The Boyfriend Designer - Christopher Harlan Page 0,56
show male stereotypes that don’t really exist. They’re always the unrealistic perfect guys who say and do the right thing no matter what. Women see that, expect it, then when actual men make a mistake, we get shit for it.”
“First off, James, you should get shit for your mistakes. Not just men, all people. That’s why they’re mistakes. And second, what are you talking about? Which perfect guy? Let me think of the last few answers I’ve gotten to my weekly ‘movie boyfriend’ video. Let’s see, there’s Richard Gere—the guy who hires a hooker. There’s the British guy in Love Actually—you know, before he was Rick on The Walking Dead, who’s totally stalking his best friend’s wife. That goes to show you that you can add the right music to any scene and it totally changes the way you see things.”
“Well. . . I guess, but. . .”
“Or Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets. Or as I like to call him, the mentally ill verbally abusive boyfriend.”
“I see what you’re saying, but. . .”
“But what? The guys in rom-coms are usually total assholes—they’re flawed, or arrogant, or emotionally unavailable, or try to control women with their money—male leads suck. It’s the women who are unrealistic. They’re the ones who stick around and try to change all of these total douche bags into men you could actually marry.”
He’s speechless. I’d drop the mic if it wouldn’t be weird.
I take a few more questions from Conor’s loyal followers, all of them along the same lines as the ones I already shut down. Some of the guys take this stuff way too seriously. They think they’re going to trip me up, but I anticipated everything they’re saying just from talking to Conor about the same subjects.
All in all, everyone’s being respectful, though, and I’m actually having a good time. That is, until I see a woman raise her hand.
“Yes? Lady in the front.”
I see the costume before I see her actual face—that’s right, I said costume. I mean, technically, I’m not sure what pieces of clothing you have to be wearing to qualify, but if this were the end of October and I saw this chick on the street, I’d assume she was going to a costume party.
She stands up to ask her question. Are those? Yup, she’s wearing wolf ears. Something tells me. . .
“Hi. Yeah, my question’s not for you, blonde lady.” Oh wow. She bought a ticket, a costume and doesn’t even know who I am even though I’ve been doing most of the talking so far, but I have a feeling this question is going to be for him. “Conor!” she yells. “Conor! Over here.”
She’s waving her arms like she’s trying to single handedly land a plane, yelling every word, even though everyone in the room—and I mean that literally—is looking right at her.
I look at Conor, who looks more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him. Even when I was at the height of my shit-giving, he’s always stayed cool and collected. Right now, cool and collected are about the last two words I’d use to describe him. Anxious and surprised would be my adjectives of choice.
My head goes back and forth between him and crazy costume lady like I’m watching the final match at Wimbledon, and I’m waiting to hear what both of them are going to say to each other.
Conor stands. “How did you get in here?”
Oh. He knows this chick?
“Conor, I’ve been messaging you, but you don’t write me back. I wrote you this morning. Why haven’t you gotten back to me?”
“Because you’re blocked, Jessica. I don’t even see those messages. You know that. You were told.”
What in the holy hell is happening right now? How did we transition from me addressing Conor’s fans to this crazy chick trying to engage Conor in conversation like no one else is in the room? Who is this Jessica?
“But I wanted to tell you that I’ve changed. I’m better now. The meds you always said I needed—well you were right. I saw a guy and I’m good now. So now we can talk about. . .”
Conor looks full out panicked right now. This is live on his social media. It’s not a video that he can just edit and upload without this Jessica going off. I try to jump in to save him.
“Miss. . . ummm, I guess your name is Jessica. . .” She’s not even looking at me. Her gaze is fixed on Conor. “Hey!