Fifteen year old Jake Allister came to the breakfast table with his gaze glued to his cell phone as he read the latest text from his boyfriend Thad. With his free hand, he smoothed down his shock of thick, dark hair absently. It wasn’t even 7:00 in the morning yet, and already he’d exchanged a half dozen texts with his boy.
As he slipped into a seat at the table, his mother glanced over from the stove. “Put that thing away,” she chided.
“Thad texted me,” Jake explained. He sent a quick reply—ok c u soon—before tucking the phone into his back pocket.
“At this hour?” His mother scrambled the last of the eggs and scraped them onto a plate beside a stack of buttered toast. With concise movements, she deposited the plate in front of Jake and stuck the pan in the sink. “Don’t you two ever run
