Luke takes care of the vegetables, and Mama and Gamma are completely on top of everything else.

The turkey is the last thing to be finished; everything else is left warming on the stove or in the microwave. Jamie and Ryan convince me to play a game of wiffleball outside. I distract myself with my much younger cousins, and even though sports other than hockey aren't exactly my strong point, we do have a lot of fun.

Dinner is served late afternoon, and it's delicious. We do the traditional "Tell everyone what you're thankful for," and I say my family and hockey and the opportunities I have been given. Silently, I add Adam. I'm out to my family, but I don't consider the Thanksgiving dinner table the place to explain homosexuality to two boys under ten.

The evening is spent watching football, because Michael, Eric, and Pa just don't understand the joys of hockey. They're Cowboys fans, and the Dallas Cowboys are always one of the teams that plays on Thanksgiving Thursday. This year, the Cowboys are destroyed by the Pittsburgh Steelers, forty-five to thirteen. My uncles and Pa are in slightly sour mood the rest of the evening, though they cheer up to play euchre with Gamma while Mama and Rowena clean.

I sit on the loveseat in the den, my eyes closed, fighting off the tryptophan and the urge to fall asleep. I love Thanksgiving. I love my family; these ten people are some of the most wonderful, caring people I have ever met. Our holidays are not too big, not too small, and I wouldn't like them any other way.

It's been only Mama's side of the family since Dad died. One year, though, Luke and I ventured to our grandparents' – Dad's parents' – house for Thanksgiving. I was telve, and all had gone well until I was sitting in an unlit corner of the living room. My grandmother had turned on a floor lamp, illuminating half my face. She'd gasped and started crying, saying how much I looked like my dad, her son, her child. It turned into a really heart-wrenching moment, and the immense sadness had never really stopped hovering over the family when Luke and I were there. I didn't ever want to put any member of my family through that. We settle for cards at major holidays and birthdays, and sometimes even then, the words are blotchy and smudged, like someone had cried while writing the message.

I wonder, in a completely masochistic way, what Adam is doing right now, who he's talking to, what he's thinking. I wonder where he goes for dinner and how many people will be there. I wonder what his extended family is like, and, weirdly, I wonder if they would like me. I wonder if I crossed his mind at all, when he thought of who and what he is thankful for.

"Bro? What's on your mind?"

I didn't even realize Luke was in the room, let alone sitting next to me, let alone speaking to me.

"What? Nothing," I tell him distractedly.

"Dwayne, I just announced that I was moving to Mars with Halle Berry, and you asked if I needed a hand packing my stuff."

I spoke to him?

"Sorry, Luke. I guess I am a little distracted."

"A little? I think you're the one on Mars."

I shrug.

"Do you wanna talk about it...about anything? Or did Mama grill you for enough information that you feel tired even thinking about discussing it again?"

I start laughing. He knows our mother too well. "We did have a nice long talk."

"You need any brotherly advice, something from a young guy's perspective?"

"It's, um," I falter a bit. "It's about love, about a boy, I mean."

"Well. What's up?"

"Do you – I mean, you don't exactly know – "

"C'mon, Dwayne, it's every older brother's duty to share his studly knowledge with the younger. I figure talking to you about a boy would essentially be the same as talking to you about a girl, except, you know, pronoun change."

"I don't think it's quite that easy."

"Try me."

I give him a shortened version, hitting the high points, hitting the low points. When I finish, he's nodding as if he already knows exactly what to say.

How can everyone else make it seem so easy, so black-and-white? How do they know what I'm doing before I even do? Why do they recognize my mistakes as I'm making them, when I can't think of any other way to handle this?

I can't help the way I feel. I can't help that I think Adam's perfect. I know, on principle, that no one is. And maybe it's the definition of the word that people can be so confident about; they know that no one is completely flawless. But at the same time, they don't know Adam like I do. Maybe they're not "blinded" like I am, but that just means they don't understand where I'm coming from.

I struggle with my feelings and with my understanding of my feelings. I struggle with how I feel about Adam, how he appears to me. I only know what I think, I only know what I want and need and feel.

"Well, Dwayne," Luke finally speaks, and I still want to hear what he has to say. "I'm not sure what to tell you. It seems as though you've done all you can, at this moment in time. I think the ball's in Adam's court, unless you have some grand, new revelation about how you're feeling. He knows how you feel right now. Don't let him know anything else unless it changes. Other than that, he has to come to you...whether he's perfect or not."

This is quite different from what I expected to hear, but somehow, the advice fits Luke, the advice fits our brotherly relationship. He knows what I think and where I stand and he knows what he wants to say, and he finds some middle ground to get his point across without making me feel like I'm missing the most important piece to the puzzle.

I nod. "Thanks, Luke."

"Dwayne?" He looks questioningly at me, like he's willing to stay and talk if I need him to.

"You don't need to say anything else. I appreciate your advice; it means a lot to me."

"Are you going to follow it?"

"I'm going to try, I think. Although staying away from Adam unless he initiates the contact will be difficult."

"I understand, Bro. It's about being around that one special person, that one person who kinda makes you go a little crazy..." He drifts off a little, this weird look in his eyes that I immediately recognize.

"Speaking from experience?"

"Her name's Miranda," Luke confides. "I was thinking about bringing her to dinner, but I wanted Mama to meet her alone before I brought her to a family event."

"Miranda, huh. She's that person?"

"She makes me go a little crazy, yeah."

"I'm happy for you, Luke."

"Thanks."

He squeezes my shoulder and grabs Jamie by the waist as he tries to run by. The four-year-old squirms and laughs and shouts for his older brother. Ryan attaches himself to Luke's leg, and I watch the unusual trio head off in search of the boys' parents.

It's really unfortunate that all I want to do right now is call Adam.

This is getting ridiculous. Even I can see that.

"Dwayne?"

I turn at the sound of my name and smile but at the same time suppress a groan. I headed outside just as the stars were beginning to show. I wanted a quiet moment on my front lawn, a moment of reflection and calm, and I'm greeted with Daphne, my neighbor in Austin and the only girl I've ever kissed.

We were nine, it was on her back porch swing, she initiated it, it lasted about ten seconds.

I hated it even then.

"It is you! Dwayne, how are you?" She crosses from her yard into mine. She really has grown into a beautiful lady. She has pale blonde hair and a relatively dark tan from the Texan sun. Her girlish freckles have faded and her gangly limbs have grown firm and fit. Daphne is gorgeous, and it's too damn bad I don't even really care.

"Daphne!" I greet her with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

It mustn't be much, because her pretty features are formed into a frown.

"How are you?" she asks, and it's not just the general, bull question. I know she really wants to hear the dirt. But what can I tell her? 'Well, I'm not doin' so well, Daph. The boy I'm in love with admitted he has feelings for me, too, but because of four very well-thought-out reasons, we can't be together'? Don't think so. Daphne and I haven't been close since fifth grade.

"I'm okay," I reply indifferently.

The frown deepens. Daphne always was damn good at reading people.

"Seriously, Dwayne." Daphne always was damn good at being pushy, too. "Do you want to talk?" She starts walking toward her own backyard then looks back to see if I will follow.

And, for some reason, I do.

I don't tell her about Adam. I tell her about school and about hockey and about how Eton is difficult and stressful and I don't know if I fit in. I tell her about a person who is everything to me and who is making me sad, although I don't go into specifics, even when she asks. She respectfully (surprisingly) backs off, but not before reminding me that anyone (and she doesn't say "girl," which I take note of) lucky enough to have me should realize their luck and never let me go, and that if that person ever hurts me, she will personally see to their demise.

Then Daphne tells me about the local high school, the boys at which are notoriously unappealing. She talks about being alone and missing me when I'm in Minnesota even though we haven't had a conversation like this for about six years. I tell her I'm sorry and promise to do better at keeping in touch.

We talk until midnight and no one has come looking for either of us. When it's over, I find myself wishing Daphne would stay. She has to go back inside, though; she thanks me for distracting her from her gigantic family. Her cousins are just now starting to leave and she has to go say goodbye.

She leans down to me, where I'm sitting on her back porch swing and kisses me like she did when we were nine. It's quick, and this time it doesn't mean anything to either of us. I still hate it, but wrap her in a quick hug.

"I wish we were ten again, Daph," I tell her. "I wish we were ten and best friends and that everything was simple like it was then."

"Things can be simple again, Dwayne. Just figure out what really matters and forget about everything else."

I want to tell her it's not that easy. I want to tell her that I have figured out what really matters, and that what-really-matters doesn't want to be with me. I want to tell her that when I was ten I didn't have to worry about feelings and boys and love. I want to tell her that I do as best I can at school and balance as much as I can with hockey and spend time with people I do think I fit in with. I want to tell her that I've tried to simplify everything in my life and that I've failed.

But I just hug her again and watch her walk in through the sliding door into her dining room. I watch her greet her mother, who looks exactly like her only twenty-five years older, and point out to me. I wave quickly in greeting when her mother looks to see exactly who her daughter has just spent the last two hours of Thanksgiving with. Her mom smiles at me, and I nod before stepping off her porch into the soft grass and crossing over to my own backyard.

I slip back inside, and everyone's gathered playing the game Balderdash and I sit in on the next few rounds and think about how much more fun this game was when I was ten.