Chapter 3 #2
“Or,” he counters, “it’s two birds with one stone. You get another beta tester. He gets practice dates. Sounds like a win-win.”
I glare at him. “No. And you’re still a jerk.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I don’t see the problem. Give him a shot. If he screws it up, cut him off. But dismissing him before he even tries? That’s probably what people already do to him.”
Great. Now I’m getting a third-party guilt trip.
“Sure, he might need to work on a few things,” Lach continues. “Mainly filtering what comes out of his mouth. But there’s a lot that’s workable. Fixable. Teachable. All the ables.”
I rub my temple. “I’ll… consider giving Miles a shot.”
“Good. You can tell him yourself.” Lach rests his hands on my shoulders and physically turns me around. “Because he just walked in.”
I was hoping for at least a day or two to stew on it and change my mind later. But nope, he’s here. “Hi, Miles.”
“Hi, Nora. I know you said you wouldn’t give me a shot, but I made a checklist of everything that I would bring to your app.” He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket.
I blink. “A list?”
“Yeah. To show you that I’d be a good participant.” He slides the unfolded paper toward me.
I skim the neat handwriting. Sure enough, he made bullet points.
· Good listener
·Polite
·Punctual
·Follows directions
·Respects boundaries
·Reliable
I push the paper back toward him. He went through the effort to make a list. I exhale. “Miles…”
His gaze drops to the floor as if he’s already accepting defeat.
I sigh. “I’ll do it.”
His chin lifts, then his lips part then press together again like he’s trying to find the right words, so I don’t change my mind. “Are you… serious?”
“Yes. You can join OneDate.” I hold up a finger. “But do not mess this up. I have a reputation to protect. And remember—this is not for finding love. Do not fall in love.”
“Done.” He nods quickly. “That’s—great. Thank you. I’m going to stop talking now before I say something that makes you take it back.”
A laugh escapes me. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the code so you can download the app.”
“Great.” He pulls out a pen and a little notebook from his pocket, jots his phone number down, and passes it to me.
I glance at it, then tuck it into my pocket.
“Alright, when you join, you’ll have two sections to fill out for your profile.
One will be what type of date someone can expect from you.
There’ll be check boxes of personality qualities you’ll mark off.
The next will be what you’re looking for in a date.
Again, same thing. More checkboxes. There’ll be a section where you write a short bio.
At the end, you’ll upload a picture. Got it? ”
“Yeah.”
I lean over the bar and lock eyes with him. “The app is not for falling in love. It’s to help people survive awkward events and family gatherings without being interrogated about their love life.”
“Well, I’m not looking for the love of my life,” he insists. “I already found her. I just… can’t talk to her.”
I stare. “Did you hear yourself? Out loud?”
His shoulders sink. The defeat on his face is almost painful. He looks like a golden retriever who just watched his favorite tennis ball roll under the couch.
“I’m not good at dating.” The confession barely rises above a mumble. “I don’t know what else to do to feel more comfortable and confident, so I figured a few practice dates might help. There’s this girl I really like—Maggie. And every time I get a shot with her, I blow it.”
“How?” I ask, because morbid curiosity is irresistible.
“Do you know how sea cucumbers ward off predators?”
My brows pull together. “Can’t say I do.”
“They… expel their internal organs,” he blurts. “When they feel threatened. It’s a defense mechanism.”
I stare at him. “…Okay.”
“And it’s—this is the worst part—it resembles spaghetti,” he adds, already cringing.
“Why do you know this?”
“I read a marine biology article. But that’s not the point.” He drags a hand down his face. “Then I looked at her soup. And unfortunately, I found them… visually similar. Before I could stop myself, I said it out loud.”
I stare at him. “You compared her soup to expelled sea cucumber organs.”
“Yes.” The word comes out barely audible, like he’s confessing to a felony.
I cover my mouth with my hand, my lips trembling with the force of the laugh I’m trying to contain. It lasts exactly one second before it explodes out of me. “Miles!”
“I know. I know. It’s not romantic or at all charming.”
“Oh my god,” I suck in a breath, trying to regain control. “Yeah. Yep. Okay. You desperately need help. Alright,” I say, bracing myself. “Tell me about the rest of the date. How did it go?”
“Like… every detail?”
“Yes. I need the full play-by-play so I can assess the level of damage.”
“Okay.” He takes a steadying breath. “We met at the restaurant.”
“First question,” I interrupt. “Did you offer to pick her up?”
“No. She wanted to drive herself.”
“Fine.” I nod once. “But next time, you still offer. Points for effort.”
“Got it.” He immediately reaches into his pocket for that tiny notebook and pen.
I blink “Are you… taking notes?”
“Yes. It helps me process. And later I type them up, so technically I go through them twice.”
I press my lips together, fighting a snarky comment because I know he means well. “Okay. I admire the commitment. What happened next?”
“When I arrived at the restaurant, she was already there, so the hostess walked us to our table.”
“Did you pull out her chair?”
“Yes.”
“Good. At least chivalry isn’t dead.” I roll my hand. “Go on.”
“We sat down. And then I froze.”
“Define froze.”
“I fiddled with my napkin. A lot. And I couldn’t think of anything to say.”
“Do you have nothing in common?”
“I know she’s a librarian. This was our second date.”
“Second?”
“Yes. I asked her out once before.”
“And what did you talk about then?”
He pulls out his phone, scrolls, then turns the screen toward me. “I made a list of questions.”
I stare at him. “Like a job interview?”
“Sort of. It keeps things structured.” He winces. “But I used all of them on the first date.”
“So by date two—”
“I had nothing left.”
I close my eyes for a brief second. “That feels… rehearsed.”
“I get nervous,” he rushes on. “My brain just shuts down. It’s like I lose control and then I start rambling about random things.”
“Like sea cucumbers.”
“Yes.”
“Right.” I rub my forehead. “After the sea cucumbers, what happened?”
“She went to the bathroom, and when she came back, I asked her how the bathroom was. And then talked about how much I appreciate clean bathrooms.”
I internally scream. I’m genuinely shocked this woman didn’t crawl out a window and peace out from the date. At the first sign of sea cucumbers, I would have left. “And how did the night end?”
“I walked her to her car. She said the date was nice, and maybe we could go out again.”
Nice. The word lands with a thud. I’ve been on the receiving end of a few nices and then I never talked to the guy again. “How many dates have you been on before Maggie?”
He tilts his head back, scanning the ceiling like the answer might be written in the wood grain. Several seconds tick by. Finally, he looks at me. “Five.”
“Oh.” I blink. “You hesitated. I was expecting… more.”
“Yeah.” He exhales. “Me too.”
I study him for a long beat. “Okay. Good news.”
He straightens. “There’s good news?”
“Yes. You’re polite. You walked her to her car. You didn’t insult her. These are solid foundations.”
“And the bad news?”
“This is going to be more work than I thought.”
I fold my arms, considering him. My own dating life is nonexistent. I might as well channel that energy into fixing his.
When I arrive home at three in the morning, I’m anything but tired.
My body wants sleep, but my brain absolutely refuses.
The app has been rattling around my head all night—every unfinished thought looping right alongside Miles joining OneDate.
I kick off my shoes, drop my keys in the bowl by the door, and grab my phone before I change my mind.
I generate a download code and text it to Miles.
Nora
You’re officially in. Don’t make me regret this.
I stare at the message after it sends, half expecting lightning to strike my apartment for tempting fate.
Maybe this is a terrible idea. Or maybe—maybe—Miles will surprise me.
He’s logical. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who reads instructions all the way through.
Twice. Does he know Python? I shove the thought aside and collapse into my desk chair.
My computer hums awake, the screen glaring too bright in the quiet studio apartment. OneDate loads. And there it is.
Match Queue Temporarily Unavailable.
The same error that’s been haunting me for days.
It’s not catastrophic. That’s the worst part.
It’s small. Annoying. And buried inside a conditional loop that only fails when the app has to make a decision.
I’ve rewritten this section three times.
On paper, every version works. In reality, it breaks.
I lean back and rub my temples. The function is waiting for perfect input. Every variable clean. Every outcome predictable. It refuses to move forward without certainty. But real people aren’t predictable. Neither are matches.
My mind drifts back to Miles standing at the bar two days ago—glasses sliding down his nose, hands braced on the bar like the dating app is his only choice.
I don’t want to keep waiting for something to happen.
I stare at the code until the characters blur together and—oh my god!
That’s it! My fingers fly over the keyboard, adrenaline kicking in as I rewrite the code.
The problem isn’t the scoring. It’s the rigidity.
I’ve been forcing the system to wait for perfect alignment when it should be allowing overlap.
The match queue needs to push through even when the data isn’t pristine.
I find the rule that rejects anything less than ideal and turn it off.
For the first time, the system isn’t looking for perfection. It’s looking for connection.
I hesitate before hitting save. This will either fix all my problems or create a whole slew of new ones.
But if I don’t chance it, the app might as well be dead in the water.
My finger hovers over the mouse. This is the part where everything could fall apart.
Or where everything finally works. I hold my breath as I hit save and the app refreshes.
No error message.
The match queue spins once, then populates. I launch out of my chair so fast it flips backward and slams onto the floor, but I don’t even care. I’m laughing, jumping, and pumping my fist in the air.
A few minutes later, I collapse onto the couch, the adrenaline finally draining out of me. “It worked.” The words barely make it past my lips. “It actually worked.” Finally, the app can continue to move forward. Even if I have no idea what happens next.