Page 92 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“Well, she’s right.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eli buries himself in the hoodie, breathing in the warmth, but even that simple act is not without its costs as he inhales that familiar cedar scent. Here, lingering on the hoodie, it’s concentrated, like a poison working its way into Eli’s veins.

“Thank you.”

Peter simply nods. “How’s the article going?”

Eli blows a raspberry with his tongue. “I’m stuck.” Rather than daring to explain himself, Eli pulls his phone out of his pocket, going to the article and handing it to Peter to read.

“‘Lavender Country,’” he reads, his accent coming through softly.

“I thought it was a good title.”

“I like it.” Peter goes quiet as he begins to read, his thumb slowly scrolling to carry him down the page until he reaches the list of bullet points that Eli has yet to elaborate on. “Huh . . .”

“‘Huh’?” He straightens. “What ‘huh’? Is there something wrong?”

Peter opens his mouth again, and then closes it.

“Peter, please. I’m begging you. If you have feedback for me, please give it. This article is about you.”

“I think . . . I think the article is sad.”

Eli finally feels himself unclench.

“And maybe that was the point, for where you’re coming from.”

“No, you’re right.” Eli takes his phone back, speed-reading the article.

“Don’t get me wrong, I mean, it’s not like it was a utopia. But everyone thinks that the South is totally backward, full of nothing but homophobes and racists and transphobes. But . . . I have happy memories too.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Eli offers, opening the voice memo app on his phone. “Can I record this?”

Peter nods. “How do you want me to do this?”

“Just like we’ve been doing. Tell me about the positive things you experienced growing up. Tell me how you feel about how others represent where you’re from.”

“Well . . . I mean . . .” Peter seems to think. “I know it’s popular to shit on where I come from, especially deeper South states like Alabama or Mississippi. When I came here, I was so excited to know other Korean people, to feel like I had a community. And I had friends in my program at Berkeley, but sometimes . . . I don’t know.”

“Keep talking through it,” Eli presses; he doesn’t want Peter to let go of this.

“Sometimes, they’d surprise me by making fun of my accent, especially when it came through when I was speaking Korean. They’d call me a hick and laugh at me, ask if I’d just gotten back from the cornfields.”

“Not Korean enough for the Korean community, not gay enough for the queer community.”

Peter nods. “It was easy to feel . . . stuck. But it wasn’t all bad in Comer; there were nice people too. Southern hospitality always has a way of coming through. And the food, the food was amazing. Y’all on the West Coast don’t know a thing about pulled pork.”

“I can’t argue with you there.”

“And there was this yearly jazz festival that my parents would take me to, that’s where I fell in love with it for the first time. Country music too; some of it’s ass, but classic country is so heartfelt. And there were plenty of kind people too. Our neighbors always loved me, they said I was such a cute kid. And things were . . . I don’t know, quiet. Everything here, or even in Berkeley, it’s so loud. Everyone’s going all the time, no one says hello to each other really.”

Eli nods, not saying anything to let Peter get his thoughts out naturally.

“There’s so much good about the South. The music, the people, the community. I spent so many years of my life feeling isolated, but I also remember the people. I never knew a stranger when I lived in Comer. Even when people were mean, it was like . . . I hate when people make fun of the South for being backward when here, people will do everything behind your back, under a veil of kindness, or like they’re doing you a favor. At least back in Georgia, people would say that stuff to my face. I never had to second-guess their intention.”

Peter peers ahead at the washing machines before his gaze finally settles back on Eli.

“Sorry, I feel like I ranted.”