Page 73 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“No, no apologies.” Eli tries to laugh it off. “I should apologize to you; I didn’t mean for things to get that heavy. Ah, sorry . . .” Eli tucks his face away. “My point is that . . . I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but it’s okay. We can work on it.”

Peter smiles at that, and Eli feels a weight come off his shoulders. He’s proud of Peter, at the very least, for verbalizing something that was making him uncomfortable. This entire experiment has been about forcing Peter into new social situations, testing him. And the last thing he wants to do is make Peter feel uneasy; Eli just wants to . . . challenge him.

It’s the applause that pulls him from his trance, his gaze shooting right toward the stage as the spotlight shines on a group of older-looking Black men, each holding their instrument of choice, aside from the drummer, who only carries his sticks for obvious reasons.

“Hello, everyone.” The man at the front takes the microphone. “I’m not sure if you know who I am, but my name is Harry Whit—”

An even louder round of applause interrupts Harry, and he waves gently to the crowd, requesting their attention again.

“I’m Harry Whitfield. Me and my friends here, some of the best people I’ve ever known, we were asked to come down to your lovely city and perform here at Jackie’s. A club owned by one of my oldest and greatest friends in the world!”

More applause.

“Okay, okay. I won’t bore anyone with stories. You’re here to hear the music, and I’m dying to play it.” He smiles brilliantly, raises his trumpet to his lips, and in a split second Harry and the rest of the band burst into song, the brass instruments blaring through the club before they cut out again almost immediately, the bass player plucking his strings thoughtfully.

Eli’s eyes dare to glance toward Peter. Paying rapt attention to the band and their playing, he taps his fingers on the table along with the improvised beat, as if he can see what they’re doing from a mile away. His smile brightens the dark room.

It’s in that moment that Eli realizes just how jealous he is of Peter. He thinks of the silent confidence that Peter walks with, not even realizing it’s there. Eli thinks about the gym, how at home Peter seemed there, and Peter’s job, being a team leader, someone that his company seems to appreciate. He thinks about how, just a few moments ago, Peter so easily chatted with Jaz like the old friends they seem to be.

Without even realizing it, Peter has formed relationships, friendships. He’s built his own world that he’s allowed Eli to join.

And Eli’s realizing just how much he appreciates that.

Peter taking the time to show Eli his world.

The rest of the club might’ve come here for Harry, and make no mistake, his playing is nothing short of amazing.

But as far as Eli’s concerned, it might as well be Peter up there on that stage, just standing, smiling. Not doing anything at all.

Because that’s all it would take for Peter to have the attention of the whole world.

* * *

For the next hour, the club is brought to life by the band and Harry, until he takes his final bow covered in a layer of sweat that glows under the stage lights. The rest of the band members take their bows as well, and the applause only grows louder.

“Okay, okay, everyone. Thank you,” Harry says, taking the mic again. “We’re done for the night, but keep this energy up for one of the greatest and most talented piano players I’ve had the privilege of knowing, my dear friend Sidra Carpenter!”

A woman walks up on stage. Harry gives her a soft kiss on each cheek before he takes her hand, raising it in the air. As she starts to play, the focus is pulled away from her, but only because that’s what she’s intending: the club fills with the soft sounds of piano meant to simply exist in the background rather than occupy the spotlight.

“So . . .” Peter leans forward, taking a pretzel from the bowl on the table. “What did you think?”

“Well, I have to say that I’m impressed. It was amazing to watch,” Eli admits, and he’s being honest—to watch the way the players moved, how they lost themselves in each of their instruments, clearly friends and yet still competing with one another to be the best player in a race that had no true winners or losers.

“Do you think I’ve converted you?” Peter asks. “Into a jazz lover?”

“Maybe. I’ll certainly take more recommendations.”

Peter smiles. “I’ll make you a list.”

“And now, we get to work.”

Peter seems confused. “What does that mean?”

“I mean”—Eli smiles—“I’m going to teach you how to flirt.”

In an instant, Peter is defensive. “I know how to flirt.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eli sits back in his seat, crossing his arms. “Flirt with me right now.”