Page 141 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“Okay?” Peter stares, confused. A totally valid reaction.

“I wrote two articles. I wrote the article about you, about being gay in the South, about your experiences. But that’s not what I told my editor, Michael, I was writing. I sprung that piece on him in the hopes that he’d want to publish it.”

Eli can see Peter doing the math in his head. “So, what was the other article?”

“About dating you,” Eli finally says, the words hurting as they leave his lips. “This entire thing, our fake relationship, me trying to fix you.”

Peter doesn’t say a word.

Eli pulls out his phone, opening his browser where the article sits. He hands Peter the phone, watching as he reads through it. Eli waits for the revelation, for the confusion to lift, the anger to settle in. He wants Peter to throw his phone down and smash it into a million tiny pieces; he wants Peter to yell at him, to call him every nasty, terrible name that he can think of. He wants Peter to hate him, because that would make things so much easier to understand. Instead, Peter gives him a numb look as he hands Eli back his phone.

His expression hasn’t changed once.

“I don’t understand what this is . . .” Peter says, hurt carrying his voice. Eli can’t see how there’s any room for misinterpreting what he’s done. It’s like he wants Eli to explain it to him, though Eli doubts Peter is that cruel. “‘The naivete was a precious defense mechanism, but his lack of experience slowed him down.’ What is this?”

“It’s an article about fixing you,” Eli admits. “I gave the idea to rehabilitate you to my editor. I thought that I could trick Michael into reading my other article about you and publishing that instead.”

“My name isn’t in it.”

“I know, I changed it. To protect you.” Which seems hilarious now.

“You wrote this about me?” Peter asks, his voice so soft the rain does its best to hide it.

“Yes. I did. And I’m so sorry, Peter. I don’t have enough words to tell you how sorry I am—”

“So that’s what this was really about? Is this why you wanted to help me? So I could be a subject for this article?” The hurt in Peter’s voice twists into Eli like a knife. “So you could do this article and get your writer job?”

“No,” Eli tells him. “I never meant for him to publish this article. Most of this isn’t mine, in fact; Keith had to finish it.”

“But you still wrote everything else?” Peter can only stare at Eli, his expression contorting with the hurt. “You wrote all of these cruel words, you lied to me, went behind my back, and still wrote this article.”

“Peter, I’m sorry. No one was ever supposed to see it.”

“But people did,” Peter says plainly, with no anger in his voice. Eli hates that he almost wishes Peter would yell, then his feelings might be clearer.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Peter says, turning, readying his keys for the door to the garage.

“Peter, please. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Eli. Please, just go home.”

“Peter.”

“You know what the worst part of this is?” Peter asks. “You’re my friend. I knew that a part of this was fake, that this whole situation was weird, that we were only friends because you wanted something out of me, and I wanted something out of you. But I really thought . . .” He pauses. “I thought over these last few weeks that we’d actually become friends. I thought I finally had someone.”

“You do, you’re—”

“Is this all I am to you? A ‘loser who seems incapable of forming a genuine social connection’?” Eli can’t remember the words exactly, but he can recall seeing a similar string of them in the article. “I can’t believe you’d play with my feelings like this. That you’d write these things about me.”

“That wasn’t me. My editor, he changed what I had, he—”

“Is that really what you think of me?”

“Peter, no! Please! Just let me talk to you.” Eli reaches for Peter, but Peter yanks himself away, as if Eli’s touch burns.

“And you thought you’d get away with it.” Peter huffs, turning away. “Just leave, please.”

“Peter . . .”