I turned away from the wall of pictures and tossed my bag onto the bed.
What was the point? I was never going to bring anyone home to meet the parents unless I loved them, and I was never going to love anyone but Jake. I wondered if my mother’s psychic powers had revealed to her that I was gay, because I certainly hadn’t. I thought I’d hidden it well under the patina of sulky emo angst, but it was as obvious as if I’d been wearing a sign. I was behind him, slightly out of focus, but I could see the yearning in my eyes. The gap had closed up by then, and he was already showing signs of the handsome man he was going to become, although he still looked like a boy. He was in front, clowning for the camera with a big smile. The next photo was from high school, just before I went off to college and left Jake behind forever. I had one arm around his neck, giving him a noogy while he squirmed to get free. I’d had a growth spurt, which made me tall and rawboned at fourteen, while he was still on the chubby side. Then there was the one year I was taller than him, ever so briefly at least now I had photographic evidence. I was wrong about one thing the love was there already.
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