Then

I'm in the limo on the way to meet Josh for the first time, along with seven other women. I'm wedged between two stunning brunettes.

Lively chatter fills the car as we creep along. Everyone is asking where everyone else is from. What they do. How old they are. We've got Texas, Florida, New York, and more; girls from the country, girls from the city. Two consultants, a lawyer, a dog walker, a girl who just backpacked through South America. One girl is asking how many Insta followers everyone has and informs us multiple times that she has forty thousand. I keep quiet. Better not to mention that between the time Andy handed me a phone and the moment the producers took it away twenty minutes later, my million followers shot up to one point five million. Of course, any brief feelings of pleasure I experienced at the attention were quickly buried as I took in the comments. Lesson learned: followers are not always fans.

This seems important to keep in mind as my eyes travel the faces, bodies, clothes, of the girls who are my competition.

We all look surprisingly similar. Curves and legs, long hair in a spectrum of colors, lightly curled and loose, floor-length sparkly gowns. Texas has the loudest personality and, based on the pinched line New York's full lips have become, New York is definitely judging her.

As they will soon probably judge me, alongside strangers on the internet who have already made comments like, Another blow to feminism and What a disgrace aren't real women good enough for y'all????

Synths are controversial, and some people will be offended by my mere existence. I didn't need Instagram to teach me that; I woke up knowing all the basic information about myself and my world that an average twentysomething woman with a liberal arts degree might have. Still, knowing and experiencing aren't the same, and the desire for these women to like me—accept me—is so overpowering that my shoulders tense and my stomach cramps. A nasty cocktail of sensations that my mind quickly supplies the label for: anxiety.

"I can't believe we're minutes away from meeting Josh," says the brunette on my left—Dog Walker. She smells like lilies and hair spray.

"God, I'm going to pass out." Texas fans herself with a manicured hand. "Do you think the driver can turn up the air?" She leans toward the dividing window. "Hey, driver! Crank the AC! We're dying back here!"

The limo is making the short trek from the temporary prep tent in the back of the property to the patio at the front of the house, where we'll emerge from the limo one by one to meet Josh for the first time in front of the cameras.

There are eight girls per limo and three limos, which makes twenty-four contestants. One of the producers explained that only eighteen of us will get to stay after tonight's party. That means six girls will be eliminated based on Josh's first impressions tonight—or lack thereof.

I've done the math; time with Josh will be limited tonight. Every word will count. Every gesture. And even though I've been made with Josh in mind, it's not like Josh himself had any input into—or knowledge of—my design. I can only hope Andy and his team did their research. That every last detail about me will mesh with each want or need of his, like fingers interlacing.

"What can you tell me about Josh?" I whispered to Andy before I was whisked away by the Proposal crew.

"He likes redheads," joked Andy. "Seriously, you'll be fine. Be yourself. Don't let nerves get the best of you, okay?"

"Can they?" I quipped, just as my stomach produced a huge gurgle.

"I'm afraid it's one of your basic dampers," he said, not reading my humor. "Just take deep breaths. You have everything you need right in here." He thumped his heart, but I knew he meant my heart.

"Someone's deep in thought," says Texas, snapping me back to the limo, which is suddenly feeling chilly.

"Just nervous," I say with a fluttery laugh.

"So where are you from, Red? And what's your name?"

I feel myself blush. "Julia. I'm from here. California."

"And what does Julia do?"

"Oh, I..." The car slows. I lick my lips. "Are we here?"

The girls erupt in chaos, everyone pressing against the darkened windows, trying to catch a glimpse of Josh.

And then, delicate as a moth's wings, something brushes my arm. My body jolts and I yelp before registering that it's just Texas, climbing across the limo into my corner.

"You scared me," I admit with a breathy laugh.

"Sorry, I missed your answer," she says, settling next to me with a shimmy of her hips. "So...what do you do?"

"Oh! Right. Um, well, I..." I clear my throat. I can't tell her the truth; Josh needs to be the first to know who I am. "I'm kind of...in between things right now." Ugh. Why do I sound so guilty?

Texas narrows her eyes. "Fair warning? I happen to be very good at finding out people's dirty secrets, and I think you have one." Her teasing tone has a vicious undercurrent. She reaches toward my face. My hand shoots up on instinct, clamping around her wrist.

For a second, we're frozen. Her hand lifted. My fingers wrapped around her like a manacle. Both our eyes wide with surprise. Then time tumbles forward. I release her wrist and raise both my hands, palms facing out.

"I'm so sorry," I gasp. What just happened? A flash of instinct—protect yourself—

"You had a mascara smudge, bitch," she hisses, gathering her wrist to her chest, her breathing heavy. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Despite my resolve that Josh should be the first to know, I'm so tempted to blurt out, I'm a Synth. Reassure her that my No Harm programming means I'm not a threat. I couldn't even hurt Texas if she attacked me. In fact, there's only one exception that would allow me to harm a human. But I force myself to swallow the surge of words like the vomit they are.

"You startled me," I say humbly, "and I'm so sorry."

"Like fuck you are." Her displeasure hits like a blow.

I suddenly notice we're the center of multiple girls' attention. More than one face looks...excited. I bite my lip, unsure of where to go from here, but Texas takes over.

"There's a saying you should know, Julia from California. Don't mess with Texas. You want to know why?"

"Why?" I say without thinking, and instantly regret it.

"We know how to fuck a bitch up."

The girls explode in whoops and laughter.

But I'm not laughing. I came on this show to find love, and the first thing I've found is hatred.

"I'm not here to make enemies," I say, but even I can hear the weakness in my own voice.

Texas smiles, all white teeth and sharp lipstick.

"And I'm not here to make friends."