Page 8 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“We also first reported on the test records of those self-driving taxis that were prone to hitting pedestrians. And how that billionaire CEO funneled money out of the city infrastructure fund to build his ugly tech buildings only for the buildings to be left half-finished so he could ditch us and move to Seattle.”

“More bummer stories. No one wants those, Eli. The world sucks enough these days—don’t you think people need a break from the dire news cycle? They can get that stuff anywhere.”

“I think that people should be informed.” That was what Vent used to be. An independent source of news that never had to worry about being “advertiser friendly” or whether or not they’d pissed off some politician.

It used to be the place that Eli dreamed of working for.

And Michael used to be someone Eli respected. Someone who stood for the truth. He still remembers finding Vent in college, reading an article that exposed a local sheriff taking bribes from the socialites of the city. And right under the article title was the name Michael Clay.

By the time he’d graduated from college, there were announcements naming Michael as the newest editor in chief at Vent and talking about the changes he wanted to make, keeping the integrity of Vent while taking strides to grow their reader base.

“These are stories about our city, though. These are things that people should care about; they just need someone to tell them what’s going on.”

“Well, they don’t care now,” Michael says bluntly. “Our numbers spike when we post about actors and musicians getting canceled, viral moments on X or TikTok, celebrities being hilarious, things like that.”

“So you’re saying that we can’t write about the things that matter? That impact the citizens of San Francisco? Don’t they have a right to know what’s happening?” Eli’s aware this argument is fruitless.

Working at Vent is fighting one losing battle after another.

“I think you have the wrong idea of what Vent is here to do. Those hard-hitting pieces? That’s the past, Eli. Our viewers want to feel good when they visit our website; we want to bait them with a little nostalgia, get them riled up, keep them scrolling while they’re stuck at work or on the toilet. The longer they scroll, the more they read, the more ads they see, the higher our revenue gets. Those are the basics.”

“So, we’re supposed to be fine as toilet paper?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. But your ideas, they’re too highbrow for us.”

“But you’ve promised me a position for the last—”

Michael stops him. “I know what I promised. But I’m not seeing the growth that I want from you.”

“The growth?” Eli repeats.

“You’re not willing to adapt, Eli. You’re not willing to bend to the course, to give me what I want. You have a strong voice, it’s just . . . misguided for the website.” Michael sighs. “It’s a different era, Eli. Leave this serious stuff to the big swingers. I promise you; it’ll be fine.”

And just like that, Eli is left sitting there, staring at the metaphorical remains of his entire life. For years, he’s worked tirelessly to make sure Michael’s day goes off without a hitch. He arrives early in the morning and is usually one of the last to leave at night. He’s covered for Michael when he was sick, or didn’t have the right info, or just when Michael completely forgot to do something. He’s thrown together events, fundraisers, parties, he’s argued with caterers, sent out thousands of emails, letters, and cards. He’s kept track of the important names and faces of people Michael is supposed to know but never bothered to learn.

He’s worked on countless articles, reaching out to various sources, poring over old articles in the archives at the head branch of the city library. He’s spent thousands of hours editing, perfecting every single word, pulling in Patricia and Rose and asking them to read his work, watching them as he sat on the edge of his seat, wanting, waiting to know what they thought.

He’s given years of his life to Vent in the hopes that it might lead somewhere. Anywhere. That he might make a difference, not just at the publication by bringing Vent back to its roots, but in the misguided effort to make actual change.

He should’ve known better. He knows that.

Hope always won, somehow . . .

Now look at where that’s gotten him.

“But hey!” Michael says. “If you show me what I want to see, I’ll reconsider your spot here. Deal?”

Eli sits there, his hands feeling numb from being balled up on his lap.

“Yeah, sure . . . Thanks, Michael.”

“You’re welcome, kid, and don’t take it personally, okay? You’re young, you’ve got plenty of time to accomplish your goals.”

“Right, yeah.” Eli stands, holding the iPad loosely, his fingers tingling. Nothing ever makes him feel as small as these meetings do. Eli steps toward the door, praying silently that maybe, just maybe it’ll be a moment like in the movies. In this split second, Michael will come to his senses, or feel pity for Eli and offer him something.

Anything at all.

“Oh, and Eli?”