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It was always going to end in disaster. Ever since they hit the market, automatons were the talk of the town. With such a heavy cost attached, there weren’t many of them, so they became something akin to modern-day folklore. Always spoken of as an outlier, while never touching anyone’s life personally. People feared them because they didn’t understand them. Most only saw them as machines, but Alexander thought they were magnificent.

Lifelike in a way nothing that had come before was. So humanlike, it was nearly impossible to pick them out of a crowd. Alexander contemplated purchasing one for years, observing each new series and the improvements they brought.

Series A wasn’t much of a series at all. The automatons didn’t look human in the slightest. Plastic faces with painted-on grins. Metal bones and visible machinery whirring beneath their translucent chests. They even had a hatch in their stomachs where maintenance was performed. Series B wasn’t much of an improvement aside from solid skin hiding away their bells and whistles.

Over time, scientists like Emily Broussard brought their men to life. They laughed and smiled and showed emotion. They had hobbies and favorite television shows. Homes like Ms. Broussard’s Home for Bountiful Beaus produced the closest thing to artificial humanity mankind had ever seen.

A member on the board of directors for Davenport Developments—the company Alexander’s father headed—purchased one a few years earlier, and he often tagged along to work. It was around the time Alexander was just beginning his internship, fresh out of college. Over the span of three years, Alexander and the automaton, Anthony, became good friends. On the days he would visit, Anthony often wandered the halls of Davenport Developments with a curious look on his face. There was always a feeling of urgency seeping out of him, like he knew his time was limited, and he wanted to learn as much about the world as he could while he had the chance.

They shared lunches in the office break room, Anthony asking question after question about his time in college. His childhood. Anthony even inquired about matters of the heart. Admittedly, Alexander didn’t have much of a story to tell when it came to love. Between school and his job at the company, he wouldn’t have much time for romance in the foreseeable future.

Then Anthony disappeared. For months, Alexander would ask about him, and Anthony’s partner, Bradley, downplayed his disappearance by claiming Anthony fell ill and was recovering. After three months, Alexander grew more and more concerned. Eventually, Bradley admitted to returning him to the home from where he was purchased.

Alexander couldn’t comprehend the words as they were spoken. Bradley gave a laundry list of complaints about Anthony. From the way Anthony failed Bradley as a lover, to Anthony’s inability to maintain their home, the man lamented for half an hour. But in Alexander’s mind, Anthony wasn’t a piece of furniture meant to be discarded once it lost its sparkle. He was a man. More of a man than some men Alexander had met. As soon as he wrapped his head around the situation, Alexander decided he needed to purchase Anthony. To give him a loving home where he could simply exist with no expectations, no demands, and no more fear.

When Alexander called Ms. Broussard to inquire about re-homing Anthony, she broke the news that Anthony had been decommissioned. Ripped to shreds, torn down for parts. Alexander remembered the chill that spread down his spine as he heard the news. Anthony was his friend, and he’d been powered down and ripped apart, limb by limb, bolt by bolt.

“Oh, Mr. Davenport,” Emily Broussard soothed, her voice smooth like caramel with a Cajun twist at the end. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. As I tell my beaus; Never fear, Mother’s here. I can craft a beau who can give you a love story for the ages.”

But Alexander didn’t want just any automaton. He wanted his friend. There had never been a romantic or sexual connection between the men; Alexander simply wanted to keep him safe. To protect him from a world that would, and did, tear him apart.

He declined the offer, but Ms. Broussard reminded him the door was always open, sweetly saying, “Even the unlovable can have a love story for the ages with one of my beaus, sweetheart.” A backhanded compliment? Probably, but Alexander simply sighed and shrugged it off.

With rescuing Anthony no longer being an option, Alexander turned his eye on Bradley. For months, he bit his tongue and bided his time, keeping his ears open, listening to gossiping coworkers while pretending he was working. For months, Alexander treated the company like a midnight garden, tiptoeing around, catching whispered rumors like fireflies.

In the end, Bradley Pascal’s undoing was swift and merciless. He was walked out of the office in handcuffs, indicted on charges of embezzlement and money laundering. When Bradley was led past him, Alexander smiled kindly and said, “For Anthony.”

Six months later, Alexander’s father passed, leaving the company to him. There were more office whispers; calling him unfit to lead, taking bets on how long he would last before cracking like an egg. He kept his nose down, working endlessly to fill his father’s shoes. Somewhere along the way, he, and the rest of the company, realized Alexander was a natural. A Davenport, through and through, like his father, and his father before him.

Two years after taking the helm, Alexander purchased a copy of Forbes with his smiling face on the cover. King of the Mountain, they called him. He wasn’t sure about that, but he knew better than to turn up his nose at a compliment.

After three years, Alexander worked fourteen-hour days, rarely going anywhere but work engagements, the office, and home. His mother, Twylah, lived on a small, private island near the Gulf of Mexico. She had a small bakery, by the coast. From sunup until sundown, the air on Sugarplum Island smelled divine from the hodgepodge of sweet sugary treats and sea salt wafting through the twelve-home town. Alexander visited as often as he could, but his free time was sparse and sporadic, so he never knew when he would have a moment’s peace. He didn’t mind it, though. The constant hustle and bustle. The never-ending grind. It was busy work, but Alexander thrived, carving a life for himself and propelling his company to even higher heights.

While he had a large trust fund, Alexander used none of it, only living off the money he made for himself. Within a year and a half, he could buy a mansion in Hunnington Park, one of the nicest gated communities in Dallas.

As lovely as the community was, his neighbor was anything but. Martin Moore. God. The man was unbearable. An aloof drunk and alleged exhibitionist who held wild, nearly nightly sex parties at his home, three doors down from Alexander. They met a handful of times at block parties and the country club Alexander paid exorbitant fees for but rarely got to visit.

On one of the few rare occasions Alexander had a bit of time to himself, he decided to play a few holes. Unfortunately, Martin was there as well and talked him into playing together. Over the next two hours, they discussed their careers and lack of personal lives.

While Alexander was driving his tee into the ground, another cart pulled behind theirs, and he looked over his shoulder to find a man cuddled up next to another. The man driving the cart was staring down at the young man like he was the most precious thing in the world. The younger man looked up, and flashes of pink light fluttered in the corner of his eyes.

Alexander had seen the lights before, each time Anthony was happy while he would visit the office. He had other colors, too. Blues for when he was sad. Orange when he was nervous. Mostly, it was endless beams of pink-pink-pink when Alexander and Anthony spent time together.

Martin noticed the lights, too, because he knelt beside Alexander and gave a sly, conspiratory smile. “Have you ever heard of those i-Series beaus, Davenport? I’ve been thinking of getting one.”

“Yeah?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah. With my busy schedule, I’m never going to find someone any other way. I’d rather have a human, obviously, but this way, I’ll have someone waiting at home for me, even if I only get to see them a few hours a day. The life of an executive is lonely. You know that better than anyone.”

“I guess,” Alexander said, shrugging his shoulders. He put the thought to bed, but as he crawled into his cold, lonely bed that night, his mind crept back to the conversation. Alexander browsed Ms. Broussard’s website for an hour, looking through all the options. When he saw mention of lap sitting and lonely beaus needing to find their forever, Alexander made a choice.

A call was made. Inventory consulted and an order placed. But that wasn’t what it felt like to Alexander. He wasn’t buying a machine, he was buying a person. Someone he could hold with his own two hands when his schedule allowed and he needed to feel a warm body by his at night.

In order to have their automaton perfectly personalized, Alexander and Martin took online classes and a seemingly endless number of tests to check their knowledge. Alexander knew Martin cheated on his, but he didn’t know how. The man knew nothing of automatons or the suggested methods of providing them a good life. Granted, “Suggested” was italicized, and there was an asterisk beside it in the workbook. At the bottom was a footnote that read, “While our goal is providing a loving home for our wonderful househusbands, we at Ms. Broussard’s Home for Bountiful Beaus know the man is the king of his castle, and the level of love and comfort provided to their beau is entirely at each owner’s discretion.” Alexander didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like it one bit.

Almost one year after placing the order for their beaus, Alexander and Martin stepped into Ms. Broussard’s home for the first time. Alexander knew luxury firsthand, but even he was amazed by the home’s interior.

The grand entryway of the mansion was the picture of opulence and elegance. There was white marble in the foyer with stunning swirls of pinks and purples. A grand stairwell stood at the side of the room, leading up to hallways in two directions. Wherever each side led to was anyone’s guess, as a gorgeous, purple drapery system hid the halls behind them away. Bathed in soft, creamy light, the foyer had an almost dreamlike feel.

Inside the Louisiana mansion’s massive foyer, dozens of bountiful beaus wore tuxedos in every color of the rainbow. There were shades of purple and silver and glorious greens, sparkling under the chandelier’s lighting, which sent pretty fractals across the floor, making the room look electric. He scanned the space, seeking out the man from the picture Emily Broussard had sent him a few week back. i-719, Ms. Broussard had called him. They would need to pick a better name when they returned home, per Ms. Broussard’s training material. Selecting a name would bond them. It would tether them, and Alexander wanted that connection.

There was a ballroom to his right, and when Alexander peered through the archway, he spotted two men clinging to the wall like shadows, doing everything in their power to avoid being seen. Alexander knew without a shadow of a doubt that the beau on the left was his betrothed. Well, his potential boyfriend, Alexander supposed. He’d read Ms. Broussard’s training material thoroughly, combing through each entry to ensure he knew what to expect. The documentation explained his bountiful beau would fall fast, and he would fall deeply, just as soon as they bonded. But from the look of the two men clinging to each other like frightened fawns, Alexander got the impression his beau was already spoken for. The realization caused a bitter twinge of disappointment, but Alexander managed to harden his face the same way he always had when he realized he’d been unlucky in love. Pushing past his crippling self-doubt, Alexander held his head up high, stretched a smile across his face, and headed toward the men.

The man on the left held out a hand for Alexander to take. It seemed a bit formal, Alexander thought, but then, he’d never met a beau who had been tailor-made for him. He supposed there wasn’t much need for familiarity when forever was at hand.

“Mr. Davenport. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I pray I exceed your expectations.” His voice was deep, but there was a gentleness to it. A fearful tone that he seemed to be having trouble masking. Alexander didn’t need him to mask anything, though.

Alexander stared at him with hopeful eyes. “It’s so good to finally meet you.” He lifted i-719’s hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss against his skin. “I’m going to treat you well. I promise.”

i-719’s mouth opened and closed a few times as if he hadn’t been expecting the promise, but was happy to have it, nonetheless. He darted his eyes to his friend, who was shaking as he watched Martin approach, a glass of brandy in hand, droplets sloshing over the rim with each striding step the drunken man took. Alexander was reminded of the three bourbons and two whiskey sours he watched the man knock back during the limousine ride from Dallas to New Orleans.

“Who’s a pretty boy?” his inebriated neighbor slurred. “You’re a pretty boy.” When he was finally in front of him, Martin pulled his beau in for a sloppy hug, belching into the man’s ear as he reached down and squeezed his butt.

i-719’s hand immediately balled into a fist, and Alexander noticed small droplets of what looked like blood dripping down to the floor. Another sign Alexander chose to overlook.

“Are you okay?” he whispered into i-719’s ear, startling him. When he looked up at Alexander, his eyes were red and watery, but he held back his tears as hard as he could.

“I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Davenport,” he said through a cracking voice. “I’m s-so happy to f-finally meet you.”

The sound of fear and hurt in his voice tugged at Alexander’s heartstrings. “Martin’s a drunk, but he doesn’t seem like a cruel man. I don’t think he’ll hurt your friend.”

i-719’s jaw trembled. “Promise?”

Alexander didn’t know how to promise the other beau’s safety, because Alexander hardly knew Martin. They may have been neighbors for years, but practically the only things Alexander knew about him was he had a drinking problem, apparently, and that his lawn was often unkempt, bringing down the neighborhood’s property value by simply existing.

For the next hour, the four of them shared champagne and spoke of their lives. i-719 told Alexander about his training in the art of keeping a home, and of the way he and his friend, i-720 would visit the Southern swamp at evening time, describing their hopes for a happy home. They were hoping to live close to each other, so when Alexander stated he and Mr. Moore lived only three houses apart, i-719 failed to hide the clicks and cracks coming from the back of his throat, or the tears pooling in his eyes. It was like he was awaiting execution, only to be offered a last-minute pardon.

Alexander didn’t know it then, but he would later learn i-719 and i-720 had unintentionally bonded to each other during their time training to become househusbands in Louisiana. Most of Ms. Broussard’s paperwork spoke in vague—and oftentimes extremely misogynistic—riddles. It detailed the many ways a househusband was expected to keep their suitors satisfied. But the book was more explicit about things househusbands should never do; lines that should never be crossed. It would have been one thing if she spoke about things such as adultery or murder, but did the men she raised really need to know hundreds of ways to make themselves submissive to the men who purchased them?

Alexander didn’t want submission. He wanted someone to dote on. A man who wouldn’t break his heart like the ones who came before. Alexander’s career was demanding, and it proved to be too much for the lovers of his past to handle. With no plans of leaving the company and losing his family’s legacy in the process, Alexander Davenport found himself at an impasse. He was a man on an island with no one but himself for company. He thought, perhaps, that an i-Series beau could be the answer he’d been looking for. He needed someone on whom he could rain affection upon in the time he had left to shower them.

That night, in the back of the limousine, long after Martin Moore passed out with his face pressed against the window, Alexander watched i-719 and i-720. They kept staring at each other, shell-shocked. Like their world was ending. Like they didn’t think this day would ever actually come. The moment a tear slipped down his new beau’s cheek, Alexander closed his eyes, feigning sleep to give the pair a moment together. He felt it was the least he could do.

Alexander felt guilty for eavesdropping, but he couldn’t think of a way around overhearing them. He tried to recall old songs he used to love, hoping the memories might distract him, but it was no use. The men were trying to whisper, but they weren’t very successful.

“My love,” i-719 pleased, his voice quiet and insistent, his tone frantic like he was begging for his life. “Baby, please. I need you to be strong. You have to pull yourself together. We can’t let them see us like this. We talked about this.”

“G-Goose.”

At the time, Alexander assumed he’d meant to say Gus, and later, Gus would allow him to believe it until the truth finally came to light once it all came to a head.

“I’m here, Duck,” Goose promised. “I need you to hold it together. Can you do that for me?” Goose sucked in a sharp breath when Martin mumbled something in his sleep. Once he was snoring again, the beaus continued, making declarations meant to see them through the trauma of losing each other.

“But I can’t,” Duck sobbed, his voice muffled as if he had his face buried in Goose’s neck. “I can’t go home with him. I don’t belong to him, I belong to you. This ain’t what I want. Please, Goose? Please, just make it better. You can always make everything better. I ain’t gonna be able to make it better on my own.”

Alexander could hear the pain in his voice. Duck’s country accent—something Martin had requested during his purchase, because he wanted a househusband who sounded purposefully stupid—was thick and full of terror.

“I’ll figure it out,” Goose whispered. “We’ll find a way.”