My phone buzzes in my butt pocket, and I try to pull it out without dropping it into the toilet. Thankfully, it’s not my mother demanding more money. It’s a text from Meredith, who only sends me two things: TikTok videos of animals and screenshots of online dating profiles. Today, I’m facing the latter.

I stare down at what I can only assume is a swimsuit model, artfully standing on her paddleboard alongside her border collie. She looks like the lesbian character on a CW show.

My best friend lives in Chicago, where she moved six months ago to get a job working for a legal aid organization while she studies for the bar exam, but she pays extra for Tinder Passport to say she’s a bisexual woman living in Southeast Portland. It’s how she stays abreast of my dating options. Like catfishing, but altruistically.

Despite the current toilet-sobbing situation, I immediately text Meredith back: I’m not outdoorsy enough to date the women in Portland.

I don’t mention that a third of the women on the dating apps here are married ladies with a “hall pass” or couples looking for a bisexual to be their third, neither of which particularly appeal to my demi-ass self.

Within ten seconds, I’m staring at a different profile picture on my phone. This one is of a man deadlifting in front of a gym mirror.

You know I hate public displays of physical exercise, I text in response. Plus, I can see the entire shape and size of his penis through his gym shorts.

Meredith’s immediate response: I thought that was the basis of his appeal. No surprises. You hate surprises.

I hate dating, I correct her.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Meredith says as soon as I accept her FaceTime. “Dating is a necessary evil for people who want a relationship.”

“Who said anything about wanting a relationship?”

On my cracked screen, Meredith simply glares. Her pale cheeks are flushed, her red ponytail bobbing and swishing over her yellow legal pad. The bar exam is in two months, so she’s studying and chastising me at the same time. I shouldn’t be surprised. Meredith O’Reilly could study for the bar while simultaneously answering every question correctly on Jeopardy!, knitting me another scarf, and Instagramming photos of her tabby, Kagan. That is Meredith in a nutshell: a smart-as-hell, attractive version of a cat lady. I miss her terribly, but I also can’t handle a lecture from her right now.

“I’m having a really bad day, Mere.”

“So it would seem. Are you crying on a toilet again?”

“Crying on toilets is not a thing I do.”

“You know what would cheer you up?”

“Pie?”

“Leaving your apartment,” Meredith says bluntly.

“I’ve never heard of that kind of pie. Do they sell it at Fred Meyer?”

“When was the last time you went on a date?”