Page 6 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

Patricia’s reaction is immediate. “You’re doing it?”

Eli can’t resist the infectious nature of her smile. “Yeah, I am.”

“Ah!” She squeals, wheeling closer toward Eli to wrap him in an awkward hug. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Relax, relax. He hasn’t even interviewed me yet,” Eli tells her, deciding that he’s done eating too. “And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s told me we’ll ‘revisit’ my position at the site.”

“Okay, but he promised you last year,” she reminds him. “If a staff job opened up, you’d be the first person interviewed for it.”

“He promised the year before that too, and the year before that. And the year before that I interviewed for the same job, and was made his secretary instead.”

“Executive assistant,” Patricia corrects him.

“We both know that’s horseshit.”

“Well . . .” Patricia takes the Tupperware containers and slips them back into her bag, digging around further so she can give Eli back his mouse. “It’s going to go great. You just have to walk in there believing it. You’ve got the experience, and without you this entire office falls apart.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re literally the only one here who knows how to replace the toner in the printer,” she reminds him.

“Which is so essential to the office.”

“And how many times has payroll had to come to you about checks?”

Eli can count seven times in the last month alone.

“Stop doubting yourself. We’re manifesting!”

“I hope so . . .” Eli takes the mouse and pulls his emails back up.

Five whole years of working at Vent. Of getting coffee for meetings, and finishing Michael’s read-throughs when he found an article “too long.” Half a decade spent sitting in on meetings for Michael when he didn’t want to attend them, calling cars to and from SFO, arranging lunch dates and meetings and flights and conference talks. Five whole years of Eli writing his own articles, doing his own research, all for his proposals to be turned down with no hope of going the freelance route because Michael thought it would “confuse the brand” or “distract” Eli, and he had made him sign a noncompete when he took the job.

There’d been a time, years ago, when Vent was at the forefront of guerrilla journalism. It wasn’t hard for Eli to remember the scathing articles they wrote: outing politicians and the arms companies that funded their campaigns, the insider trading that happened in DC, the actors and executives who abused their power in Hollywood; Vent had put their voice behind every strike and union movement happening all over the world.

And Michael had been right there with them for nearly two decades. He’d been someone to push boundaries, someone Eli used to look up to.

Now? Now Vent published listicles. Now they were more concerned with which Chipotle order aligned with readers’ zodiac signs, or tweets that had gotten celebrities canceled. Articles that drive their ad revenue.

There have been many times when Eli’s wondered exactly what he’s doing at Vent, if this is a place that’s even worth his time and energy. But he remembers the old Vent so vividly, their pieces that made a difference, that helped expose corruption and hold people accountable for their actions.

And he knows he can bring that back. He can help to make Vent a reliable source again. For everyone.

“You’re going to kill it, Eli.” Patricia stands and leans over to kiss Eli on the forehead.

“Thanks, Pat.”

“I’ll text Rose—we’ll celebrate tonight, okay? I’ll make brownies.” Patricia starts to wheel the chair she borrowed back to the desk just as Michael steps out of the elevator, his phone in hand as he types something. Eli likes to think that after five years of watching Michael every single weekday, he’s learned the minutiae of how Michael acts. He’s smiling, which is an obvious good sign, there’s a slight pep in his step, and there are no visible stains on his shirt despite eating Italian for lunch, so there’s nothing for him to be frustrated over.

All signals point to a good mood, including the greeting he gives to Eli before he strides into his office.

Eli still waits for his time, watching as the clock ticks toward 2:00 before he grabs his iPad, packed with his digital portfolio and notes, and tip-toes to Michael’s office door, knocking gently on the glass.

“Michael?” Eli ducks his head in, catching Michael mid–phone call.

“Yeah, no. We can definitely do that,” he says to the other person on the line, which is odd because every call Michael gets is filtered through Eli.

Well, almost every call.