Page 10 of Single Player

What he hadn’t expected, though, was the accompanying guilt. He paused, iced tea halfway to his mouth. Wait, was guilt the origin of this discomfort? Shit, he wasn’t angry at Silas—he was feeling guilty that Silas was doing this kind of life-changing work, dedicated enough to work through the weekends, while he sailed through his programming job and just did enough to get by. Fuck. Realizing he’d paused with the glass halfway to his mouth, Matthew took a long gulp of tea even as his mind kept racing.

His mother, shrewd as she always was, watched him from the kitchen table. “What’s wrong?” Her tone didn’t invite him to argue that nothing was in fact wrong. She looked at him with eagle-eye focus.

The question wasn’t whether to deny it, then, but how to frame the conversation in a way that saved him from too many uncomfortable questions. “I was just thinking about work.”

“I hope you aren’t working too hard. Every time you visit, it seems like you’ve got a new project.” She waved her hand. “You need to make sure you take care of yourself.”

The irony of her response wasn’t lost on Matthew. Funny how his mother would think he worked too hard right when he was facing the dilemma of perhaps not working hard enough. “I’m all right, Mom. You’re sweet.” He dug around in the cupboards for a bag of chips before she shooed him away.

“Don’t snack. I’m making lunch.” She started pulling items out of the cabinets. “Sometime before you go, would you mind taking a look at the computer? I deleted my bookmarks bar and I can’t get it back. And it’s running slow.”

There it was. The tech repair he was always expected to complete when visiting. “Have you been clicking on random links again?”

“I don’t do that, Matthew.” Her voice held a note of reproach. “And don’t take that tone with me.”

“Okay, I’ll do it after lunch.” He smiled at her, sitting down at the kitchen table to watch her prepare the meal, knowing his offers to help would be met with rebuffs.

“Oh.” His mother turned. “If you’re going to do that later, then while I’m cooking, can you take a few minutes to go through your old stuff? We’ve been cleaning out the attic and found a bunch of things from when you were young. I don’t know if you want any of it. It’s all in your room.”

“Sure.” He pushed up from the table and headed to his old bedroom, which his mom still referred to as his room even though they had converted it to an office over five years ago. Sure enough, two giant plastic tubs waited for him, bursting with items. His mother had thoughtfully left a trash bag and an empty box next to the tubs; he assumed they were for “trash” and “keep,” respectively. He was a bit nervous about confronting all of this. What had they saved? He pulled over the rolling chair from the desk and started removing items.

The rush of memories came before he’d fully prepared for it. His old yearbooks were in there, not only high school but also eighth grade, and he laughed as he skimmed through photos of his dorky self with an untamed Afro and buck teeth that hadn’t yet been fixed with braces. God, what a goofy kid. As he looked through the photos, though, it was obvious that every kid was just as awkward looking as he was. Eighth grade was a rough age all around. He tossed both yearbooks into the “keep” box and dug deeper.

Lots of this was stuff he had no problem throwing away. Old drawings, report cards, certificates of participation from a dozen childhood events. He kept digging. Most of the paperwork was trash, but he kept a few significant items—some stories he’d written, a handmade book depicting a battle between two giant robots, an album he’d filled with pictures from middle school, his graduation tassel.

The second tub was full of awards, and shit, these were harder to throw out. Okay, a few went easily into the trash bag—the second-place trophy from the sixth-grade spelling bee, for instance—but others were more personal. He’d forgotten about winning all these. A bunch were from science and engineering fairs: some first-place trophies, a couple of second-place ribbons, and two “best in show” plaques that had accumulated dust all around the edges. He spotted a hint of red ribbon at the bottom of the tub and tugged out a gold medal, first prize for a computer programming contest back in junior year. He wiped the medal clean with the palm of his hand and looked down at it, feeling the sharp pang of nostalgia. This had been his triumph once. He had hand-coded a game in C++ that had won him this medal and a thousand-dollar scholarship. Winning this contest had convinced him to pursue programming as a career. Now, the ribbon was permanently creased, one edge sun-faded from when he used to hang it on the corner of his window frame. He kept the “best in show” plaques and the gold medal and put the rest into the trash bag. How many trophies could one person keep, after all?

He’d been good once. Not just good, but very good. The type of good that won awards. Sure, they were juvenile awards, but they were nonetheless a recognition of his talent in science and technology. Back then, he already knew he was going to be a computer programmer, and his dream was to work in gaming. He was going to be at the top of his field. He remembered the passion and drive he felt to win this silly gold medal. Somewhere along the line, that drive had faded, and work had become something to pass the time.

What kind of trophies had Silas won, now getting dusty in his mother’s attic?

“Matthew? Honey, lunch is ready.” His mother’s voice echoed from the other room. Matthew left the rest of the pile unfinished.

Latavia had always fancied herself a bit of a cook, trying to dress up even the most basic dishes. Today she’d made deluxe grilled cheese sandwiches for them with tomato, bacon, and avocado on thick-sliced bread, one of his favorite lunches.

“Ma, this looks great. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” He refilled his glass of tea and joined her at the table.

“It’s not trouble, Matthew, it’s a sandwich. Now, what’s new with you, honey, aside from work?” She waited until he was eating before she started on her own plate of food.

“Not too much. Keeping busy. What inspired you guys to start cleaning out the attic?”

She shrugged. “Just something we’ve been meaning to do for a while. Your father and I had a few days off together, and you know what they say, strike while the iron is hot.”

“You spent your time off together doing chores? You two should get away on vacation.” Matthew hated to see his parents working so hard. His father’s job was stressful enough for both of them, but on top of that, his mother was a middle school science teacher, and she didn’t get nearly enough time off for how hard she worked.

Latavia waved her hand in dismissal. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Now, how’s that latest game coming? You were telling us about it last time you visited.”

Conversation was light and pleasant for the rest of lunch, and his mother didn’t press him on the subject of his earlier distraction. An hour and a half later, having fixed the computer and finished sorting his old stuff, he took out the full trash bag and loaded the box of trophies and other memorabilia into his car.

“You can stay for dinner if you’d like, sweetie.” His mother gave him a hug and a kiss at the door. “There’s no rush.”

“No, it’s all right. I’ve got some things to do at home. Give Dad my love, will you?”

“Absolutely, sweetheart. Remember, don’t work too hard.” She waved at him as he drove away.

The whole way back to his apartment, Matthew thought about the box of odds and ends in his trunk. He didn’t have a place to display trophies, especially not trophies from high school. He might leave them in the box. It felt too callous to throw them out, though, when they’d meant so much to him at the time. How much things changed. Back in high school, when he’d dreamed of his future, it hadn’t looked much different from his real life . . . but it certainly felt different.

He liked his job, of course. He was happy. But with Silas in mind, he felt guilty about that happiness. He’d never looked at his lackadaisical attitude as wasting his talents or abilities before, but what if he was selling himself short? What could he accomplish if he really tried, took initiative in his field?