by Meghan Quinn
“Neither.” Turning my head, I lean it against the flimsy back of my chair and ask, “What did you do with that dating tape yesterday?”
“I put it in your mailbox, why?”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Did you put it in mine or did you put it in Kevin’s like that last time you put a coupon for buy-one-get-one-free FroYo at Penguin’s Palace?”
Dylan chews on the side of her cheek as she thinks. “You know, I can’t remember now. Why, does this have to do with the video?”
“Yes!” I throw my hands in the air exasperated. “That dickhead of a producer of ours is forcing—”
“Best keep your voice down, Noely. You won’t want people to hear you,” Kevin says, walking by with his briefcase in hand, causing my entire body to redden from embarrassment. “And for the record, don’t say penis again on air and burn that dress. If you wear it again, you will be fired. We are a morning show, not a gentleman’s club in Ventura. See you tomorrow, ladies.” He waves over his head, leaving me in a wake of utter humiliation.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, my hands over my face now.
“That was embarrassing,” Dylan points out. She’s five years older than me, is married with two kids, but I swear, there are times when I feel more put together than she is.
Speaking through my hands, wanting to get this all out in the open, I say, “Kevin found the tape, and since I used company resources to make it, it was either fire me or make me use the tape as a sweeps segment.”
“Noooooo,” Dylan drags out, with a smile. I have a strong urge to wipe that smile right off her face.
“Yes. And do you know what’s really terrible about all of this? I decided to join this program because I really wanted to meet someone. I wasn’t doing this just to do it. I was doing this, hoping to actually find someone to settle down with.”
“Who says you still can’t do that?”
“Come on, who are you kidding?” I sit up in my chair and level with Dylan. “Kevin is going to turn this into an entire production. I can see it now: cameras on my dates, zooming in on a possible good-night kiss, interviews of unsuspecting guys. No one is going to want to be with me while going through all of that.”
Dylan shrugs. “I don’t know. If the men in this program are as serious as they claim to be, they might understand the predicament you’re in. Plus, think about all the women you can encourage by taking a leap and joining this blind date restaurant project. You might become an inspiration.”
And that’s so Dylan. To put a positive spin on something that seems so bleak.
A dating inspiration? I could jump on board with that.
Chapter Two
NOELY
“Are you signed in?” Lynn, the publicist for Going in Blind asks me.
“I am.” I’m sitting on my couch in a pair of rainbow shorts and a black tank top, a pint of cookie dough next to me, and two phones in hand. One is connected to Lynn and the other is displaying the Going in Blind dating app.
“Perfect. As you can see, it’s pretty self-explanatory. Your profile is already set up with your avatar and the information you gave us. The video you made is just for us, so other daters won’t be able to see it. We want all daters to really go into this program just like any other blind date, not knowing much about looks but only information a friend might tell you about them.”
“Makes sense. What about my name; did my handle choice pass?”
“Yes, ma’am. You can see it at the top there.”
In the top right corner, there is a picture of a Christmas tree—my avatar—and next to it, written in pink is my handle: ShopGirl.
I smile to myself.
I know what you’re thinking. What the hell does ShopGirl have to do with me, a co-host of a morning show? Let me ask you a question. Have you ever seen You’ve Got Mail, the best romantic comedy ever produced? If you haven’t, stop what you’re doing and go watch it now.
I’m not kidding, go watch it.
If you are well versed in the world of romcom, then you know ShopGirl was Meg Ryan’s handle in the movie. I figure if Kathleen Kelly, the owner of The Shop Around the Corner, could find love through an unconventional way, so can I. Let’s just call it a little hint of luck.
And the Christmas tree avatar, well that’s just a play on my name . . . you know, Noely, Noel, Christmas, Christmas tree. Clever, so freaking clever.
“That excites me. I’m glad it was available.”
“Yes, since we’re just getting started, we still have a lot of usernames available. So if you click on your profile avatar at the top, you will see all the information you gave us about yourself is listed.”
Blonde hair, hazel eyes, five five, and an extrovert. Loves a good corn on the cob (the food), enjoys hockey and baseball, is infatuated with Tom Hanks, and will tell you if there is food in your teeth—it’s the neighborly thing to do, after all.
I’m happy with it. We really didn’t get to say much, only the very basics and had about fifty characters to use for a brief description about ourselves. I think I did a pretty good job.
“It looks good. What’s next?” I take a scoop out of my raw cookie dough pint and plop it in my mouth. I went to the spin studio today, cookie dough is my reward.
“Since we have everything set to go on your end, we’re going to run your profile through our system and set you up with some dates. The system might give you multiple dates, or one at first, depends on the matches, but the first one will be the person who best matches your personality and what you’re looking for in a man. That’s what we’ve witnessed within our beta testing so far.”
“So you’re saying my first match should be the man of my dreams?”
Lynn chuckles. “Well, not necessarily, but he should be pretty darn close. Once you both match up, there will be a time and date offered on the app to have dinner at the restaurant. If you accept the date, you must attend. If you’re a no-show, you will be kicked out of the program. We don’t want people to get discouraged from dates not showing up. This is so daters can truly find their match.”
“That’s so great to hear. Will there be a way to talk to the person before the date? I see there is a messenger app on here.”
“There is. You can talk to the person before you meet, but we encourage our daters to wait until the actual date for a more authentic experience.”
Authentic means awkward, but hey, I want to do this the real way, so I’ll stay away from messaging my dates.
“Awesome. Anything else I need to know?”
Lynn pauses, and I’m sure she’s looking at some sort of checklist. I would too if I was doing her job. “Yes, at the end of the date, the app will ask you if you want to meet with your date again. If you say yes, the app will suggest three second-date options around the city based on your compatibility and interests.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah. We’re committed to making this process easy on our daters so we offer ideas for your second date. But after the second date, you’re on your own.”
“That’s fair.” I chuckle. Feeling a little invigorated, slightly nauseous, and a tad excited, I say, “I can’t wait to get started. Do you think there’ll be a match for me soon?”
“We work pretty fast on our end. Within twenty-four hours you should have a notification on the app.”
“Wow. You do work fast. I can’t wait.”
“We’re glad we can accommodate you, Miss Clark.” Lynn pauses, and I shove more cookie dough in my mouth. Two more bites and then I’m going to put it away—can’t be having cookie dough stomach rolls on my date. “I did have a chance to talk to your boss, Mr. Stein. He wanted to put together a piece on the restaurant and use you as a test subject.” Of course he did. I hold back the huff that wants to escape. “I informed him that filming is not permitted in our restaurant, but if he wants to do a piece on our dating program we would be more than happy to sit with him and give him a one-on-one interview.”
Well, thank you, L
ynn.
Smiling inwardly, I say, “You know, that’s a relief, Lynn. I wanted to keep this side of my life private, so I’m happy I won’t have to share my dating experience with the world, at least firsthand. I’m sure I’ll be asked about it, but at least I’ll have some privacy from how awkward I’m sure I’ll be.”
“Glad to help. But I do want to ask you a question. You’re in this for the right reasons, right? I would hate for you to be matched with someone when this is just publicity for you.”
I sit up and loathe that I have to prove my sincerity. Thanks, Kevin. Turd. “I’m absolutely in this for the right reasons. I honestly didn’t want anyone at my job to know because this is personal. But also because I knew they’d want to use it to the show’s advantage. I’m truly sorry Kevin got hold of it. I hope he didn’t upset you.”
“Not at all. We set the ground rules, and he can take us up on the interview if he wants. His choice.”
“He will. I have no doubt in my mind.” I let out a long sigh and say, “I have an early morning so I need to go. Thank you for taking the time to walk me through the app. I’m easily confused, so I wanted to make sure I wasn’t setting up a date with a trout set to be one of your main courses.”
Lynn chuckles. “I can guarantee that will never happen. Have a good night, Miss Clark, and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
I say my thank yous and good nights and hang up. Tossing my work phone to the side, I bring my personal phone close to me and lean back on the couch, getting comfortable, willing the phone to notify me with a match.
I know it will take a little bit of time, but I’m all about instant gratification and therefore have zero patience. Continuing to refresh my dashboard, I talk to my phone. “Who’s going to be my ultimate match? Are you going to be a laid-back surfer boy who’s lived his whole life in Malibu? Are you going to be a teacher with a thick stapler in your pants?” I giggle to myself. “Maybe a doctor who loves doing pelvic exams. Wouldn’t mind one of those.”
After refreshing my dashboard about twenty times, I black out my phone and toss it to the side with the other one. Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the couch cushion and think about the possibility of actually meeting someone. I don’t know when it happened exactly, but coming home one night recently, as I entered my apartment, it struck me how quiet it was. I am surrounded by noise at work, so you’d think I’d want quiet when I get home. But it wasn’t that sort of quiet. It was the quiet that confirms no one awaits you as you walk through the door. The quiet that confirms you’ll be cooking and eating dinner on your own again tonight. The quiet that bounces off the walls when you watch TV and laugh at the stupid humor. The quiet in bed when no one farts next to you. Oh, hang on. That one I want to keep. The quiet I don’t want or like anymore is the one that is my everyday quiet. Because it’s become . . . lonely.
I haven’t had the best of luck in the dating department. Clearly my radar for good men is terrible. I attract the worst kind of men from the clingers, to the stealers—yes, I’ve had men steal from me before—to the perpetual criers. And now that I’m “famous” in Malibu for my morning talk show, the pool of good men has really narrowed.
All I want is someone amusing who can laugh with me, a man who can also connect with me on an intellectual level. If he happens to be handsome, with big hands, impeccable style, and a deep voice that can rock my socks off in bed, then hey, I’ll take it.
Chapter Three
NOELY
“And we’re out. Good show, everyone,” Marcia, one of our producers announces.
I turn toward Dylan, who’s already reaching into her dress and unclasping her bra. The production crew rotates around us, cleaning up and preparing for tomorrow’s show, ignoring Dylan’s impending freeing of her breasts. They’re used to it by now. They know, when the show’s over and the red light has been turned off, Dylan is reaching into her shirt or dress and taking off her bra. I just wish when she did it, she didn’t grunt like a pig digging for truffles.
“Can you wait to do that when you’re in your dressing room?”
“Never,” she huffs, moving from side to side. “This sucker is really gluing itself together. Lend a girl a hand.” She nods for me to help her out.
“Yeah, I’ll pass.” I pull out the drawer to the coffee table in front of us and snag my phone. I forgot it was in my hand when I walked on set and quickly stored it away before we went live.
Five text messages, most likely all from my brother, a few emails and . . .
“Gah! A notification!” I squeal and quickly open up the Going in Blind app.
“A notification? For . . . what?” Dylan grunts.
“Going in Blind. I have a match.”
With hands digging in the front of her dress, through her sleeves, Dylan turns toward me in slow motion, hands stilled, eyes wide. “You have a match. Oh my God, who is it? What does he look like? What does he do? Tell me all the things,” she practically yells.
“Let me look.” I can’t type my password quick enough into my phone, but once I do, I open up the app and wait impatiently as it loads. Finally, it pops up and a heart appears on the screen with an announcement that I’ve been matched with someone.
Oh how wonderfully exhilarating.
If that isn’t something magical to see play out on my phone, I don’t know what is.
Dylan leans over. “What does it say? Who is it? What’s his name?”
“It doesn’t tell you names or anything like that.” The screen shifts to the man’s profile. The avatar is a business tie. Interesting. The man’s handle: WindsorKnot. Okay, so he’s a businessman.
“What does it tell you? Come on.” Dylan nudges me with her shoulder since her hands are still in the front of her dress.
“Let’s see, the guy’s handle is WindsorKnot, he has brown hair, brown eyes. He’s six three and has a type-A personality.”
“Anal retentive, that’s what that means.” Dylan rolls her eyes. “Chad has a type-A personality, which makes living with him a real treat at times.”
“Type-A personalities can be very attractive.” So can brown hair and brown eyes. Tall, dark, and handsome, just the way I like them. Well, I don’t know if he’s handsome, but I’m going to assume he is. Reading the rest of his profile, I say, “He’s allergic to pineapple, had a cat once named Pineapple, and his favorite actor is . . .” I screech. “It’s Tom Hanks. His favorite actor is Tom Hanks. Isn’t that amazing?”
A complacent look crosses Dylan’s face. “So you have one thing in common. That doesn’t get me past the whole pineapple thing. First of all, who’s allergic to pineapple? And when he says he’s allergic to pineapple, is he talking about the fruit, or his dead cat? Can you see how that’s confusing?”
That is slightly confusing to put on a dating profile and a little weird, but maybe it just means the guy has a sense of humor. There has to be more to this man than what’s on his profile, because the system seems to think we are a great match. I mean, we both made clear our love for Tom Hanks, so that has to be a positive right there.
“I think I’m going to go for it.”
Dylan shifts next to me and then flings her arm up in the air, bra in hand. “Ah-ha, I got you, you wryly beast.” She tosses her bra to the side and leans back on the couch, pretending to smoke a cigarette, as if she just had the wrestling match of a lifetime. “You’re going on a date?”
“Why not?” I shrug. “I told myself I’d give every date a chance. I’m intrigued by this non-pineapple-eating businessman.” Without giving it a second thought, I answer yes to a date and the screen gives me three different times to secure at the restaurant. I answer open to all times. It’s polite to be flexible; at least that’s what I tell myself. I’m not desperate at all.
“You’re really doing this?”
“I am. I think this could be it for me.”
I’d be a fool to not at least give it a try.
***
“Why doe
sn’t this app tell me more?” I scream into my phone, holding it close to my face and shaking it.
I’m an hour from my date, I have one leg shaved, my hair is halfway curled, I have no makeup on, and I’m bleaching my non-existent mustache because Dylan said to do it “just in case.” All I want is a little bit of a clue as to who I’m going out with tonight. Just a hint. I know this is supposed to be a blind date, but I have so many questions. Does he like boobs or butts better? My outfit depends on it. If it’s boobs, then strap me up with a push-up bra. If it’s butt, then shuck the underwear, I’m going commando.
Damn you, app! Is it boobs or butt? I mentally shake my fist in the air.
I was half tempted to message him, so damn tempted to strike up a conversation before we met. Dear sir, do you prefer the bouncy breast or the bubbly butt? Please respond as soon as possible because my outfit depends on it. But despite my psychotic obsessing, I held back. I wanted the organic Going in Blind dating experience and I’ll be honest, not my best idea because I’m not loving it. Organic is sometimes not always best, because hell on a high horse, this is stressful.
“How long have you had the bleach on?” Dylan asks, walking into my bedroom with a bag of chips in hand. We might be morning hosts, but we’re also junk food fanatics.
“I don’t know, like twenty minutes.”
Dylan is mid-chew when she says, “Twenty minutes? It’s only supposed to be ten. You’re bleaching your skin now.”
“What?” I fling my body toward my bathroom and bury my face under the facet of my sink, spraying my face and half-done hair with water, trying to clean all the bleach off my upper lip.
Chuckling behind me, Dylan shakes her head. “I’m just kidding. You can’t bleach your skin with that stuff.”
Standing from the faucet, face dripping, I turn on Dylan and reach out my hand only to clasp it around her neck. “I’m going to kill you.”
Laughing some more, Dylan swats me away. “Come on, you need to lighten up. It’s just a date. What’s the worst that can happen?”
I turn toward the mirror and examine my upper lip. “I could show up with a bleached upper lip, looking like Santa Claus with a porn stash, scaring my poor date away.” Standing straight, I motion to my wet hair, unshaved leg, and possibly bleached upper lip. Hysterically and high-pitched, I say, “This is not a good look for me!”