“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.
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?