Then

Palm trees rustle above us. The smells of LA combine, the sweetness of heliotrope with the pungency of urine. Beauty and grime. My sweaty hand shifts against Josh's. We're walking up Industry Drive toward the fifteen-story building that hosts WekTech's LA offices. My stomach is gurgling, and I'm wishing I hadn't had breakfast, since it seems likely to come right back up.

"This is us," I say as we finally crest the hill, huffing and puffing from the climb. We could have been dropped off closer, but the producer wanted shots of us approaching the building. I wonder if they'll play ominous music when it airs. I suppose that will depend on what happens today. It's an eerie thought, imagining the film editors at work, like gods, knowing how it ends and retrofitting just the right clues to lead—or mislead—the viewers.

It's hometowns week with the final four girls: Cam, Emma, Zoe, and me. France is a happy blur. In a way, it feels like no time since I was stepping out of the limo barefoot, my high heels hooked over my finger, catching my first glimpse of Josh. Even though in actuality, the experience to this point has taken my entire life. Literally.

We stop in front of the glass doors leading into the building's foyer.

"This is weird, isn't it?" I ask.

"No," says Josh, instantly reassuring. "This is where you come from. I told you. I'm cool with it. I accept you."

I breathe out, not entirely believing him, but I'm learning to operate in that realm of halves, that tension between where you are and what you aspire to. Even though I know in my gut that Josh can't be as cool with this as he's letting on, rather than thinking of it as deception, as I might have a couple weeks ago, I'm thinking of it as direction. Reality can't be static, because we are creatures of time, and time is always ticking. Reality is taking another step in a chosen direction. And today, reality is Josh's choice to take a step over this threshold, into this building. For me.

I smile. "Let's go."

Hand in hand, we walk inside. The chill of the air conditioner hits my sweaty skin. I've worn a sleeveless maxi dress today, with a little jean jacket tied around my waist in case the evening gets cool. If I make it to this evening. What if Josh takes one look at anatomy blueprints, or swatches of synthetic skin, or any of the other hundreds of things he might find disturbing, and eliminates me on the spot?

And then there's our lunch with Andy and the team. Are they going to be weird and talk about how they designed me? Or pick apart my personality, explaining how each piece was made to fit with Josh's? I hope they know this would be in horrible taste, but...what else would they talk about? Their taste in movies?

A security guard issues us guest passes. We wait an absurdly long time for the elevator. And then, we're closed in with the cameraman, creeping upward, toward the fifteenth floor, each red number blinking like an accelerating heartbeat.

Fifteen. Ding. The doors crawl open and we're walking straight into the WekTech lobby.

It's white and minimalist with bold splashes of color. A neon rendition of da Vinci's Vitruvian Man hangs over a couch in primary yellow. A neon-pink sign above a watercooler blinks BE WELL. Additional camera crew is already positioned around the room. And...is Josh looking a little pale?

"Hello and welcome to WekTech," says a receptionist. I can only see her head poking above the massive white desk that surrounds her like a fortress. I release Josh's hand and walk toward her.

"Hi! We're here to see Andy?"

"Of course!" She clicks on her computer. "Let me ping him."

I lean my forearms on the cool surface of the desk. Now, looking down, I can see the whole receptionist, not just the decapitated version. She's dressed in an adorable floral-print dress and cardigan.

"I love your dress."

"Oh!" She stops typing to run her hands down her skirt. "It's from Zara. I got it on sale!"

"Nice."

"It'll just be a minute, if you want to wait."

"Okay." I turn back to find Josh sitting on the yellow couch. His arms are braced against his legs. He's looking seasick.

I sit next to him and place a hand on his back.

"Hey," I say. "Hey."

"Sorry." He tilts his head to catch my eye. His trademark grin is forced, but brave. "Give me a minute. I'll be fine."

I rub circles into his back, but his reaction has me totally panicked. I've never seen him so off-kilter. Is he going to lose it? Throw up? Cut and run? I can't just sit here and let this happen to him. To me. To us.

"One of the first criticisms I got after my Launch Day was that I wasn't a real woman," I say quietly. Urgently. "A comment on Insta. Anyway. We're on a reality TV show. Reality TV. But so much of it is—" I spin my free hand, leaving the other anchored on Josh's back "—sets. Direction from the producers. Impressions, you know? Beautiful, contrived...impressions." My palm is still against his shirt. I can feel the warmth of his skin under the fabric. His ribs lifting, then falling with his breath. "I've thought a lot about what's real. What it even means. Sure, we're material people, made of physical stuff—but that's not the true us, is it?"

He side-glances at me, but I can tell he's listening intently.

I stand and tug at his hand. "Let's go."

"What?"

I tug harder. Reality is not static. It is movement. Josh looks confused, but he allows me to drag him to the elevator, where I punch the button, over and over, like that will make it hurry. The receptionist is talking on the phone, half-turned away from us, and doesn't notice. Reality is stepping over a threshold. It is action, it is choice.

The elevator swishes open. The receptionist swivels back toward us, but we're already inside.

"Wait! Julia—" she cries just as the doors close behind us and the cameraman. Josh and I sink against the back wall. I collapse my head against him, and he meshes his fingers in mine. The floors count down. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.

"So," says Josh. Already, there's a little more life in his voice.

Eleven, ten, nine.

"Neither of us wanted to," I explain. "It isn't worth it."

A smile ripens slowly on his face. "Then where are we headed, Miss Julia?"

My mind is a swirl of ideas. We could ride roller coasters at Disneyland. Surf at Hermosa Beach. Play tourists on Hollywood Boulevard. Go to the movies, get a burger, or even just find a bench and watch the world go by.

"Let's do whatever we want," I say, tightening the tangle of our fingers. "We've been doing all these things that other people have planned for us. Maybe a true hometown with me is about us making our own way."

Dimples crease Josh's cheeks, and I see salvation in his smile—for this day, for our relationship. We were plummeting down, but our parachutes just deployed.

The elevator doors open. I can imagine the shot the camera is getting: both of us flushed, smiling. Glowing with our stolen freedom.

"Ready?" says Josh. "We're off script now."

"Ready," I agree. We squeeze hands and walk confidently out of WekTech, back into the warm California day, headed into a future of our own making. My legs feel strong and my heart is beating with joy and adrenaline and the thrill of our near-escape, and I'm pretty sure I can run and run forever, as long as he's the one I'm running with.