The Blind Date

by Landish, Lauren

  “Is there an option for dick size in addition to height?” I ask quickly.

  “Is there an option for cup size?” Eli challenges.

  “I’d answer. I’m fine if some guy prefers the itty bitty titty committee or the big rack pack.” Truthfully, I don’t fall into either of those categories but rather, somewhere in the middle with a perky C-cup. And honestly, I’m not screening for monster dicks. I like my insides the way they are, thank you very much, and don’t need them ruined by some huge appendage.

  “Focus, people. And what else—takes care of himself? Doesn’t need to be Adonis or anything, but healthy. Agree?” Arielle continues. “Blond or brunet?”

  “Brunet.” I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always liked dark-haired men. Might be because I'm blonde and so is my entire family, so I naturally want something different.

  “Light eyes or dark eyes?”

  “Either or.”

  “Left or right-handed?”

  “What kind of question is that?” I demand, chuckling. “Do people have strong preferences on that?”

  Arielle shrugs but lifts her brows expectantly.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I have to say there’s something strange about listing off attributes as check marks, as if the person is a fast-food menu item. I can’t think of anything more humiliating for a guy to know there’s some chick on the other side saying, “Can I have a tall, dark, and handsome stud with a big cock, please?”

  At the same time, I’m sort of digging being able to do it, so call me crazy.

  “All right, now we’re at the good stuff,” Eli says, looking over Arielle’s shoulder. “What qualities do you want in your potential man?”

  “I want—”

  At that moment, Raffy goes crazy barking up at me as if saying, You don’t need a new man, Momma, I’m all the man you’ll ever need!

  “Raffy, will you hush?” I scold him, though I’m smiling at his silly antics as he licks my face. He smells like sausage, and I think I know where those disappeared to, and it’s not Eli’s stomach as I thought. “Momma’s trying to think!”

  “Oh, he just wants snuggles,” Arielle says, handing me the tablet as she scoops Raffy up. In two seconds, she has him inverted and in her arms like a baby, her right hand rubbing his belly.

  Raffy’s in heaven, and honestly, Arielle looks really good playing dog momma. She’d make a great real momma when the time’s right, but for now, I’m just glad I can think. Though I do notice that Eli is staring pretty directly at Arielle with Raffy in her arms too. It feels intrusive to see the longing in his eyes, so I drop my eyes to the tablet.

  “What do I want . . . hmm,” I murmur. It strikes me then that I’ve never been asked that before, nor have I ever given it much thought beyond a couple of ideas of what I thought a good man should be.

  For the first time, I’m asking myself, What do I want in a man?

  “Intelligent, caring,” I say, my voice picking up conviction as I start checking off boxes on the screen. “Someone who knows how to listen to a woman and respect her opinion and admit when he’s wrong. But I also want someone who will tell me when I’m not right, too. He has to have a job. I’m no sugar momma. And he should be driven and know where he’s going in life.”

  “Damn, girl,” Arielle breathes, breaking the silence and spell, “you just described Prince Charming. I’m not trying to throw acid in your apple juice, but I don’t think a man like that exists, though I think Eli comes pretty damn close.”

  Eli flinches as if electricity shot through him with Arielle’s words.

  Her comment only serves to remind me how unlikely it is to think I’ll find a worthy relationship from this, so I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

  The interface is really easy. The survey’s usually picking from a list of four to eight options with a few ranked choice questions. The questions are actually really funny, too. Like Rank these superhero movies from most likely to watch on a date to least likely: Batman Begins, Avengers, Wonder Woman, Kick-Ass, Black Panther.

  I’m not sure what sort of insight into my personality and psychology that’s supposed to answer, but I answer to the best of my ability. I move on, continuing down the list, finding some questions that seem silly and some that make me really think deeply, until finally, I finish. “And . . . done!”

  I follow the last few prompts, agreeing to let the Robot Matchmaker work its magic, and then a heart appears on the screen. It fills up with red pixels and then flashes back empty, filling up again. “This is better than the spinning circle of rainbow death, but the empty heart is a bit of a gut-freeze every time. Maybe I’ll tell River that?” As soon as I say it, I know I won’t because then I’d be admitting that I tried his app. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but still, it’s not the kind of thing you share with your big brother.

  Suddenly, the tablet goes apeshit, dinging like a pan of popcorn. Looking, I realize it’s all ‘matches’ from guys it’s paired me with. I’m sifting through their profiles when there is one that’s so ridiculous.

  “Check this one out,” I tell Arielle while Eli refills our wine glasses. “Kevin H: Roses are red, violets are blue, baby that ass makes a part of me want to get to know the inside of you.”

  “Uhm . . . no,” Arielle says. “That’s disgusting and stupid. I mean, he hasn’t even seen your ass. What if it’s pancake flat and saggy?” She slides a cracker through the artichoke dip and stuffs the whole thing in her mouth. Rolling her eyes, she moans, “God, this is better than sex.”

  I glance toward the kitchen, but Eli seems to have not heard. Something tells me he’d take it as a personal affront and tell Arielle ‘challenge accepted’, but that’s just a guess. I dip a cracker in the dip myself and chew thoughtfully. I honestly wouldn’t know since it’s been so long, but the snack is delicious.

  Over our next round of wine and snacking, we go through more of the matches. “Who’s the guy there with the high match? Let’s check him out!”

  I open up the profile for MarkD 2176. Obviously, he’s not using his full name either, which is a plus in my book.

  “Whooo, look at that,” Arielle says as she reads along with me. “Six foot three—“

  “Means jack shit,” Eli interrupts.

  “Dark hair, hard worker, detail-oriented, loyal, ambitious,” Arielle continues as though Eli never said a word.

  “Is this a resumé or a dating profile?” Eli says grumpily.

  “What’s your deal? I thought you wanted me to date?” I ask him.

  “I do. The idea of some robot matchmaker being better at it than fate just seems . . .” He seems like he’s searching for a word but doesn’t find it and ends with a shrug instead. “But you should do it. You deserve the best, Riley.”

  “Thanks, Eli,” I tell him, realizing that my using the app might not be his issue.

  “Are you going to message this guy?” Arielle asks, pointing at Mark’s profile.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I tell her nervously. “I mean—”

  “Ehhnt,” she says like she’s a game show buzzer. “Wrong answer. Either you do it, or I snatch the tablet and send him a message telling him you need some D.”

  “Oh, hell no,” I protest, cradling the tablet to my chest. “I’ll send him something, I promise. But I need to think about it, okay?”

  Arielle gets up, threatening as she air-types, “Dear Mark, I like it rough, dirty, and with no lube. I want you to spank me and fill me with cum until it leaks out like a cream pie. Are you into that? Wanna be my dark fantasy come true?”

  I gasp. Eli chokes on his fancy wine.

  “I think I can do better than that,” I tell Arielle.

  “I doubt it,” Eli whispers under his breath. Louder, he says, “Come on, Raffy, let’s get your nightly walk in too. Your back teeth must be floating.”

  Raffy, always ready for a walk, yips and follows Eli, who I’m pretty sure needs a moment to recover and get his dick to go down.r />
  Arielle gathers up our glasses, telling me, “Have something by the time I load the dishwasher.”

  I sit back, looking at Mark’s profile . . . and with trembling fingers, I start to type out my message because anything will be better than what Arielle threatened to send.

  Chapter 4

  Noah

  I stayed late at the office last night, but that doesn’t mean I can slack off this morning. The fact that it’s Saturday? That only means I can work at home in comfortable clothes, but otherwise, the day starts the same.

  Six a.m. alarm, thirty-minute run on the treadmill, shower and shave, and dark roast Columbian coffee. Luckily, the coffee Elisa gave me helped me through the late night, but it burned off long ago at this point and I’m ready for another hit so I can power through my day.

  I sigh in bliss as the bitter heat washes through me, letting my eyes slip closed for a moment of enjoyment, and then they pop open. I don’t need a mirror to know that my jaw is set, my eyes bright and my brain focused.

  I’m ready to do this.

  By seven fifteen, I’m sitting on my couch, hunched over the glass coffee table and peering at my laptop. I have a desk I could work at, and I often do, but giving in to jeans and the couch is my version of relaxation. Besides, I chose the gray-fabric cushions specifically for their cloud-like fluffiness, a luxury we could never afford at home, so I might as well enjoy them while I check my emails.

  The data analyst I messaged last night, requesting a specific subset of statistics, responded early this morning. A kindred spirit, it seems. I spend a few minutes looking over the figures, staring at the numbers as if they’ll begin speaking aloud, telling me how to tweak them here and improve them there.

  That doesn’t happen, unfortunately, so I decide to move on to my own research project—the experience of BlindDate. I pick up my phone and open the app.

  Damn! My inbox has unread messages that number in the double digits. I pause and let that sink in . . . for research.

  Does that feel overwhelming or promising?

  I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but my lips tilt up, which means I must be pleased with it on some level. It’s probably only because it proves that BlindDate works, like a proud dad when their kid makes the winning touchdown. That number is proof of concept. A success in and of itself.

  I click on the heart icon with an envelope overlaid that denotes my inbox and hold my breath.

  First, there’s Toni, who says she’d love to show me a good time if I just contact her at this off-site website. I report that profile to the app admins and delete the message, moving on.

  That’s a piss-poor start, but the next one is better.

  Bethany writes that she never does this, and she hopes I don’t think her too forward, but she couldn’t help but reach out when she saw our high-percentage match of eighty-two. That is good, so I click into her profile and look around. She’s a librarian with a master’s degree, working on a doctorate, who teaches undergraduate library science.

  That’s a lot of . . . books. Not that I’m a cretin, but I don’t exactly have a TBR stack on the nightstand either. Other than some inspirational autobiographies of businesspeople I admire, I couldn’t name the last thing I read strictly for pleasure.

  I try to imagine what the AI saw in our answers to match us up. I guess that she’s detail-oriented, driven, and ambitious. There’s a quote in her profile, but I don’t recognize it. A Google search tells me I’ve never heard of the book either.

  Hmm, I picture going on a date with Bethany The Librarian—an author appearance where some bow-tied old man reads from a thick tome, the audience nodding along and clapping politely before fawning over the man, asking for autographs and quoting lines verbatim. Bethany probably has a bun and wears glasses, turtlenecks, and sensible shoes. I bet she talks about the classics in reverent tones and sneers at the mass-produced drivel on the current bestseller lists.

  Okay, that’s harsh, especially considering all I’m going by is her career and one quote.

  I make a note to allow members to personalize their profiles more to show their individual personalities. Every little bit helps as people make decisions on whether to reach out to a match.

  Despite the high match, I send Bethany a simple note thanking her for the message but letting her down gently. Since I really only signed up to run research, I don’t feel guilty, but my conscience requires me to be upfront and not leave her dangling on a hook, wondering about my response. Or the lack thereof.

  I scan through several other messages and ultimately end up using some version of the same polite ghost message for those as well. But then one a few lines down catches my attention.

  Rachel. There’s a red heart next to her name, denoting a perfect match.

  That’s an Easter egg we added into the coding, deciding any match with over ninety percent compatibility should be noted. For the user, to celebrate and create excitement and urgency. For us, to track the AI’s accuracy.

  Clicking into the message, I’m curious about her already. Who is she and what is it that makes the AI think we’re such a good fit? Maybe she’s a stone-cold workaholic with a never-ending need to improve, I think wryly.

  I’m quickly struck by two things. One, our percent match is . . . astronomical. A ninety-six percent match?

  Is that even possible? Maybe there was a glitch? Or fate using BlindDate to match two souls?

  But then I read her message and laugh.

  Rachel: Hi, Mark! Ninety-six percent match? I don’t believe it. Did you hack this app so you’d get matches with everyone or something? If so, my props to your techy skills. LOL (and also . . . a polite clap so you don’t hack my credit history). If you’re not a midnight hacker, I might be scared because 96% is a lot of pressure to live up to, and while I’m pretty spectacular, I absolutely leave breadcrumbs on the counter every time I cook and snore when I lie on my left side. If perfect is what you’re looking for, keep on scrolling. If real might be your deal, message me back?

  Glitch, definitely a mistake.

  There are smiley face emojis sprinkled throughout the message and she actually typed ‘LOL’. There is no way I’m a ninety-six percent match with this woman.

  Without even meaning to, I click into her profile. I want to see how wackadoodle she is, like are we talking ‘aliens are real and live among us’ or a ‘prevent war with good vibes and kale smoothies’ sort? Or worse, is she a boil your bunny type of crazy? If I can figure it out, maybe that’ll help the coders decipher what went wrong in the AI matching algorithm.

  What I find isn’t crazy, though.

  The list of likes and dislikes sounds reasonable. Doesn’t everyone loathe toast crumbs in their butter but love the sound of birds chirping? Well, I mean I guess I do. I can’t recall that I’ve sat around and listened to birds specifically, but the idea of birdsong is . . . pleasant enough, I suppose. And also, that’s two times already that she’s mentioned breadcrumbs. Is she that messy? Or does she have an Italian-level love of bread?

  Her hobbies are photography, volunteering, and making the world a better place. That’s a bit scary, if I’m honest. I could argue that I’m trying to make the world a better place by creating a way for people to meet and find their soulmate, but I suspect Rachel means something much different. Is she protesting nuclear war on weekends or volunteering at food banks? Either way, it feels comparatively grander than app creation.

  But still not crazy.

  What are you looking for? I scroll down to this section of the profile, interested to see what she filled in. I’d like to have a real connection with someone, deeper than appearances or preconceived notions. Someone serious enough to share their true self with me but fun enough to enjoy the gift of the 86,400 seconds we get each day.

  Wow. That’s both profound and exciting. She’s not who I expected to find on the app, and definitely not who I expected the AI to match me with. She seems bright and witty, brave and altruistic.

&nbs
p; But I didn’t come here for this. I’m only doing research to improve the app, not actually date anyone. With a resigned sigh, I click back into her message, pasting my thanks-but-no-thanks message. I pause, my finger over the Send button.

  You don’t have time for this, Noah. Eye on the prize. BlindDate. Making it better.

  I imagine walking into Elisa’s office next month with better numbers, higher usages, and improved stats. And I click Send.

  A moment later, a green dot appears beside her name. Rachel is on the app right now, likely reading my message. A knot forms in my stomach, and I stare at the screen, wondering if she’ll message back.

  R: Was it the snoring? It was the snoring, wasn’t it? I thought that might be TMI for a first contact. LOL No worries, Mark. Have a great day filled with sunshine and awesome-sauce. I hope you find your perfect match.

  The knot tightens, my brows knitting together. Why is her agreement with my dismissal so . . . ? Ugh. I don’t even know how to describe what I’m feeling, I just know I don’t like it. I stare at the words ‘perfect match’ through narrowed eyes.

  Ninety-six percent is ridiculously high. What if the AI got it right? I could be passing over my soulmate. Not that I believe in those, but I don’t necessarily not believe, either. I haven’t given it much thought one way or the other because I’ve been too busy chasing goals and dreams of my own, with FriendZone and now BlindDate.

  But meeting Rachel might be a good thing. If she is my perfect match, all the work of weeding out has been done for me by the AI and I can go into the relationship with some hint of success. If she’s not my perfect match and the AI messed up, I need to know that to improve BlindDate. It’s a win-win.

  Before I can second-guess myself again, I type out another message.

  Me: Is it too late to change my mind? Got a little overwhelmed with responses this morning and I think the 96% got to me. I’m sorry. Can we start over?