Page 142 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

He slides his key into the lock, twisting it. “Go home, Eli,” Peter says, his hand on the doorknob, face hidden in the corner. “I’m sorry that I ever agreed to this.”

“Peter, please . . .” Eli feels the desperation rising in his throat. “I . . . I’m in love with you.” He shouldn’t say the words. It feels like a guilt trip, but they slip out without his permission.

Peter remains unmoving.

“I’m sorry. I know that I’m going to be saying that for the rest of my life, but I’m sorry. I wish that I could go back and change things, I wish that I didn’t write this article, and I wish that I had the courage to tell you when I first started to feel this way, but I didn’t. Just like I can’t change how I feel about you, and how I’m glad that I got to spend time with you, that I gave you a second chance.” Eli breathes so carefully, as if the world is truly that fragile.

Perhaps it is.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I have so, so many regrets, but you’re not one of them.”

Another long silence filled by the rain that continues to pour down in gallons just a few feet away. A car drives by, honking at another car, hitting a dip in the street that causes water to splash somewhere.

The seconds turn to minutes, turn to hours as Eli stands there, hoping for something.

For anything at all.

But he has to recognize that he isn’t owed that. He hurt Peter, and whatever reaction he has is a valid one. Eli has to consider how he’d react if the tables were turned, if Peter had used him for clout, to further his career in a pathetic attempt to make something of his life.

No matter what, though, that’s not what happened.

He hurt Peter, and no number of imaginary scenarios will ever change that Eli is the one at fault here.

No one else.

“Yeah, I was in love with you too,” Peter finally says, turning the doorknob. “But I guess we both made the wrong choice.” Peter opens the door, stepping into the garage. And Eli nearly follows him after it slams closed, nearly bangs on the door, pleads with Peter to hear him out.

But he doesn’t do any of that, because Eli has to be okay with what just happened. He has to accept the truth of the matter.

Because there’s no changing it. Only moving on.

So, with nothing else left to do, he does what Peter told him to.

He goes home.

Chapter Eighteen

Star Wars: Episode III—Revenge of the Sith, dir. by George Lucas

Eli just wishes he could wallow in bed for a bit longer.

He gave himself exactly two days in bed. The first of which involved a lot of crying, Patricia and Rose bringing him water and snacks every few hours or so, like he’s in bed with the flu. The second day was better, though he still didn’t have the strength to crawl out from under his comforter.

By day three, he’d convinced himself to finally shower and wash his hair, hoping that it would help the emptiness that he felt in his chest, the pressure that rested there now and didn’t seem to show any sign of going away. He rested against the atrociously pink tiled wall and sank to the ceramic of the tub, letting the water pour over him like the rain had just a few days ago.

Day four was the first that he dared to step out of his bedroom, and he only made it to the couch before he began to cry again. In fact, day five was the first day without any tears. But he made the mistake of watching Happy Together, which only made him feel worse about himself.

It was Patricia who picked up the remote, declaring, “Enough Wong Kar-Wai,” before she found Shrek 2, which only made Eli cry harder.

He knew that he needed to give himself the space to grieve. Despite all of this being his fault, he’d still broken his own heart with what he’d chosen to do. It felt wrong to cry, but it also felt cathartic. When he cried, Eli didn’t feel that pressure against his chest, the stack of boulders that grew steadily higher, making it impossible to breathe when he shot up straight in the middle of the night, looking around his bedroom at the once-familiar objects and posters that became foreign in the darkness.

By day six, he’d decided on his path.

He spends hours a day submitting applications everywhere he can think of. There’s a blog-writing position with BART, an internship at Golden Bay Press, freelance gigs that he submits articles to, daring to send a few of his horror movie–related essays to places like Fangoria and SplatterHouse. He applies for food service, for a waiting job at a bar, to be a barista at several of the cafés he’s been frequenting in an effort to get out of the house, a few of the bookstores in the city.

And three weeks into the search, he’s only scored one interview.

Occasionally, he’ll get an email, a confirmation that a résumé has been received or that the company has “decided to go in a different direction.” But Eli starts to grow numb toward those as the weeks stretch on, deleting them the moment he’s sure there’s nothing important in the message.