Will looked up from sifting through a box marked manuscript drafts. “Yeah, sure. Not keeping them?”
“Nah. The mice already got to them.”
“Oh.” He wrinkled his nose as he took the lights. “To the trash.”
While he tossed them, I reached into the box to see if there was anything left. There was a strand of what was supposed to look like small branches off an evergreen tree—I remembered that draped under the mantel as a backdrop behind our stockings. It too had seen better days. Another decoration into the trash heap.
As I was pulling it out, though, something caught my eye. I tossed the strand in the trash, then reached into the box again.
Tucked at the bottom like an afterthought, one corner faintly damaged from some moisture and the crumbled remains of a squashed silverfish covering up part of the text, was a program from one of my high school plays. Guys and Dolls. Wow, that brought back memories. I’d played Nathan Detroit, and my dad had thought drama was a waste of time because it wasn’t like I was going to be an actor.
But he’d come to the play, and he’d politely applauded, and he’d bought one of the programs. He’d kept the program too, and all these years later, here it was.
Except it had no business being in amongst Christmas decorations. It was almost like Dad had grabbed a box to use for stashing decorations, not realizing the box wasn’t entirely empty after all. Which made me wonder what else had been in here before.
I gently thumbed through the time-stiffened pages of the program, which felt like all that was left of something I hadn’t even known about. A box of…what? Old school papers? Random junk he’d tossed in here? Other memorabilia from my childhood that had been long ago lost to whatever means of disposal had been most convenient for my dad when he’d decided to repurpose the box for Christmas decorations?
I hadn’t exactly been playing “random tree in the background.” I’d been Nathan goddamned Detroit. I’d busted my ass to win that part over one of the seniors who everyone had said was bound for Broadway, and I’d busted it even more to pull it off. The fucking newspaper had reviewed it and given me rave reviews.
The wall of fame downstairs had had all of our athletic successes in high school. With as sparse as that wall had been around my portrait, he couldn’t find room for something commemorating this?
Of course he couldn’t. He hadn’t wanted to. Because unlike sports and academics, it didn’t matter. My dad, who’d had season tickets to the local theater and had attended more shows than I could count on Broadway and in the West End, didn’t give two shits about his own son—a junior up against seniors with loads of talent—landing and nailing a part in—
“Hey.” Will squeezed my shoulder, making me jump. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” I looked down at the program in my hand. “Just found this in the bottom of the box.” With a bitter laugh, I added, “He probably meant to throw it away. Why am I even surprised?”
Will pushed his glasses up and flicked through the program. Then he whistled and looked at me. “You were Nathan Detroit?”
I smiled even though my heart wasn’t quite in it. “Yeah. It was a fun show. I loved that role.”
“That’s not exactly a bit part either.”
“No, it isn’t. Not that my dad gave a fuck.” I gestured at the box where the program had been. “Obviously.”
Will scowled. He put the program in the box of things reserved for me, and he pulled his glasses back on. “He really wouldn’t let you measure up, would he?”
“Wouldn’t—” I cocked my head. “Wouldn’t let me?”
“Well, yeah.” Will shrugged. “You didn’t excel in the places he wanted you to, and when you did excel at something, he dismissed it as not worthwhile.” He tsked and rolled his eyes, glancing at the program sitting on top of a folded up letterman jacket and some old DVDs. “I get the feeling you could have scored a starring role on a huge Broadway show that raked in Tony Awards, and he’d point out that it didn’t matter because Hamilton was on the stage across the street.”
Lips parted, I stared at him. “That… Shit. Yeah. That sounds like him. How did you know?”
He offered a sympathetic smile and squeezed my shoulder. “Your dad’s