Page 3 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“You didn’t get anything?” she asks him.

“I’m cutting caffeine,” he says, digging his iPad out of his bag.

Eli might just be an assistant, but with how forgetful Michael tends to be, and the man’s resistance to taking notes of any kind, Eli carries more responsibility than he’s compensated for.

Keith walks by, rolling up the sleeves of the button-up that Eli gave him three Christmases ago as he heads to the front of the conference room, his eyes meeting Eli’s, his gaze sticking as he reaches for his drink where Eli left it.

Even now, a part of Eli’s brain that he desperately wants to ignore is sending signals to his heart, urging his blood to pump faster, his pulse to leap wildly.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Keith says, slurping from the paper straw that’s already disintegrating in the cup. “Okay! Everyone, thank you for coming in, let’s go ahead and get into it.”

Eli remembers they’d had three meetings about their relationship with HR. The first one promised that their dating wouldn’t interfere with the day-to-day at the site, that the two of them were more than capable of doing their jobs, of remaining focused even though they were working alongside one another.

The second came when Keith got his promotion, and they’d had to sign some paperwork where Keith promised he wouldn’t use his position on the staff to unfairly reward Eli.

The last assured the exact same thing as the first, the only difference being the promise that their breakup wouldn’t make things harder for either of them. Or, more importantly, the company.

Eli stares down at the blank document on his screen, unable to resist the oral fixation to put the end of his Apple Pencil between his teeth before he remembers just how expensive the accessory was, even if it is technically the property of the website. He takes notes when he deems it appropriate, which means that he exits the meeting with just two.

Make sure Michael reads article proposals!

And Read comments for Workplace Drama List story.

Truly gripping journalism.

* * *

Hours later, Eli has exchanged the mundanity of the meeting for the boredom of reading through one of the listicles that Vent has become known for: bite-size bits of “news” that combine written and visual elements in order to tell “a gripping story.”

At least, that’s how Michael once described them to him. So now, instead of taking notes that Michael won’t read over, Eli is instead forced to type out: Clint Eastwood says “Do I feel lucky?” not “Do you feel lucky?” He’s speaking from the perspective of the bank robber, in an email to a staff writer for an article titled “Movie Quotes We Use Every Single Day and We Didn’t Even Know It!”

He’s already had to correct the writer on Darth Vader’s famous “No, I am your father” when the writer wrote “Luke, I am your father,” and he’s sure that it won’t be the last misattributed line of dialogue that he has to look at.

For the time being, though, his growling stomach is enough to force him to save the draft after noting a reminder to send another list of edits to Keith before the end of the day so that he can approve the “buzziness” of the article. He’s so focused on his computer screen that the blue light feels like it’s burning his eyes. The only thing that pulls him away from his work is the container full of lettuce that’s dropped onto his keyboard.

He can’t help the yelp. An instant shot of adrenaline hits his heart before he realizes that Patricia is the Tupperware tosser in question.

“You scared me,” he says, picking up the plastic container with his lunch and setting it off to the side.

“You shouldn’t be sitting that close to your monitor,” she tells him, grabbing the back of a nearby chair at an empty desk and wheeling it over toward Eli. “You’ll hurt your eyes.”

“My doctor says my eyesight hasn’t changed,” Eli replies, pushing his thin metal frames further up his nose. Never mind that his last eye doctor appointment was three years ago, back when he was still on his mother’s insurance.

“Eat, it’s lunchtime.” Patricia picks up her own salad, made fresh that morning in their shared kitchen because—unlike Eli—she actually wakes up when her alarm goes off, and doesn’t hit the snooze button ten times before rushing to get dressed.

She’s also all too aware that Eli’s breakfast was nothing other than a KIND bar, and knows that it’s long gone by now.

“One second, I need to finish something.” Eli opens up his email, remembering that Michael is waiting for his suggested edits on another piece. This one about readers’ “Favorite Skin Care Must Haves!” with hyperlinks that just so happen to link to the product’s Target page, a tiny little disclaimer at the end saying that Vent makes a commission from any items bought through the links.

“Nope.” Patricia leans over, stealing Eli’s wireless mouse and dropping it right into her corduroy tote bag. “It’s lunchtime.”

“Pat . . .”

“I have an hour to eat with you,” Patricia lectures. “You’ve already wasted five of my sixty minutes. Now eat.”

“Fine,” Eli grumbles, taking the metal fork Patricia supplied and snapping the Tupperware lid off. “It’s not like you’re not going to see me tonight.”

“So?” Patricia spears another piece of lettuce and tomato onto her fork, making sure to add a black olive to the combo. “What if I want to see you now?”