The Boyfriend Designer - Christopher Harlan Page 0,4

No need to waste any more time on this one.

Before we move on, let me just give one more shout out and congrats to Shoshana for growing a channel so fast. Respect. I took almost three years to get to a million, and we’re still growing, so kudos to her on her success.

But this is a game, after all, and after careful deliberation, I’m going with. . .

Pass.

And a hard pass at that, fellas. Not the good hard, either.

Sorry, Shoshana, nothing personal.

Next.

Shoshana—Present Day

“What the hell is ‘Smash or Pass’?”

I don’t know what to do.

I mean, I guess I could scream. Screaming is always an option, isn’t it?

It’s a coin toss, though.

There are the kind of screams that inspire the people around you to dial 9-1-1 as fast as they can, and then there are the socially acceptable happy ones—like from the girl who just got the 1 carrot rock wrapped around her dainty little finger in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

Unfortunately there’s no guy trying to put a ring on it at the moment, but I’m gonna let one fly anyways.

“AHHHHH!”

Okay, that was a big mistake. Now everyone in this Starbucks just thinks I’m crazy.

But I’m happy, dammit. So sorry-not-sorry.

“Miss, are you alright?” I turn around to this cute little thing who looks like she’s feeling the complete opposite of what inspired my happy scream.

“Alright?” I ask. “I’m better than alright. I just hit seven hundred and fifty one thousand!” Cute Little Thing stares at me like I’m as nuts as everyone thinks I am, but I don’t blame her, I did just let out a blood curdling scream.

I really need to make friends with context.

“Excuse me?” She ask. I see that her name’s Sabina as I read the little name tag the giant corporation forces her to wear over the tattoos peeking out from the edge of her collar.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, touching my hand to my face. “Followers. I just hit seven hundred and fifty thousand followers. I’m a vlogger.” It still sounds weird to hear myself say that out loud, and probably even weirder to talk about a fake job to someone who has to pour coffee for people all day.

“Oh,” she says back, looking more confused than before the scream. “Ummm. . . congrats, I guess, that’s cool.”

“Thanks Sabina.” We’re on a first name basis now—me and Cute Little Thing. We’re practically sisters. She raises her eyebrow when I use her name. “Your shirt.” I tell her, pointing at her name tag. “You probably forget that the giant evil corporation branded you, huh? But then again it’s not totally evil, it does deliver white cups of goodness upon me every day, so glass half full I suppose.”

She looks down again. She’s tired and hates this job—I can tell already, and she’s definitely not in the mood for me to go full Shosh on her—but I am who I am. “Okay, sure.” she says, not knowing what else to say. “I’d really love it if you didn’t yell any more, okay? I think you scared everyone.”

“Wait, I’ll help you out.” I stand up and face the angry crowd of caffeine zombies. “Everything’s fine people, nothing to see here except my subscriber base widening before my very eyes, which you can’t actually see unless you subscribe to my YouTube channel—which you should. But I’m sorry if I alarmed you, go about your business.” I sit back down. I’m not sure if that little display made them think I was less or more insane.

Eh, who cares, I just hit seven hundred and fifty thousand followers!

“Thank you.” Sabina says. “I think. I need to get back to the customers before they lynch us both.”

“Understood. And Sabina?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you one question?”

“As long as you can ask it in five seconds or less, yeah. That one old lady is looking at me like she wants my head on a platter.”

I turn around. She’s not joking. That octogenarian looks like she might very slowly stab someone if she doesn’t get her Americano fast. “Don’t worry.” I tell my nervous new friend. “She’s just a socially acceptable drug addict looking for her fix, she can wait another few seconds before she starts tweaking. But she is kind of ancient—maybe a few seconds is asking a lot.”

Sabina snickers. “So in that analogy am I her socially acceptable drug dealer?”

Me and Sabina are soul sisters. The fates must have brought us together.

“Technically it does, but we’re in the no judgement zone, don’t worry.”

She smiles.