Page 47 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“I’m just saying! He’s even interning at the press.”

Eli’s mother is a woman of prominence, the name Rue Clark carrying weight in the art circles of the Bay Area as the longest-serving director at Orion Press, one of the last publishing companies in the United States that creates their books completely from scratch.

From the paper to the binding to the illustrations to the lead they melt down to do the typesetting, it’s all done in-house. Eli’s taken the tour of the foundry more times than he’d care to admit, watching as the lead is melted down to form the individual letters, how the ink printing and illustrations are made, how the books are bound, glued, and sewn together with care.

There’s a reason they do just two projects a year at very limited print runs, and why the price tag for those books would cover Eli’s rent for several months.

“I’ll pass.”

“Eli, honey.” She swats the water off her hands, putting the lettuce in a pretty comical device that she spins like a centrifuge in order to dry it. “It’s just one little date, and he’s a nice boy.”

“Then you go out with him.” Eli turns away from her at his spot seated on her counter, playing with the magnets on the side of the fridge. The photos they hold up almost serve as a timeline of his life: baby pictures at Golden Gate Park or North Beach, Eli lined up with his childhood softball team, his first day of middle school. The few he’d been okay with keeping up.

Then there’s Eli’s mother on her second wedding day, him stuffed into an uncomfortable suit beside her as she stands next to John. His mother in her hospital bed just hours after giving birth to Eli’s half sibling, Les.

“I’ll give you his number,” she continues, dumping the lettuce into a bowl and reaching over to hand Eli a block of Parmesan and a cheese grater. “I want you to call him, you’ll like him.”

She’s been like this since Keith broke up with Eli—after she got over the pain of losing the man she’d considered a second son.

For a brief second, Eli considers telling her about Peter, just to get her off his back. But he knows that’ll lead to a whole string of questions he isn’t ready to answer just yet.

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Eli tells her, leaping off the counter and setting the grater above an empty bowl. “I’m fine just how I am.”

“Yes, you are,” she tells him, pulling him in for an aggressive kiss on the cheek. “You’re my perfect baby boy who I adore.”

“Mom . . .”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he tells her.

“Are you? You don’t seem happy.”

“Jeez, your confidence in me is inspiring,” Eli mourns. “I’m fine. And I don’t need a man.”

“We all want love, Eli. It’s the human condition.”

“I have you, and Rose and Patricia, and Les. And I’m assuming John likes me.”

His mother tsks at him with a long finger. “You hush, John adores you.”

Eli hides his smile, handing her the bowl of grated Parmesan. “I’m fine. I promise you,” he tells her, knowing that couldn’t be further from the truth.

What’s worse is that she knows it’s a lie as well. Eli considers himself lucky, growing up in the house that he did, with parents who saw so clearly through the embarrassing teenage angst of everything feeling like the end of the world, navigating dysphoria and his mess of gender. They played it safe; they gave Eli the space to explore himself while also attempting to be as aware as they could of what was going on with him, silently promising that they’d be just around the corner when he wanted to talk about it.

Of course, those feelings had taken a back seat when his father got his diagnosis, when the X-rays showed his lower abdomen glowing like the Christmas tree in their living room. It took less than a month, Eli spending every second he could at St. Mary’s when his holiday break began, sitting across the room from his mother, who slept on the uncomfortable cot that the hospital brought for her, Eli supplying her with clothes, toiletries, food.

He used to find it impossible to sleep on Christmas Eve, the excitement of the next morning looming over him, wondering just what he’d get if Santa had actually read the list of things he wanted. It was a normal thing for him to wake up when the sky was still dark, his parents asleep, and he’d sneak into the living room to look at everything laid out for him, unable to see his gifts through the wrapping paper but still doing his best to guess.

That year it was still dark, and he was still awake when his phone began to ring. He knew two seconds before, that feeling in his gut settling, that honest relief that came with knowing that his father was no longer in pain.

Then his mother said the words.

There was no crying, not until he got to the hospital, the staff bare bones so early on a holiday morning. Rue met John less than a year later in her group therapy session, the two of them becoming quick friends before things turned romantic.

Eli wasn’t exactly pleased, and he remembers with shame how much he resented John when he was a dumb teenager. The worst part was that John never minded, not once. He identified with what Eli was going through, what it was like to lose someone. He simply gave Eli—and by extension Rue—his space, only making Eli feel more guilty because he knew how happy John made his mother. As he grew older, Eli promised them that everything was okay, that it would take time but that he thought John was a good guy. He stood beside them at their wedding, spent as much time with his mother as possible as she went into labor with Les, helped them pack up their things and move to Berkeley when he left for college.

“You know, it’s not wrong to want to date someone,” his mother continues. “It’s not some . . . grand stance against cis-heteronormative standards to not want to date when you’re gay.” Her lips struggle around the words.