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

rubbing off on me. But for some reason, I smile as I think it. And I make a note to add some info options to the app. We have marital status listed, but some specific questions in the survey would ensure that people with strong preferences one way or another don’t get matched up with someone incompatible.

R: No exes stalking about and no kids. Yet. I love ’em, drooly bits and all, but ideally, I want to be settled before having one. A partner who’s onboard with Team Us, you know?

Me: I like that—Team Us. So, if you’re not changing diapers, what are you doing? Like, what do you do for a living?

R: I work online. I love it and the flexibility it gives me. I can work anywhere, anytime. If an idea strikes, I can sit down on a park bench, log in, and work away. Or if I need to take a day or two off, I can. What about you?

I notice she doesn’t say exactly what she does, which might be a waving red flag to some people, but I can understand her reticence. Especially these days when people can easily be looked up online. And I don’t get the feeling that she’s hiding anything, more that she’s cautious. Plus, I’m reluctant to share my work too.

Me: I’m an executive here in Briar Rose, currently working from my couch because they think I’m a workaholic if I show up at the office on Saturdays.

Might as well rip that Band-Aid off because it’s the truth, and if she’s put off by my work habits, we can stop this before it goes any further.

R: I’m sitting on my couch, laptop beside me to work and phone in my hand to message you. We might be two peas in a pod, after all. Ninety-six percent? I see you.

Guess my overachiever status doesn’t bother her. I’m glad because I find I’m enjoying the back-and-forth banter and don’t want it to end. We keep chatting, and soon, time means nothing to me. For the first time in years, I’m having a conversation with someone and I’m not thinking about the hundred other things on my agenda. I’m totally focused on Rachel, smiling when she says something funny or quirky, my eyebrows rising when she says something insightful.

I had faith in the AI before, but it was in a nondescript, intangible way. Now, it’s real and almost magical. I’m going to owe the psychologists and coders a big thank you, maybe even a cookie basket and a raise. Having long ago forgotten about my laptop, I doodle ‘cookie’ on my notepad over and over with one hand. In the other, I hold my phone so I can see Rachel’s messages immediately as they come across.

R: Okay, so basics aside, I’ve got some important questions for you. These are the real make-it-or-break-it deals, so think carefully about your answers. You ready?

Me: I don’t think so, but hit me.

R: What’s your stance on the great hot dog dilemma? Sandwich or not?

M: IMHO, not. You don’t put chili or ketchup on a sandwich. But I’m willing to reach out to my sandwich-believing brethren and enjoy a good hotdog for the deliciousness it is.

R: Disagree. By your standard, chili burgers or cheeseburgers with ketchup aren’t sandwiches, but they most definitely are. Agree to disagree, as long as we can eat them all. Calzones?

M: Pies, like a Hostess fruit pie when we were kids. But I can see the sandwich angle if it’s the right size. What’s your stance on tacos?

R: Tacos are that line in the sand for me. ‘Sand’ like sandwiches . . . get it? LOL But for real, if you don’t like tacos, then I’m going to have to wish you a good day and recommend that you seek professional culinary and psychological help. Whether they’re classified as sandwiches or not doesn’t matter as long as they get in my belly.

I laugh. This girl is amazing.

M: You seem a little food obsessed. Should I be worried? LOL But I’ll agree that tacos are outside the lines of any classification scale. Soft chicken tacos, some good nachos, and churros for dessert? That’s a meal that’ll leave me warm and happy inside and out.

R: Maybe we can make that happen sometime?

I double-blink, realizing what she’s asking. She’s delicately tippy-toeing into a ‘can we meet’ scenario. Nerves and excitement shoot through me in equal measure, which is surprising given that not too long ago, I wasn’t even thinking of dating. Still, even with work and BlindDate plans looming, I type out the truth.

M: I think I’d like that.

I’m tempted to ask about her looks, to steer this conversation toward a real meet-up, but part of me wants to wait a bit since that’s the whole idea River and I built BlindDate on—depth over superficiality. Though now that it’s real, it’s harder to stick to than I thought it’d be. I make a note of that for possible app improvement too as my mind wanders . . .

Is she cute and curled up on a couch with a kitten, or a gamer babe texting me between rounds of Call of Duty? Or maybe she’s shy, the computer geek who’s a Sys Admin who works out of her house?

None of them seem quite right, but before I can ask a question that’d give me a better visual, Rachel messages me.

R: Oopsie! My alarm reminded me that I have to be somewhere at noon, and if I’m not out the door in ten minutes, I’ll be late. I’m not even dressed yet!

M: Not dressed?

R: Not like that. I’m still in my pajamas. I’ll let you imagine that until we talk again, though I’ll give you a hint. My PJs involve knee socks. Suuuper sexy, right?

Two images fight for prominence in my mind. In one, Rachel is adorable in knee socks and a long shirt that hits the tops of her thighs. In the other, she’s got on wool socks pulled up high, baggy flannel pants, and