From The Boss Bias

PROLOGUE

SAOIRSE

Pink and red streamers line Main Street for the Valentine’s Day Festival as Abigail, Ella, and I amble along the crowded sidewalk. We’re here to enjoy one of the few large events Smithfield hosts along with one other very specific task ﹘ to try our luck at finding love. 

“There it is. I found it!” Ella points excitedly at a booth decked out in holiday paraphernalia: cupids, hearts, teddy bears ﹘ the works. Destination sighted, we weave through groups of people to head that way.

The Smithfield Matchmaking Booth.

Each year we’d talk about signing up but could never muster the guts to follow through with the plan. A trio of curvy introverts, we met in college and formed a club where we promised to remain true to ourselves and never change for attention. Calling ourselves the Tees and Jeans Club, the spirit of the club has remained, though we’ve branched out from our casual uniform.

“So we’re really doing this?” Abigail asks, hugging her cardigan closer. The quietest of us, her nerves are obvious.

“Yes, we are; it’s been decided.” I twine my arm through hers while holding a cup of apple cider tight in my other hand. “We’ll be thirty soon, and it's time we take charge of our destinies.” All of us have trouble talking with guys ﹘ not that our small town teems with single, attractive men. But if it did, we’d still be hiding on the sidelines. At least with the matchmaking booth, we might have a chance. It’s a blind match with all conversations occurring via letter; maybe the anonymity will help us shed our inhibitions.

To be honest, I'm already reaching that point after years of singlehood. Right after graduation, I'd ridden the confidence boost of surviving college and landing a job so quickly into a one-night stand with a fellow graduate to rid myself of my virginity. But no relationship followed from him or anyone else and call it what you will, but the older I get the less I care about how guys perceive me.

I want a man. Plain and simple. Someone to love, to build a life with, and to yeah, fuck.

My current way of living? Not working for me, so sign me up for matchmaking.

Cold February air serrates my lungs as I take another deep breath for courage and wonder who my match could be. Like I said, troves of available men don’t cross my path very often, so where will the eligible bachelors for matchmaking come from?

As if to challenge that thought, a handsome man brushes by us, and my eyes follow briefly before returning to our course. That’s one.

“Hello, ladies. Are the three of you interested in participating this year?” An older woman in a blush-colored sweater stands to greet us, her pink-tinged hair suiting the booth’s theme perfectly.

We let out a resounding “Yes” at varying degrees of excitement. Huddling nearer to the table filled with pictures of happy couples and packets of paperwork, I send up a quick prayer that this works.

“How lovely! We’ve got a great selection of singles, so I’m sure we’ll find perfect matches for everyone.” Collecting three clipboards with a stack of forms, she hands one to each of us. “Now, fill these out, and when you’re done, I’ll go over what happens next.”

I take a seat next to Ella on a bench and start writing in answers to the extensive questionnaire ﹘ beginning with a pseudonym instead of using my real name for the correspondence. Tapping the pen against my cheek, names filter through my mind until I decide to go the simple route and use a play on my name.

The rest of the questions are more in-depth than I would expect from a small-town festival attraction, but I suppose it’s good that they’re being thorough. Maybe that means this will actually result in a relationship.

Give me your best shot , Cupid.

Once we finish and turn in the sheets, the woman explains the process. “We’ll try our best to match everyone as well as we can, though sometimes we have odd numbers or someone needs a special fit that we can’t meet. The letters are all anonymous.”

She points to the scribbled writing on our forms before motioning to an address on a brochure. “You’ll use the names you chose on the form and mail the letters to the matchmaking P.O. box. We’ll make sure everyone’s letters get to the right person. The point of this process is to get to know someone completely blind until you reach a point where you’re willing to meet in person, then we step out as mediators and give you the information you need to continue. Make sense?”

We nod and take the folder of information she hands over at the end of her spiel. “What’s your success rate?” I ask curiously, trying to gauge how much I should temper my hopes.

“We usually have a couple hundred people enter and half of those go on to meet in person. Once that happens, we’ve seen thirty percent of couples make it to engagements and marriage. Keep in mind, this booth has only been up and running for three years, but I’m proud of the connections we’ve made so far.”

Thirty percent.

Not terrible, especially if I compare it to something like the Bachelor or Bachelorette; that show has a terrible success rate yet keeps chugging along. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones.

After all, I’ve got Irish in my blood.

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