Page 9 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

Eli pauses, his hand on the handle of the door. He barely turns, hopeful despite it all, a lesson he never really learns.

“Yeah?”

“Keep an eye out for that application from my friend? His name is Owen.”

He hesitates, feeling like he’s just been punched in the gut, like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs.

“Of course, Michael. Anything else?”

“Nah, you’re good. Thanks, Eli!”

Eli steps out of the office, dumps his iPad on the desk, and sinks into his desk chair. Maybe it’s not the smartest move to have a reaction in a public spot. Michael is right there, just fifteen feet away, a single glass wall separating the two of them.

But he doesn’t care. It’s not like Michael will fire him, that much is obvious. He just lets his head drop back, eyes focused on the ceiling. Only one word comes to mind, a word that perfectly encapsulates just how trapped he is, how frustrated he feels, how his insides keep twisting and twisting.

Eli buries his face in his hands, trying to come down from the panic, trying to relax, trying to feel like his world isn’t coming to some overly dramatic end. But only that one word comes to mind, just one word, whispered under his breath.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Two

Idle Hands, dir. by Rodman Flender

“You could just kill him,” Rose says from the kitchen, shuffling around in the cabinets until she lets out a satisfied “Aha!” and pulls free the unopened bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

“Keith or Michael?” Eli asks her, setting down the remote and picking up another still-warm brownie from the tin on the coffee table.

After the disaster of the informal interview, he’d texted the group chat with Patricia and Rose, telling them to disregard any and all celebrations they’d planned. Rose still stopped by the liquor store on her way home from the school where she teaches, and Patricia set about making her weed brownies the moment she set her bag down at the front door, despite Eli’s protests.

They even gave him the remote, begging him to throw on whatever movie he wanted, promising to sit through it without complaining. He couldn’t even bring himself to pick from the digital catalog on his TV; he ended up throwing on cycle six of Top Model to have something to focus on.

A pitiful way to end a pitiful day, as far as Eli is concerned.

“Why not both?” Rose prompts, crunching loudly.

“I’ll help you hide the body,” Patricia offers, her focus shifting toward the television as one of the contestants burns their caramel sauce. “My cringe true-crime podcast phase has to pay off somehow.”

“You have a spare woodchipper?” Eli asks, resting his head on the pillow in her lap.

“No, but I know a guy.” Her hands find his hair, slowly playing with the curls. Her long nails just barely scratch at his scalp, and he’s convinced he could fall asleep.

He feels that specific combination of being so light yet so heavy at the same time that comes with eating the cannabis butter that Patricia bakes with. He almost wishes that he’d stayed sober, preferring to avoid any substances Sunday through Thursday, but tonight called for it.

That, and he can never turn down Patricia’s brownies. And it helps that she packs them with enough chocolate to avoid the nasty weed taste edibles tend to have.

“What if you deleted the other guy’s application?” Patricia asks, taking a sip of her beer. “You have access to Michael’s emails. And he never remembers a thing.”

“He’s expecting it. Besides, his friend will just check in.”

“I’m sorry, babe . . .” Rose flops onto the other end of the couch, taking just enough time to lift Eli’s legs before she plants them on her own lap.

“It’s fine!” he tells himself. Two words he’s been repeating for hours now. “I shouldn’t have expected anything.”

He should be grateful for what he has.

But there’s still that emptiness he feels. Like he’s fallen behind. He’s twenty-eight, he hates the job he’s stuck at, and there’s no possibility of moving upward. He’s buried under a mountain of student debt that only seems to grow larger the more of it he pays off. He has zero prospects beyond his writing, and thus far that’s gotten him nowhere. And the only person to ever break his heart works twenty feet away from him.

Maybe it’s the weed, and maybe that’s enough of a reason for Eli to swear off substances while his heart is still healing. Eli knows all too well what it’s like to miss Keith.