Page 2 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“Delish is a video series,” Eli repeats. And one of their more popular ones at that. Sped-up videos that showed homemade recipes that were way more complicated than they had any right to be. “It’s kind of key that they stay videos, or at the very least GIFs. A podcast doesn’t make any sense.”

Michael looks at Keith, not saying anything.

Keith pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, staring at Eli. An expression Eli is familiar with. One he used to find cute.

“Our podcast numbers are strong,” Keith insists. “Our audience is always looking for new content from us. If we can get some of the staff to just sit and talk about the recipes for fifteen minutes or something quick, it’ll work.”

“Well, we’ve got to give the people what they want!” Michael says, beaming, looking to Eli as if he’s searching for permission. “That’s why Keith’s leading this meeting.”

The elevator door dings and the rush of people eager to escape the tension inside is nearly enough to knock Eli over. It’s certainly enough to spill Gwen from IT’s chai latte all over the front of his sweater.

“Motherfucker . . .” Eli stares down at the mess. He sets the drinks down and fishes the handful of napkins he grabbed from the café out of his shoulder bag, soaking up as much as he can, trying not to feel guilty at the way the leftover stickiness of the floor rips into the soles of his shoes when he balances his feet.

“I need to pay rent,” he mutters to himself, hoping that the janitorial crew of the building won’t be angry with him. “I need to pay rent, I need to pay rent, I need to pay rent.”

“Eli?”

Eli dares to look up, the elevator door moving to close before Keith reaches out with a strong arm and holds it back.

It’s hard enough for him to believe that this is the man he gave seven years of his life to. Seven years of going to the movies, laughing over dinner, taking the bus to Ocean Beach where they spent the day reading or watching one of the local volleyball leagues practice while they sat on the sea wall, eating too-greasy breakfast sandwiches and enjoying the breeze.

This is the man that Eli practiced saying “I love you” to for six months before he finally said the words out loud, and Keith smiled at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered. This is the man whom Eli pictured spending the rest of his life with, no matter how cheesy that might sound, maybe getting married even though neither of them was the marriage type, adopting a cat because they both disliked dogs, moving into a new apartment, one they’d pick out together; they’d never leave the city, but Eli thought maybe they’d settle down in the Inner Sunset, or the Richmond. One of the quieter neighborhoods.

This is the man Eli thinks he still might be in love with, despite how Keith looked him in the eye, his lips forming carefully around the words “I think it’s time we ended things.”

He’d planned an entire life with Keith Harper. Even through Keith’s promotions, when Eli transformed from a peer to a subordinate who had to take Keith’s lunch orders every morning at 11:30 a.m. He’d never considered any part of his life “traditional,” but he felt lucky to have Keith, someone who clearly loved Eli for himself.

And then Keith broke up with him on a Saturday morning. It was 8:30, foggy outside. Eli was making French toast that burnt to a crisp in the ten minutes it took for the relationship to end.

Seven years, gone in ten minutes.

Six hundred seconds.

The worst part is that he knows part of himself is still there, in that apartment. Sometimes he was still there in bed with Keith, tracing the Sylvia Plath quote tattoo in typewriter font on his bicep that Keith had gotten just to feel that rush of college rebellion he was so desperate for; sometimes he still smelled the burning egg and bread, the salt of a piece of bacon he’d snuck for himself still fresh on his tongue.

Keith walks forward, hitting the button to hold the door open before squatting down next to Eli to take a bundle of napkins, their fingers touching for the briefest of moments before Keith goes to clean up the spilled drink.

“You okay?” he asks, and Eli hates how he can tell that Keith means it. That he genuinely cares.

There’s still a piece of Eli that misses that.

A piece that’s larger than Eli would ever care to admit.

Keith’s green eyes meet his, that perpetual five-o’clock shadow ghosting Keith’s jawline, the slight chap of his lips.

“I think you might’ve gotten a bit on your sweater,” Keith says when Eli doesn’t reply to his question.

“It’s fine, it’s wool.” He can’t even see any potential stains forming.

“You always did love a good sweater.” The past-tense words are doing their best to sound familiar, comforting, but Eli doesn’t want them. “I’ll see you at the meeting, I guess . . .” Keith says to him.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches as Keith takes the sopping-wet mess in his hand and tosses the napkins into the nearby trash bin.

The elevator doors go to close again, and Eli rushes back to his feet, rearranging the drinks in his arms. He nearly collides with Jackson, one of their accountants, almost ruining more drinks as he speed-walks toward the conference room.

Michelle, another writer at Vent, holds the door open for Eli, taking one of the drinks from him.

Coworkers murmur their thanks as he rounds the table, setting out the drinks and food in their familiar spots, grateful that everyone has their preferred seating, and even more grateful that he and Gwen drink the same thing, so he can simply offer his iced chai to her.