Page 49 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“Then quit! We could always help support you?” John says these last few words very carefully, almost as if he’s unsure.

“It’s not about the money,” Eli tells him, even though that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The single perk of working at Vent is the slightly-above-average pay and the benefits that come with working for Michael. Eli can’t imagine how expensive his wisdom teeth removal would’ve been without their dental plan.

Besides, he’s taken enough money from both of them. Even before Rue met John, the hospital care for Eli’s father had done a number on her savings. Then therapy and counseling for both of them, Eli’s gender-affirming care, student loans, rent. At least in the early days.

So, borrowing more money isn’t exactly something Eli wants to do right now.

“You could try freelancing, there’s good money in it,” John says, rinsing the knife and setting it on the drying rack. “You shouldn’t be miserable in a job you hate. It eats away at you.”

Eli appreciates the advice, but John is the director of the Museum of Fine Arts in Berkeley, with a résumé full of positions in galleries all over New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, procuring artists and their work for exhibits. He’s been doing the work that he loves for three decades now, so it’s easy for him to just tell Eli to quit.

If Eli quits, that’s five years of his life down the drain. Five years of learning nothing other than that he can barely tolerate the smell of coffee, how to do double-sided collated scans, and that he has to bring cash to the UPS office down the street because their card reader is always broken. He’s gotten no experience in writing, is barely any better at self-editing, and has no audience of readers eager to follow him somewhere else.

He’ll have nothing.

Then again, Michael might just fire him anyway for pulling this article stunt. But at least then he’d be going out swinging.

A moment later, Rue and Les both come back into the kitchen.

“Hey, kid.” Eli snags a crouton from the bag on the counter. “How was cello practice?” There’s a certain awkwardness that comes with being sixteen years older than your younger sibling. By the time Les was born, Eli was in his junior year of high school, and the last thing some dumb teenager wants to do is help raise their younger sibling. But through the years, the two of them have gotten more comfortable with one another, their odd friendship cemented when Les told Eli they’re non-binary, asked for his help with their clothes, their hair, how they wanted to present.

Because nothing can bond two half siblings together like a little gender dysphoria.

“Fine.” They wrap their arms around Eli, giving him an awkward hug. “Are you coming to the recital in January?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, dude.” Eli rakes his hands through their short hair. “John said there were some girls who were messing with you?”

“Yeah.”

“We talked about it,” Rue says, turning off the burners on the stove and grabbing her strainer for the pasta noodles. “I’m calling their instructor first thing in the morning. He is not going to take my money and sit there while my baby gets bullied.”

“Mom . . . it’s not that serious,” Les protests.

“Hey,” Eli whispers, pulling Les in closer. “Take some oranges and put them in a sock. It won’t leave any bruises.”

“Seriously?” Les asks.

“Eli!” Rue glares at her son. “Don’t you dare.”

“What did I say?” He feigns innocence. “Les, did I tell you to do anything?”

“Nope!” Les says quickly, their voice going higher at the lie.

“See?”

Rue eyes both of her children suspiciously, probably thanking God that the two of them didn’t grow up together. She might have grayer hair if they had.

For the rest of the night, he’s safe from any talk of a relationship. At least, that’s what he thinks. It isn’t brought up again until his mother offers to drive him across the bridge and back to his apartment. Eli claims it would be too out of the way, but eventually accepts a ride to the BART station because he knows his mother won’t let it go.

“Are you sure you don’t want Oliver’s number?”

“Who is Oliver?” Eli asks, turning up the heat to warm his hands.

“Our intern, he’s a very nice boy. Very handsome. Studied Latin in school!”

“Why? It’s a dead language.”

“Still, it’s impressive!”