The Blind Date by Landish, Lauren (suggested reading .txt) 📕

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.

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