Page 95 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“See.” Peter lets out a frustrated sigh. “I knew I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no! Peter, I swear I wasn’t judging you.” Eli reaches for him again, the warmth of Peter’s skin against his spreading slowly. “I was just surprised.”

“Is it that weird?”

“No, I mean, Peter . . . I want to be a writer too,” Eli tells him. “I just thought it’d be something more serious than that. Not like—not that it isn’t serious if it’s your dream. But I expected . . . I don’t know, like a terminal-illness-diagnosis level of seriousness.”

Way to go, Eli, he thinks. Taste that foot in your mouth?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That came out so wrong.”

“No . . . I mean, yeah. Kinda.” Peter chuckles. “My parents told me that I’d never make a living that way, that I needed to be practical and actually do something with myself. That’s why I picked computer science in a tech city. I didn’t think I had the argument skills to be a lawyer. And blood icks me out.” Peter shudders.

“Why romance?” Eli asks, hoping that he doesn’t sound judgmental. He stands, following Peter to the dryers, taking a few of the items and folding them carefully, even if they’ll just be shoved into a laundry bag for their journey back to Peter’s apartment.

“I guess . . . growing up, I never got a love story for myself, especially not in Comer. I always felt like I was looking over my shoulder. Afraid that someone could just sense that I was gay,” Peter admits, his voice low, almost like he’s ashamed. “I found these stories of people falling in love, sharing themselves with each other. Some of them were gay, some of them Korean, sometimes both, but more often than not, I couldn’t find books that replicated my experience, the things I felt. It was just nice to read about something happy. I always knew what to expect. They meet each other, resist their feelings, one or both of them mess up before they reunite and have that big final moment where they admit their feelings for each other. They got the happily ever after. It made me feel safe.”

He sighs, this time trying his best to laugh, to add levity. It doesn’t work, not on Eli at least.

“Which sounds so stupid when I say it out loud.”

“No,” Eli tells him, folding a muted orange shirt. “It doesn’t.”

Peter shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“I wouldn’t have made money as a writer. My work is terrible, and most writers can barely scrape by with their advances. Plus, I’d have to like . . . the idea of even one person who isn’t me reading my stuff scares the shit out of me, much less potentially thousands of them.” Peter closes his eyes. “I guess I just got tired of having a dream I was too afraid to chase after.”

Eli pauses, Peter’s words hitting him hard, wondering just what he feels in this moment. Because it’s not just sympathy . . . it’s understanding. He remembers all too well those feelings that loved to creep their way to the forefront of his mind as he edited an essay or article, staring at his screen and wondering just what he’s doing, if it’s worth it, if anyone would ever actually read any of it.

It’s oddly a relief to see so much of himself in Peter, at least in this moment. He knows the feeling of chasing a dream for so long only to be disappointed time and time again, the fear that builds, wondering if he’s good enough or if everyone’s been lying to him.

“Thousands of readers? Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” Eli jokes.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I was teasing, Peter.”

“You’re right, though,” he admits. “It’s best to just . . . keep it to myself. At least we’ll always need people to code stock in a warehouse.”

“I don’t think that’s even close to true,” Eli says. “But you know what people will always need?”

Peter looks at him. “What?”

“Happy stories about people falling in love,” Eli tells him. “The world is desperate for them. Always has been, always will be. Storytelling is our oldest art form.” That’s what he’s told himself, at least. What he had to say to keep himself moving forward.

Even when he didn’t believe it all the time.

There’s the most delicate hint of a smile. “Thanks, Eli. I appreciate it.”

Eli feels that sinking in his stomach, wondering if he’s given Peter false hope that he shouldn’t have. Who is he to tell Peter to chase his own dreams when he can’t even leave Vent?

“Tell me about it,” Eli begs, scooting closer. “Your idea.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“I do.” Eli looks him right in the eye, so Peter absolutely knows that he’s telling the truth. “You’re my friend, Peter. I want to hear about what you’re working on.”