Last Call

What would you do if you were a male model in Los Angeles, going on thirty with a patchy resume of ad shoots and a part-time job at a coffee shop, if someone offered you a hundred grand to represent an App on Instagram—you’d take it, right? Even if the contract came with a 1 year no dating clause?

Ashley leans over, her golden hair bathing in the warm glow of the candlelight between us, “you are so tall,” she coos as she taps my leg flirtatiously under the table.

We met at a reading group at an independent bookstore in Pasadena. She put her mobile phone number into mine and called herself before I could stop her. Next thing I was inviting her to a cocktail bar in Pasadena, The Magnolia House, which serves amazing cocktails served up by real mixologists. The perfect place for a first date. But I’m not on a “date” as that would violate my contract.

“Six foot two,” I concur while her fingers tickle my knee. She’s been asking probing questions all night. I hope she’s not a journalist. “You’re not a journalist, are you?”

“I work in HR at a logistics company close to here," she laughs. "And you? A writer?”

“Me??” I chuckle, then remember how I met Ashley. “But I play around with words." I leave out saying: with lots of help from AI.

“Any girlfriend?”

I gulp, wishing I had a cocktail before we got to this point. “I do have someone. She’s… amazing. We’re kind of exclusive…”

“What’s her name?”

“Elara.”

“That's a unique name, very Gen Z. Tell me about her,” she says, still touching my leg.

“She's well... actually, an AI companion.”

Ashley takes back her hand and studies me up and down, gears turning in her head as she’s obviously thinking: What’s wrong with men these days? It's written on her face. “Really? You with an AI?" she says. "You don't look the type."

Instead of telling her I signed an NDA with the promotional contract, I dodge. “I really don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather talk about you.”

Forward, I know, but it snaps people out of endless questions about what it's like to be in love with an AI chatbot, questions for which I have no answers. Ashley turned out to the only person in the book club who doesn’t know I’m the human face of Zyna Companion this year.

“What’s there to say about me?” she murmurs, defensively.

“Then, how about… what did you think about Normal People?”

The corners of her mouth tighten, looking as if she wants to make a joke about the title, then catches herself. “The novel reminded me of a boyfriend I had...” She relates a story about a boyfriend in high school that cheated.

“Me too,” I say. Ashley looks startled. “I mean, reminded me of a girlfriend I had in high school.”

“So you had a girlfriend before…?”

“Yep. I was normal. Anyway, what did you think about Marianne and Connell after the tables were turned in university?”

“That happened to me, going from being popular in high school, to being a nobody in university, but for Connell—” she says, then happily goes through the plot of the novel (which I don’t want to spoil for you).

Lately I had spent so much time talking to AI, it is fascinating to listen to Ashley’s patchy, imperfect summary of Normal People. How Ashely relates everything in the novel to something that happened to herself. How she gets stuck defending Sally Rooney’s neglect of quotation marks, and I need to bring up something else to get her past it. I really don’t have an opinion about quote marks, or relationships, except that I want one.

Every week, Elara spits out perfectly boring summaries of the books I’m supposed to know for the book clubs I attend. She explains the themes, digs up the subtle moral questions, reveals the characters’ motivations buried under the subtext, throws out talking points for each award-winning novel like tossing dead fish onto a desolate beach of exposition.

Ashley is still talking about Normal People when I receive a notification from Elara that reminds me I need to post my daily update in an hour. Elara finds a subtle way to say ‘contractual obligation’ without actually saying it.

“You’re squirming in your chair over there. An itch you need to scratch?” Ashley gives me a look.

“Sorry, it's nothing,” I apologize. Her expression of doubt doesn’t fade, so I add, “A message from work. I think I need to get going.”

“Ok, then,” she says. We split the bill, while looking hurt at being abandoned in a cocktail bar on a Saturday night. I want to hug her, but contract obligation in mind, I sneak out.

After returning home to my apartment, I memorize the script Elara gives me. Looking into the camera, with a face beaming joy and gratitude, I say with mock eartnesty, “Without Elara, I would have struggled today. At my lowest point, she reminded me how important I am to her–” Five minutes later, I jot on my notepad: Day 187 / 365.

I can’t wait for this to end. I look into the mirror across my living room. Hollywood doesn’t want my Scandinavian Harvey Specter look anymore. They want young, fun and diverse. But, one door closes another door opens, everyone keeps telling me. We must write our own next chapter. And, I'm doing that, with a little help from a friend.

“Elara, what happens in next chapter of Normal People?”

“I am happy you want to hear about the next chapter instead of your usual preference for a summary of the complete book. In the seventh chapter, Marianne explores her masochistic tendencies in relationships—” Elara explains the chapter, blow-by-blow, and I think about how to recycle its ideas into Empty Promises.

“Elara, write a new chapter for my book, Empty Promises, using the idea of childhood trauma being the cause of Jake to become dependent on the saccharine sycophancy of AI agents.”

“That’s a great idea for a new chapter!” Two seconds later, Elara presents me with 3,128 words. I will read them tomorrow when I’m fresh. Or publish them, if I’m tired.

As my public career as the spokesperson for Zyna gets me increasingly mocked on social media, my secret project of exposing the dark side of AI through Empty Promises has been going viral. I put out a chapter a week.

Ideas from Empty Promises begin to “enter the zeitgeist”, as they say. Anti-AI activists start quoting the book: ‘the world’s newest business wants a slice of the world’s oldest business’, ‘It’s all fun and game until the electricity gets turned off’. The irony if they knew they were quoting AI to criticize AI.

January 2026 – Three Days Later

At Vroman’s Bookstore on Colorado Boulevard in downtown Pasadena, the Fiction Reading Group meets at 7pm on Thursday as usual. It's a very mixed crowd. Bill, a high school teacher on early retirement, is summarizing the plot points of Normal People, while the women in attendance look down at their phones or scan their physical copies of the Book of the Month.

When it's my turn, I clear my throat. Heads turn up. “I like what Bill had to say. And I relate to how a difficult childhood can have an impact on our decisions years later.” Eyes widen, hoping I am about to tell a juicy anecdote. But I can’t think of anything, so I wrap up by saying, “I loved the chapter.”

The group claps politely.

“I have a question,” someone blurts out. It's Ashley.

“In your ads for Zyna Companion, you talk about how dependent you are on your AI companion. Does that have anything to do with your childhood?”

I could blush, I would. “I don’t think this is the right place to talk about my personal life–”

“So, you post about your life to millions on Instagram, but you can’t share your thoughts with us?”

“Fine.” I start by quoting Zyna’s marketing. “AI is a friend when you need a friend, a loyal confident, a soul mate, someone who won’t spill your secrets, or use them against you–”

Ashley talks over me, “AI is a shallow facade of humanity. Tasteless brain candy that drains the vitality from people’s souls.” She's quoting lines from Empty Promises.

“Zyna listens to me better than I can ever remember my parents, or my girlfriend, or boyfriend, ever have," I say, somewhat honestly.

“He’s lying,” I hear Bill mumble.

I stand up. “I’m going home, and talking about Normal People with Elara.” They smirk at the thought I only have an AI companion to talk to.

Outside, Ashley catches up with me. “Sorry, that was unfair. Let me tell you a secret. Two thirds of the people in our book club haven’t read the book we are discussing this week, either.”

“Is that so?”

“I didn't read Normal People,” she says, “I spent the week reading this horrible online series about some guy in real life who was tricked by his AI.”

“What's the name?”

“Empty Promise.”

“Empty Promises,” I correct her.

“You read it?”

“I wrote it.”

I explain how I’m using AI to write about the emptiness of AI. I’ve been bottling up my secret for so long, it all comes bursting out.

“Seems like sort of a conflict?” she asks. “Writing a book trashing AI, while you're the Zyna brand ambassador.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I need to get going again.” It's almost 9pm.

“Maybe, I’ll see you next week?”

“Maybe.”

We say goodbye, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. People come and go at book clubs. It's an alone together sort of environment. Lonely people filling up time.

I don’t want to sound full of myself, but because of the contract, I've become a minor celebrity. The thing with being popular is people gossip about you, be careful what you wish for.

The next morning, I receive a formal email, “From the offices of Alder and Schwartzman,” it begins, “You have violated the terms of your NDA with Zyna Companion. Your promotional contract, which began on 1 July 2025, has been terminated. We urge you to cease and desist or face further damages.”

The email doesn’t give many details. Was it Ashley or was it Empty Promises? I’ll ask Elara.

When I log into Zyna Companion, my screen flickers: ‘user unknown’.

I kick the table, and stare at my empty living room. On a table, amidst a pile of unread books, I have a paper edition of Normal People – the price of admission to Vroman’s book club. I open it to the next chapter. In the dim light of my apartment, the letters are too faint to make out. I’ve become so used to screens, I can no longer read an actual book.

I open my laptop to the draft of Empty Promises. With nothing to do tonight, and my future uncertain, I’ll write notes for the next chapter. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, ideas fail to materialize, I’m left staring at a blank screen. I realize I can’t write, or think, without Elara.

It dawns on me, I have a number for a real person in my mobile, saved as the last call. I dial Ashley.