But the person who stuck out the most was James’s own nephew. Ian sat apart, the sullen look, which James now realized was Ian’s trademark, frozen on the boy’s face as he huddled into his drab jacket and eyed the other teens. Of all the kids, Ian seemed the most isolated, an invisible wall around him that discouraged anyone from getting near, his personal space blocked off like a mime pretending to be trapped in a box. What secret had Ian closed off? Was it teen angst, the everyday problems that plagued high-schoolers? Was it the girl? No date to the prom? Grades? A sports failure? Or did something deeper ride Ian’s conscience…drugs? Alcohol? James shied from the obvious, that mental state of depression that sometimes resulted in teens doing horrible acts, to themselves or others. The child he’d known wasn’t capable of it…but that child was grown now, and this Ian was a stranger. And thinking on Travis, and how he’d supposedly changed from the innocent, laughing friend James remembered made him wonder if he’d missed the best years of Ian’s life.

Again, it crossed James’s mind that he needed to have a talk with his sister’s son. Why was Ian so distant, even amongst his peers? That didn’t bode well in James’s mind. How many teen tragedies had he witnessed or seen in the news about isolated, brooding teens who then chose a deadly path? He didn’t want that for any young person, but even more so his nephew. He’d make an effort to get to know Ian, gain his trust, and somehow dig through that reserve to find the nephew he once knew—the nephew who plunged through life with happiness.

Mr. Bad-boy hopped to the top bleacher and balanced on one leg, acting as if he might fall. He laughed and took a huge chug from a bottle of beer that James had only just noticed. Miss I’m-not-impressed-with-you rolled her eyes in such a pronounced gesture that James could see it from across the field…or maybe it was the head turn with upturned nose that gave away her opinion. James wasn’t too sure of anything these days.

Shaking the melancholy, James hopped back into the truck…but this time, he didn’t forget to solidify that mental note to speak to Ian.

~*~

An old wall radiator groaned as James entered his father’s house…not just “his father’s house” but home. James had grown up in this house, listened to the groans of the radiator all his life. The heat and familiarity warmed him as he stepped around the corner and into the living room. James stopped at the threshold as he pulled off his jacket, just as he had when he’d lived here before. Funny how old habits simply returned. Muscle memory, he supposed. There was comfort in the fact that some things could be remembered without his conscious effort, that they didn’t distract from more important things. Like the fleeting memories of his mother, her insistence on him completing chores, making beds, cleaning his room, putting away his clothes, hanging up his jacket.