Page 8 of The Plus One Pact

I just didn't catch up to the truth as quickly as I thought I would.

"Right now?" I ask.

"Do you need me to babysit?" she asks.

I nod.

She laughs and pats the spot next to her.

I take a long sip of gin and sit on the couch next to her. This close, I feel the warmth of my best friend's presence. And the anxiety of my producer. And the contrast between us.

She's effortlessly cool and sexy.

I'm hopelessly not either of those things.

I download a dating app and resurrect my long-lost profile.

Meredith takes the phone and takes to swiping for me. She ignores a tall guy in a suit. "Too uptight for you." She likes a Brad Pitt lookalike with a surfboard. "A surfer could be good. Laid back." But he's not a match.

She falls into the flow pretty fast, smiling as she deems men worthy or unworthy of me.

I'm not sure this is what the show needs, but, hey, it's something. That's more than I've got. And it feels good falling into Meredith's care. She's the older sister I never had.

Meredith and I met at UCI. She was from Garden Grove. Even though she grew up in the Vietnamese part of the county, she always felt out of place. Maybe because her parents where strict Buddhists, and most of her neighbors were Catholic. Or maybe because her parents pushed her to study medicine, and she rebelled with a degree in communications.

Whereas my parents told me to follow my dreams, to go into the arts, and I decided to study psychology instead.

Not that Mom and Pop would be proud of my current venture. Hey, it's the arts, isn't it?

It bothers me.

It doesn't bother her.

Despite Meredith’s deep and undying atheism, she is very, well, Zen.

"Maybe the show has run its course," she says. "We didn't expect it to go this long. And it's not like you lack skills."

It's true. I'm still a licensed therapist, but I haven't seen a patient in a year and a half, thanks to Sex and the OC’s success. If I start over, I start from zero. And I'm not exactly rolling in cash over here. I walked away from my divorce the way a lot of women do—surprised how little of the community property was mine.

It's not that my ex screwed me over, exactly. It's more we had less than I thought. More debt, less money. And then there was the crippling lack of self-worth that came from years of being emotionally and sexually neglected.

But the state of California hasn't figured out how to quantify that.

"Oh, here we go—a match,” she says. “Let’s try a little flirting.” She taps a reply. Almost instantly, my phone responds with a ding. Her nose scrunches. “Oh. You’re not going to like this.”

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t know that any woman would like it?” She turns the phone to me to show off the text. Hey babe, you got those big ol’ titties. I want to suck 'em. Why don't you show me a betta pic.

"What a charmer," I say.

"Let me screen for grammar this time," she says. "Give me ten minutes. I'll get you something. I swear."

Somehow, I doubt it, given the sort of questions we get, but sure, why not? Maybe, I'll think of a better option.

One of the NPR podcasts did an episode on AI boyfriends. That's something.

Or I can go all the way back to high school.