Junie
The morning sun peeks through the curtains like a nosy neighbor, spotlighting my empty bed. Oh, t he irony. I'm the genius behind Love Bug, the app that's supposed to make Cupid look like an amateur with a slingshot. My app promises love so intense it could make a cactus cry, yet here I am, cuddling with my cold, unresponsive sheets. It's like being a personal trainer and tripping over your own shoelaces.
My mind takes a stroll down ex-boyfriend lane, a sad parade of men who were more caricature than character. Think guys who live in their mom's basement, their mismatched socks screaming, "I've given up!" Men who think romance can flourish amidst the aroma of microwaved pizza rolls and the glow of video games. At this point, I'm less of a love guru and more of a bug zapper for the romantically challenged.
But today? Today is different. I've got a meeting with someone who could be the fairy godmother to my Cinderella story, the venture capitalist to my start-up dreams. If this goes well, Love Bug will be more than just a pipe dream and a tax write-off. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find someone who doesn't think "Netflix and chill" is a long-term relationship plan.
So here I am, eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store, and "swipe right for romance" is practically my new catchphrase. I'm all set for my meeting, armed with Love Bug—the app that's going to make Cupid file for unemployment. Seriously, who wouldn't want to invest in love's next big thing?
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and flash a grin. I'm rocking my lucky shorts, the ones that saved me from becoming a human speed bump. Liv, my bestie, and guardian angel, yanked me back by my belt loop just as a bus was about to introduce me to the afterlife. I walk through my apartment, my pink fuzzy socks generating enough static to power a small village. I enter the kitchen, where the aroma of coffee promises a day that's all sunshine, lollipops, and zero dread.
"Ah, my liquid courage," I say, grabbing my mug that boldly declares, "Turning Mere Mortals Into Morning Avengers!" A dollop of oat milk and a dash of vanilla later, my coffee morphs into an elixir that could probably give Popeye a run for his money.
Mug in hand, I sashay to my desk like I'm about to accept an Oscar, ready to conquer whatever challenges today throws at me. My laptop wakes up with a cheerful hum, as if it's just as excited about today as I am. As it springs to life, I take a moment to admire my apartment. I have a futon that's more colorful than a Mardi Gras parade, and a chunky blanket that's practically begging for a rom-com binge. My place is a delightful mess, the physical manifestation of my creative soul.
My walls are a veritable "Who's Who" of visionaries—Musk, Jobs, Winfrey. They're like my silent life coaches, always there to remind me, "Hey, if we can do it, so can you, but no pressure, okay?" My whiteboard is a chaotic swirl of scribbles and arrows that only make sense to me—and maybe a psychic on a good day.
My desk is its own landscape of crumpled notes and unpaid bills, each one screaming, "This meeting better go well, or else!" I've already played the ol' switcheroo with the utility companies—sending the electric bill to the gas company and vice versa. At this point, they're probably on to me.
I'm on the brink of a financial free fall, contemplating pawning my grandmother's wedding set. More than just jewelry, it represents the enduring love my grandparents shared for 55 years. Now, it rests in my nightstand, a silent testament to the love story I've yet to find. Each time I open that drawer, memories of Sundays at their house flood back—smelling the aroma of baked bread and hearing their cherished tales of meeting, enduring challenges, and sharing joys. My grandfather would often glance at my grandmother and whisper, "All because of these rings and our promises." They symbolize more than metal and stone. They are a legacy of love and a reminder of everything I desire. It will crush me if I have to let them go, but what choice do I have if this goes poorly? Grandma would turn in her grave if I was homeless.
Coffee in hand, I lock eyes with my laptop screen. Love Bug has bugs that need squashing and potential that's begging to be unleashed. I'm ready, armed with caffeine, dreams, and the stubbornness of a fire ant that refuses to be stepped on.
Just then, my phone buzzes, shattering my focus. It's a text from Liv.
Ready to roll ... I mean, scroll?
Ah, Liv, the pun queen and the artistic genius behind Love Bug's look and feel.
I flex my fingers and shoot a message back.
Let's create a buzz the world can't ignore.
It's cheesy, but it makes me smile.
I’m here.
Seconds later she bursts through the door, arms laden with kombucha and vegan cookies from Pies Before Guys. Because, priorities, right?
Liv's entrance is so grand, she could give any Broadway star a run for their money. "Brain fuel," she announces, setting down her haul like it's a treasure chest of pirate gold.
And just like that, we're ready. Ready to pitch, ready to dazzle, and more than ready to turn Love Bug into the next big thing in romance. So, world, you better watch out. We're here to make love happen, one swipe at a time.
I crack open a kombucha, grinning at Liv. "You're the best."
"I know," she says, eyeing me like a fashion police officer about to make an arrest. "Juniper Lee Parker, you're not seriously wearing that, are you?"
I glance down at my T-shirt, which proudly declares, "I'm not weird. I'm a limited edition."
"What's the issue?" I ask.
Liv's eyes do a full 360. "Would you wear that to a job interview? Because this is basically that."
The meeting is important to Liv because the investor is a friend of a friend of her father’s and has ties to their family in Japan. But I bet, just like every other investor, he'll glance at the app and dash, exactly like the last seven did. Here we go again.
"Maybe we're interviewing him too. What if he's a dud?" I ask.
Liv grabs my arm and drags me back to my room. "If he's got cash and is willing to part with it, he's Prince Charming in my book. Now, why the limited-edition get-up?"
I sigh. "Ran out of detergent. Turns out water alone doesn't quite do the trick."
Liv shakes her head. "You're a hot mess."
"I prefer digital wizard," I say, smirking. "Besides, I'm sure I look better than anything Ethan would cobble together."
"If Ethan were on this call, I'd raid his closet too, but he’s not. He’s probably in his basement coding the next big thing. Guys like him only come up for air and donuts," Liv says, dragging me into my room and diving into my wardrobe. She surfaces with a red shirt and a black sweater. Add some antennae, and I'd be a walking, talking Love Bug mascot.
"Okay, but the lucky shorts stay," I insist.
"Fine, just keep your butt in the chair during the call so he can’t see them," Liv says.
"Deal."
Liv dashes back to the living room, fussing over the decor like it's a set for a Hollywood movie.
"Do you think he cares about the throw pillows?"
"We can't risk it," she says, eyeing my shorts one last time. As always, she’s right. We can’t risk anything, so I retreat back to my room to change into some respectable black slacks—my funeral pants, as I like to call them.
"We've got five minutes," she calls out.
I re-emerge, now fully pants-clad.
Liv grins. "That's the spirit." She pops open her kombucha as we dial into the call. The room is thick with anticipation.
The screen flickers, and there's Mr. Morimoto, all the way from Kotohira, Japan, dressed in a suit that screams "I mean business." I suddenly appreciate Liv's fashion intervention. I steal a look at her, decked out in Chanel. Slyly, I shift my chair, spotlighting her and letting shadows claim me.
After the customary bows and greetings, Liv takes a deep breath and kicks off our pitch. "Good afternoon, Mr. Morimoto. Shall we dive into the future of romance?"
She gets right to it. "Love Bug isn't just another app where you swipe left so much you develop carpal tunnel. We're in the business of making meaningful connections based on shared interests, unique quirks, and the kind of conversations that don't involve ‘What's your sign?'"
She nudges me under the table, her heel accidentally stepping on my toe, a clear hint to jump in. Trying to hide the sudden jolt of pain, I lean forward, catching my water glass just before it topples over. Regaining my composure, I clear my throat awkwardly. "You know," I start, my voice slightly higher than I intend, "online dating these days can be ... um ... disheartening?" I muster a nervous laugh.
Pulling out my phone in a flustered haste, I accidentally open my camera app, quickly flashing an unflattering double-chin selfie to the room. "Oops! Wrong app," I mumble. Once I find the correct photos, I continue, "Look at these profile pics from the popular dating apps. They've got more filters and edits than a big-budget movie. But then when these people meet in person?" I pause for effect. "They realize they've been sold a fantasy. It's all surface, no depth. More about that perfect shot than a genuine connection. Where's the authenticity? The real, raw, awkward beauty of getting to know someone?"
"Love Bug sifts through the superficial to focus on what truly counts—compatibility over catfishing," Liv continues, beaming. "We're not just changing the game. We're rewriting the rulebook."
Silence hangs in the virtual room, but Liv isn't deterred.
"Our compatibility quiz, crafted by our in-house love guru Junie, is as engaging as a rom-com, not a slog through a tax form," she says. "And our graphics? Think Pixar, not PowerPoint."
I fumble a bit before interjecting, "Uh, so instead of, you know, those typical flashy profile pics, we've got ... um, avatars! They kinda show the real you but in a digital, fun way." I hold up my phone but nearly drop it. "Okay, see this little fire ant here? That's supposed to be me." I giggle nervously. "Determined and all that.”
"You think a fire ant is sexy?” he asks.
“Well, it's not the bug that's hot, it's the traits it represents," I say, trying to keep my cool. "Think of it as the spirit animal of dating."
"Who wants to date an ant? Especially one that bites?" Mr. Morimoto fires back, clearly missing the point.
“Let me explain.” I take a deep breath and lean over so he can see me more clearly on the screen. “You kick things off with a questionnaire that delves deep, mapping out the intricacies of your inner workings. It's more than your favorite color or the name of your first pet. It's the essence of you, laid bare for the algorithms to play matchmaker based on your personalities. Then, only if the stars of compatibility align, do they factor in the miles between you. It’s no good finding your soul mate if they’re from another continent, right?
Once you're cozied up in that sweet spot of mutual interest, the game changes–it's challenge time. But not your run-of-the-mill truth or dare. No, these are personalized, crafted to carve out paths for deeper connections. Perhaps you'll both find yourselves sipping lattes at the same quirky bookstore cafe, unknowingly brushing hands as you reach for the same dog-eared copy of ‘Love in the Time of Cholera.’ Or maybe it's a scavenger hunt where each clue unravels a layer of your life story. Sometimes the questions are the same and sometimes they’re different. It could be that one of you gets a question and the other may not, but that’s the algorithm in the background fine-tuning the match. Because you don't know by sight who your match could be, you become more attuned to your surroundings, the potential in every glance, every smile-alive in the present, inadvertently shaping yourself into a better match for whoever's heart is about to sync with yours. By the time you've circled around to the fourth or fifth back-and-forth, a portrait of your match starts to form in your mind's gallery, detail by vivid detail, no pixels required.
And then, if the fates allow, and the challenges have woven their magic, you'll come face-to-face, not with a stranger, but with someone who's already a chapter or two into the book of you. That's when the avatars bow out, their job done, your match revealed, leaving you to pedal forward on the tandem bike of trust, built sturdy through shared secrets and adventures."
"Why delay the grand reveal?" he asks, still skeptical.
"We're trying to build on more than just looks," I say, hesitating slightly. "I came up with this app because I felt frustrated with how shallow dating seems these days. By focusing on deeper connections from the start, maybe we can find something genuine and lasting."
Mr. Morimoto shakes his head. "It's too unconventional for me. I don't want to invest weeks only to find out my date is a toad."
I resist the urge to tell him that toads aren't even in our avatar lineup. "But what if that toad turned into a princess with just one kiss?" I counter, trying to salvage the conversation.
"Sorry, not interested." He looks at Liv. “Tell your family hello,” he says, bowing out—literally—and disconnecting the call.
I stand and slump onto my futon, defeated. "I knew I should've worn those lucky shorts."
Liv moves to the edge, giving my arm a comforting pat. "Don't sweat it. Mr. Morimoto wasn't our knight in shining armor."
"But what if he's onto something? What if the only match for a fire ant is an exterminator?" I ask.
Liv swivels her laptop to face me. "Look, we're a 99% match according to our own algorithm. It works. There's a lid for every pot, a bug for every net."
“I suppose, but it would be better if you had it all … tall, dark, and handsome with, you know…”
“Oh, I know ... a package deal? Some nice abs, biceps, and, most importantly, rock-solid equipment?”
I nod. “What do we do now?”
“We hope for a miracle,” Liv says.
“I thought we’d take the dating world by storm in the same way Elon Musk made space exploration possible.”
Liv laughs. “Yes, but with fewer Twitter rants.” She squeezes my hand. “Don’t give up.”
“I won’t, but it’s hard to keep flitting forward when the entire world keeps swatting you back,” I say, rising to hug my friend. "Your dad wouldn't want to be our financial fairy godfather, would he?"
Liv shakes her head. "No, but he did say I could do whatever I want with my trust fund."
"Really?" My ears perk up.
"Yeah, but there's a catch. I can't touch it until I'm thirty-five."
I slump back into the futon. "Seven years, huh? Do you think my landlord will accept IOUs for that long?"
Liv rises, her eyes alight with a secret. "He might not have to. I've got one last ace up my sleeve. If it works, we won't just be in the game, we'll be the game."