Page 20 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“Ah, Jesus . . .” Peter yanks some napkins free of the dispenser, pulling with such force that he nearly takes the entire hunk of plastic with him as he cleans up his mess. Eli doesn’t want to laugh, because it’s not funny, it’s more like he’s in shock. Like he can’t believe whatever slapstick routine is playing out in front of him is actually happening.

“So . . . Francine?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Peter straightens, still cleaning up his mess. Eli can’t help but notice a slight twang to his voice, like a Southern accent he’s trying to hide. “I work with her.”

Eli waits for Peter to elaborate. He imagined the answer following an explanation of some kind. There are a lot of jobs in tech, especially in one of the—if not the—most tech-oriented cities in the country. But Peter doesn’t say another word, just turns his attention back to the menu, reading over the dishes silently. Eli stares down at his half-empty soup bowl, pushing it away from him.

“I’ve never eaten here before,” Peter says.

“You haven’t?” Eli can’t think quickly enough to hide his confusion. “But you picked it?”

Peter nods. “I thought it’d be good, and I scoped out the Yelp page for like two hours reading reviews and looking at pictures.”

Eli isn’t really sure what to say to that. “Well, the soup is good,” Eli tells him. He eats here pretty regularly when he comes to Japantown, the irony of a Korean restaurant in the middle of Japantown not lost on him. “They’ve got all kinds of tofu options, but soon is their specialty.”

“I don’t like soup,” Peter says bluntly.

“But you picked a soup place?” Eli cocks his head. “How do you not like soup?”

“The spicy pork looked really good.” Peter lowers the menu, finally giving Eli his face again. Up close he can make out the fine straight line of his nose and the thickness of Peter’s lips. “I don’t like that it’s a liquid you’re expected to eat, the soup.”

“I . . . Huh?” Eli has to consider if he just didn’t hear Peter correctly, or if the alcohol is doing that much of a number on his systems.

But no, he heard exactly what Peter said.

“It’s a liquid. You can’t eat liquid. You can drink it.”

“But soup has other things in it.” Eli tips his bowl in Peter’s direction, where leftover pieces of tofu float around other vegetables and shreds of beef. “The soup isn’t just the broth.”

Peter shakes his head slowly. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Are you ready to order?” The older waitress comes by again, this time with a smile on her face, as if she’s happy that Eli isn’t alone anymore.

“I’d like the spicy pork. Does that come with rice?”

The waitress nods.

“I’ll have that, thank you.” He hands the waitress the menu, and Eli considers asking her to stay, to sit with them, just so he’ll have someone else to talk to. He can almost picture a wall around Peter, one that he’s expected to climb despite being given no equipment at all. Just a prayer and a “Hope you make it!”

“So, what do you do at Zelus? Exactly?” Eli asks, sipping more of Peter’s first water glass, desperate to sober up a bit before the night continues.

“I code.”

“Is that fun?”

“No. Not really.”

“Oh . . .” Eli doesn’t really know what to say to that. So instead, he just sits there, Peter looking anxious, like he wants to say something but can’t. Their eyes even meet at one point, and Eli smiles at him, but Peter turns red as a beet and looks away, clearing his throat.

Like he’s afraid.

Eli wants to ask what’s wrong, if there’s something going on, or if Peter’s just nervous, but he has a feeling that might only make things worse.

“What do you code?” he asks instead, after a silence far too long to be considered anything other than uncomfortable.

“For stock.”

“You code stocks? Like for Wall Street? How does that work?”