Page 18 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

But it’s not a crime to want to be liked by someone.

“I think you’re pretty neurotic,” Patricia says. “And that you need a haircut, that your taste in movies and music is pretty pretentious. And that you have skin so perfect I’d kill my grandmother for it even though you literally just wash it with warm water and some over-the-counter nonsense you buy from Target.” Patricia lets out a long huff. “But yes. I think that he’s going to like you.”

“I get zits sometimes,” he jokes. “You’re just saying all of that because you’re my friend.”

“No, I’m saying that despite being your best friend. I know you better than anyone else, so I know that he’s going to like you.”

“It’d be nice if this went well.”

“I know, babe. I think it will. And even if it doesn’t, hey, it’s a date, you’re getting back out there. And that’s enough of a win for right now.”

Eli tries to take her words to heart, because he does want this to go well, despite his assurances that it doesn’t matter, the lie he keeps telling himself that he doesn’t care.

Because he does.

“It’s going to be fun, you’ll see.” Patricia stands, hanging up the leftover sweaters Eli hadn’t picked on the clothes rack that sits next to Eli’s dresser. The true exchange for the en suite bathroom was the pantry of a closet that barely contains Eli’s heavier winter coats, so a freestanding clothes rack is a necessity.

Patricia offers him a kiss on the forehead before she walks out of the bedroom, leaving Eli to himself. He can’t resist a smile, finally feeling reassured for once. He goes to his dresser, grabbing the rounded bottle of Orphéon—one of the few luxuries he affords himself—that he dabs on his wrists and behind his ears, letting the earthy smell of jasmine and cedar relax him before he grabs his phone, double-checking that he has the right address for the restaurant.

It’s a short walk and a thirty-minute bus ride up to Geary on the 22 from Eighteenth and Church, which means there’s a whole half hour where Eli gets to try and talk himself down from the ledge he’s climbed up on.

He picks the single seat by the very back door, opening his phone to tell Peter that he’s on the way to the restaurant.

He doesn’t even realize that his leg is shaking, but instead of nerves, it feels like excitement. Eli can’t help but smile at the idea of what tonight could be, where it could lead. Because it’s nice, despite how terrifying the idea is, despite how worried he’s been about tonight. He takes Patricia’s words to heart, thinking of them the entire bus ride to Japantown.

He wants to believe in tonight. He really does.

So, Eli makes the decision. And instead of making it to spite Keith, he makes it for himself.

Because tonight is going to be good.

He’s going to have fun.

* * *

An hour.

That’s how long Eli sits at the table in Doobu alone. An hour and fifteen minutes actually, but who’s really counting?

At the ten-minute mark, he figured it didn’t have to mean anything. He’d managed to get to the restaurant a few minutes early and ordered waters for Peter and himself.

People are late all the time. Twenty minutes in, he figured that Peter must be a bus rider like him, and there’s really no accounting for what might happen on Muni on a Friday night. There’s even an art festival a few blocks over, so maybe Peter’s just running late?

There have been mornings where Eli’s been late for work because someone wanted to argue with the driver, or the wheelchair ramp broke just as someone was getting on.

People are late all the time. There’s no need to worry.

At thirty minutes, Eli orders a bottle of strawberry soju, the ice in his water long since melted. It’s a poor combination, a mostly empty stomach mixed with the too-tasty alcohol. He pulls out his phone, texting Peter again to let him know that he’s here, waiting for him. But the read receipt never appears.

At forty minutes, he orders a second bottle of soju, the sinking feeling that he’s been ghosted settling into his stomach. The older waitress seems to take pity on him too, bringing him a plate of kimchi pancakes that she promises are on the house. Or maybe she just doesn’t want an obviously drunk man who was—even more obviously—stood up to make a scene.

He isn’t going to cry, because he’s an adult; and he tells himself that the alcohol is making things better, even if that’s not really true and Eli hasn’t gotten drunk since college, so his tolerance is in the garbage.

It’s then that he maps out the rest of his night, deciding that he’s not going to let Peter ruin his plans. Technically, Patricia and Rose only wanted him to get out, and going out doesn’t mean he has to be on a date. He can date himself! He can eat the delicious soup he’s been craving all week, go see a movie he loves on the big screen with a crowd that enjoys it just as much. He might even treat himself to the gourmet caramel-and-cheddar popcorn at the AMC.

He calls the waitress back, ordering his usual soon tofu soup and another plate of kimchi pancakes so that way he can try and sober up before the movie begins.

At the hour mark, Eli’s food arrives.