Page 59 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“Sure.”

“Why me?”

“For the article?”

Peter nods. Because what else could he have been talking about?

“Well, why does a journalist write any article? I think that you have a unique perspective, and I’d like to write about it.”

“But why me?” Peter asks.

Eli stares at him. He doesn’t really know how to answer Peter’s question. He isn’t sure what it is about this disaster of a man that has drawn him in with such interest. “I don’t really know,” he finally says. “I just think that you’re an interesting person. And I think you have a lot to share.”

“Pfft, first time anyone’s said that to me.” Peter lies back on the padded floor, tucking his hands behind his head, giving Eli the full picture of his muscles flexing. “So why writing?”

“I started in high school. It’s not even like I knew I wanted to do it since I was a kid or anything. My school had an extracurricular requirement, and the journalism club was the only one with an opening by the time the deadline to join clubs came around.”

“So, you joined because you had to?”

Eli nods, laying his head down not too far from Peter’s. “But I fell in love with it. I didn’t want to at first; I resented the whole thing. But Mrs. Jackson kept challenging me, then eventually I got to write my own pieces, I was interviewing and reporting, breaking stories about what was happening at our school. I was even head editor in my senior year.”

Peter smiles at him.

“What about you? Did you have to do any writing in college?” It occurs to Eli that he has zero clue what goes into earning a computer science major.

“Writing? Me?” Peter responds almost too quickly, turning his face away from Eli. “No, I’ve never had to do that.”

Weird, Eli thinks to himself. But he decides to drop it. For the time being, at least.

There’s never silence in a gym, not with people grunting and shouting and running and falling. The zip of the rope climbers rips through the gym, the sound of shoes falling onto the padded floor. The slam of weights. The pop song playing distantly over the speakers.

But silence is all Eli gets from Peter. He dares to turn his head toward the other man to see his eyes focused dead ahead at the ceiling. From where he lies, Eli can see the softer angles of Peter’s face, the roundness of his cheeks, that sharpness of his nose, the brown of his eyes.

“Do you seriously think you’re not interesting?” Eli asks.

“Why would I? You didn’t like me on our first date.”

“It wasn’t you,” Eli tells him. “That wasn’t the real you. That was the nervous you, the you that was going on your first date.”

“As opposed to the me that’s been on two?”

“Three,” Eli corrects. “And yeah, I’d say this Peter is an improvement over the first.”

“It does feel easier,” Peter says. “Like I’m already more comfortable around you.”

“And you’ll find that with another person,” Eli promises. “You’ve just got to open up to them the way that you’re opening up to me.”

Peter doesn’t say anything. He just gives Eli a sad expression that he tries to turn into a smile, but Eli can see through the pretense.

And when Peter asks Eli if he’s ready to climb some more, he says yes and takes Peter’s hand, letting the man help him to his feet. Eli mostly watches for the next hour and a half, letting Peter climb his heart out as he scales walls with a speed that Eli could never imagine.

He gives it an honest go a few times, managing to climb up the first three walls without much trouble by the end of the night. But his arms and legs start to ache like never before, and he has to bow out, watching Peter from the floor.

“You kind of are like Spider-Man,” Eli says as Peter continues to show off for him.

“If only I could swing on webs,” Peter tells him with a smile. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.”