Page 37 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

A few articles had broached the subject of what it was like to grow up queer in the South, and a handful of books, mostly fictional. A movie or two. A lot of music, almost too much. But by and large, the subject seemed fairly unexplored. What Eli did find was distressing, to say the least. Stories of being kicked out of their home, assault, death, isolation, and fear, being surrounded by people who hate for no reason.

Eli’s heart ached.

“Okay!” Patricia sings as she steps out of the bedroom and back toward the kitchen where her dinner for the night simmers on the stove, the warm smell of the chili making Eli’s stomach grumble. “But I demand a picture before the night is over with. I want to see this guy.”

“Okay, I’ll take pictures,” he bemoans. Of course, he could just show her the dozen or so pictures of Peter that he’d saved to his phone, just so he could remember the ones that he likes, but he doesn’t feel like it. Showing Peter to Patricia makes this severely more real than he’d like it to be.

“I’d like to know who’s courting my best friend.”

Eli snorts. “‘Courting’?”

“It’s a word.”

“That no well-adjusted person has used since the eighteen hundreds.”

Patricia follows Eli into the living room, standing behind him at the mirror so she can tug at Eli’s neckline, pulling the collar of the shirt free, unbuttoning the top button because the relaxed version of his outfit fits Eli better. “Now you don’t look like a schoolboy. Unless Peter’s into that?”

“Barf.” Eli turns.

“Should I wait up for you?” Patricia asks, wiggling her eyebrows so that Eli gets her meaning. “Or are you gonna go back to his place?”

“Yeah, no. There will be none of that.” Eli’s voice tenses.

“Why’d you say it that way?”

He curses himself. It’s going to take some getting used to, keeping this act going even when Peter isn’t around. “We’re just . . . taking it slow,” he explains. “I’m easing him into the whole dating thing, remember?”

“Oh, well.” Patricia hops on top of the counter, swinging her feet back and forth. “Don’t worry if you come back and the apartment is dark. I’m either having mind-blowing sex or I’m wallowing in my own misery.”

“Good, nice to see that you’re growing.” Eli gives her his best smile, which isn’t much of anything at all, and grabs his wallet and keys. And he’s out the door.

* * *

The entire bus ride to Japantown, Eli isn’t really sure what to feel. There are nerves, of course, and they might even be worse than they were last week. But there’s a hopefulness as well, not just for the article, but for helping Peter feel good in a way that he didn’t expect.

If only he were more confident in his dating skills. He’s had a few moments of panic sprinkled throughout the week, wondering just who he is to try and help Peter. And whether or not this harebrained scheme will actually work.

Whatever it is that he’s feeling, it’s doubled as he walks through the front doors of the restaurant and sees that Peter is already there and waiting for him in the very same booth that they sat in last week. It’s just that now Peter has their seats reversed, so his eyes meet Eli’s from across the restaurant.

Peter stands up too quickly, knocking into the table like a calf just learning to walk, holding his hand out in front of him like he’s actually trying to properly greet Eli.

“You’re here before me?” Eli double-checks the time on his phone.

“I didn’t want to be late . . . again.” Peter smiles at him, motioning to the booth like he’s waiting for Eli to take a seat before he sits again, sliding into the booth more carefully this time. “I set a ton of alarms, so that way I wouldn’t be late.”

As if on cue, Peter’s phone begins blaring an alarm from its spot on the table, and he scrambles to reach for it to shut it off.

“Sorry, guess I left one on.” Peter swipes at something on his phone, and then very obviously goes to his messages to type something quickly before hitting send.

“It’s okay,” Eli tells him.

For a moment, both of them stare at each other, almost as if they’re unsure of how to continue. Eli has to remind himself that he’s supposed to be acting, that right now he isn’t Eli meeting Peter. He’s Eli meeting a man that he’s been set up with.

“So . . . how was your day?” Eli asks him, desperate to get the conversation going.

“Iced Americano!” Peter blurts out, almost as if he’s been dying to say it for hours now.

“Already?”