Page 119 of Glitched Play

He leans forward and the softness in his eyes isn’t lost on me. I think to myself, Oh, this is going to be good.

Then he whispers, “I once alphabetized the family board games."

I let out a “How old were you?”

"Six."

I laugh. "Please tell me someone ruined it."

"Parker."

"Immediately?"

"In eleven minutes."

"What did you do?"

"I cried."

I stop laughing. "You cried?"

"We had eighteen years’ worth of games from J.D. to me. I spent three hours organizing them."

"Oh, Witt."

"I considered replacing him."

"You couldn't."

"I know."

"Dad said siblings aren't returnable."

By the time we leave the restaurant, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

I've seen the billionaire.

The genius.

The CEO.

Today...

I met the little boy who loved old games enough to save an entire arcade.

And somehow...

I think I like him even more.

When we get back, he asks me to write up a proposal on the documentary idea. Dara has rescheduled two of his appointments for late afternoon and evening since they were stationed on the west coast.

My mind races with all that I’ve experienced in the last 24 hours—Witt, the arcade, the funny moments and the one that should have been emotional. His mom died and he didn’t have anything to say about it. I wanted to ask why he wasn’t in the picture but he clearly didn’t want to dive deeper into the subject.

That night I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying today in my head. The way he smiled and laughed and occasionally spoke in long sentences.

His excitement explaining why arcade cabinets used side art instead of plain black panels.

His face when I pitched the documentary.