Page 3 of Debugging Love

Thirty minutes later I’m downtown. Through divine intervention, I find a parking spot along the street, a directshot to the Carolina Excursions brand-new dock. When I arrive, a throng of harbor cruisers are standing in the winding line, waiting to board. I search the crowd for a blond-haired, blue-eyed hunk but come up empty-handed.

“Sorry. I’m not trying to cut in line. I’m looking for someone. A guy. He’s uncommonly handsome. Have you seen him?”

A gray-haired husband points to himself. “I’m uncommonly handsome.” His wife swats his arm. “You’re supposed to vouch for me, honey,” he adds, winking.

They split ways and let me through. I tunnel between bare arms, poke my head through small openings between bodies, the hot sun glaring down on us all, doubling the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.”

Where is he? I’ve passed two handsome men in the eight to nine range, not the ten that popped up on my phone when I hit MatchAI’s Choose button. Plus, they both had dates.

I feel a confident thump on my shoulder. The sun blinds me when I turn to investigate. I form my hand into a visor and behold the haloed person who just tapped me so hard I felt it in my bones.

“I’m your date.”

“Um. I don’t think so.”

The guy standing before me is not blond, not blue-eyed. Not in the slightest. A ten, yes. But that’s irrelevant.

“I’m Chance Balasu.” He peers at me with dark eyes, beneath dark eyebrows, beneath an impressively thick, and masterfully styled head of dark hair. Or maybe it just falls that way naturally.

“My date is blond with blue eyes,” I say. His pouty lips will not distract me from finding myactualdate. I show him my back, form my hands into a shark fin, and continue parting bodies.

I feel another tap. “Your date has black hair and brown eyes.”

A young girl with glossy curls looks over my shoulder, one eyebrow raised. I think she noticed his impeccable hair too. I continue along my way.

Tap, tap, tap.

I turn around. “My date is blond. Haunting eyes. Chiseled jaw. You possess none of those things.”

“None?”

“The jaw. But the eyes. No. They’re more sultry than haunting. The rest, totally wrong.”

The spark in his eyes reduces to a smolder as he contemplates my comment. “Do you have something against brown people?” His features say Indian; his accent says American.

“Of course not. But I do have something against lying.”

He seems stumped by my accusation. I take it as an opportunity to continue looking for some blond guy named Chance, who I’m increasingly suspicious doesn’t exist. “Excuse me. Don’t mind me. Sorry.”

Another tap on my shoulder.

I bristle. The crowd around me starts moving toward the gangway, but I remain still as a post.

The guy calling himself Chance rounds my arm.

“This is starting to get weird,” I say.

He offers me his hand. “I’m Chance Balasu. My real name is Jyotiraditya Balasubramanian. I go by Chance because it’s easier for Americans to pronounce.” Realizing I have no intention of shaking his hand, he lowers his and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Prove it,” I say.

“Try to say Jyotiraditya Balasubramanian.”

“No, prove that you’re the guy MatchAI matched me with.”

“Pull out your phone.”

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