Then

"You like the lemon or the raspberry?" says the baker, a woman with rainbow hair, butterfly barrettes, and a pretty smile.

"Here, you didn't get enough of a taste." Josh smiles and directs the spoon with the bite of vanilla cake with lemon curd toward my mouth.

Even though the last thing I want to do right now is eat another bite of sugar with this blasted morning sickness, I open my freshly glossed lips, knowing that the cameras are tracking every adorable moment.

"Wait, honey, you have something..." says Josh, nudging the corner of my lips as if for a crumb. "Here, let me help you." He kisses me lightly, no tongue, a perfect camera kiss.

"I'm onto you," I tease when he pulls away. "There was no crumb!"

The baker laughs a little awkwardly, but it doesn't matter, because the focus is us.

I know that neither Josh nor I want to be surrounded by cameras right now, but I also know that it's not about our short-term discomfort. It's about getting what we need to survive the tough times that are ahead. And let's be honest—neither of us had the ability or energy to plan an entire wedding in fourteen days.

The money we'll receive from allowing them to film a wedding episode will allow us to do what we need to do. Josh can take the huge pay cut as he moves out of sales into an administrative role, which he can do remotely from Eauverte. And we can jump in and start chipping away at his mom's gargantuan medical bills, which aren't covered by her awful insurance and are only bound to grow from here. Josh keeps talking like she might get better, but I'm pretty sure that's denial talking. I have the feeling we're going to need a full-time nurse at some point. Hospice. This wedding will pay for her death.

"So...are we feeling more raspberry?" says the baker.

"Mmmmm." I frown as if caught in a deep conundrum. "I don't know! They're both so good!"

"Well," says the baker, smiling like she has a little secret. "As a special gift to you guys, I would actually love to do both flavors!"

I squeal and clap my hands. "Both?"

"That is so generous." Josh covers my hand with his while we both beam. "It's going to make our day extra special."

Maybe it's the nausea, but even the words coming out of our mouths are sickening. It seems like a lifetime ago when I had trouble distinguishing what was real and what was fake. They seemed so close, like you might confuse the two at any moment. Now? Like a cloven fruit, they've fully split apart. And they grate.

"We got the shot," says Prisha, who's come on all the wedding prep shoots.

Josh bursts up like the chair is burning him. "We good, then?" His suave air of gratitude about our two flavors of cake is gone. I never sensed this impatience from him on The Proposal, and I'm chalking it up to the feeling of time ticking away. The time of his mother's life, being wasted by each of these frivolous moments. The time marked by his watch, which drives me crazy with its loud ticking, which I'm not letting myself bring up again, in case his answer is no longer sweet like it was that first night.

"Yep, let's pack it up," Prisha says, and the crew immediately starts taking down the lighting and cameras.

I take a minute, though, to grab a selfie, allowing myself to look cutely overwhelmed. I know it's important to use these chances to tell the American public that I'm just like them. I post it with no filter and a quick caption. Wedding planning is EXHAUSTING #nofilter.

Then I stand, smoothing out my floral-print maxi dress. The fit isn't quite right. The spaghetti straps are cutting into my shoulders. My chest feels tender, and I know I need to shop for new bras. Josh added me as a secondary cardholder on his credit card account, but every time I use it, I feel weird, especially considering our new financially murky waters.

Josh has left the bakery ahead of me, but I'm not far behind. I put on my sunglasses. It's hot out here, and Josh is fast-tracking it to the SUV. The floral shop was our first stop, the bakery our second. Next, Josh is getting dropped off at a tux place and I'm headed to a bridal boutique to find my dress.

As tough as things are, there's still plenty of hope inside me. Josh and I are facing the big guns: life and death, and that's enough to rock the foundation for any couple, not just us. One choice at a time, I keep reminding myself—even when the choices are hard.

"Hi, Julia, sorry to bother you," says a voice, and suddenly there's a woman by my side. I don't stop walking. I've already been recognized a few times around town, and I didn't enjoy it. One man asked for my autograph, which was annoying, but okay. Another woman opened her water bottle, shouted, Get out of my state, Parts! and sprayed me with it. I've been gathering that Parts is not the only insulting name people have come up with for me. There's also Fuckbot, Synthesizer, and Arty—for Artificial Intelligence.

"I'm Ally Buoncore from Netflix," says the woman, keeping pace with me as I cross the parking lot. "I've left you a few messages—"

"Yes, things have been busy," I say, instantly regretting the bite in my voice. This dedicated, professional woman doesn't deserve my contempt just because it's her job to harass me. I sigh and stop walking. She's shorter than I imagined, and younger. Curvy and tanned, in a sleek black sheath dress and incongruous red sneakers.

"You okay?" Josh calls over to me from the SUV.

I give him a thumbs-up. I know I can't talk long; Camila, Emma, and Zoe are meeting me for the dress shopping. While they're here, we'll get the bachelorette party out of the way, too. The entire cast of girls is joining for that, like a big, bizarre reunion, probably to draw people's attention away from the fact that I have no family or friends outside of the cast. There will probably be strippers and thumping music and booze, even though I can't drink in my condition. I've even heard rumors of an ice statue of a naked man. Surprise surprise, you pour alcohol into his head and it shoots out his you-know-what. Unfortunately, I'm out of energy to fight for anything tamer. At least Cam will have fun.

Ally presses her hands into a prayer position by her chest, and a hot breeze blows my skirt around my swollen ankles. I decide I'll give her two minutes before politely declining. Again.

"Julia," she says. "I've tried my very best sales pitches on you, and nothing. So you tell me. What can I do to get you to consider the documentary?"

"To be honest, nothing," I say. "Unless you have a cure for cancer?"

Ally makes a pained face. "Sorry, I don't have that. But seriously—name your price. I can't guarantee anything, of course, but at least give me something to work with. A number to shoot for. I'm dying to do this project with you. Dying."

That, I got. I'm very aware of how lucrative the documentary would be for Netflix. And the truth is, we could use the money. For a crazy second, I consider saying yes, right here in the bakery parking lot, with Josh just feet away. It would probably take care of all Rita's medical bills. Then I imagine cameras in the house. Production schedules and interviews. While Rita is dying. While I'm having a baby.

"Can I be honest with you?" I say, pushing my sunglasses on top of my head so that Ally and I are eye to eye.

"Of course."

"I do need the money. But family comes first, and right now, my family needs space. We have a lot of change coming, and I can't in good conscience add another stressor to our lives." I shrug. "I'd say call me later, but with Josh's mom sick..."

Ally is taking it in stride. She flashes me a big smile. "Listen, Julia. I'm going to keep calling you, because that's what I do, and I'm still really hoping that one day you'll say yes, because you have a fascinating story and it truly deserves to be told. But I very much respect your decision. I promise not to harass you for at least a few months."

"I may never want to do it. I've kind of had my fill of cameras."

Ally raises an eyebrow toward the film crew, which is closing up the back of the van, as if to point out that I invited these guys in, so why not her?

"Temporary compromise," I say, sliding my sunglasses back down.

Josh has rolled down the window and is patting the side of the vehicle, clearly impatient. I give him the one-minute signal.

"Keep me in mind is all I ask," says Ally.

"Nice talking to you." I extend a hand, which she shakes.

The brief temptation of the money is fully extinguished as I walk away from her, my hair fluttering in the breeze. Josh wanted his little slice of the American Dream. A house, a yard, a little family in a nest. That dream drew us together, and even though we haven't exactly achieved it yet, no part of that dream included a long-term film crew.

Not even the money is motivation enough to invite that kind of fresh invasion into the lives we haven't even had a chance to build.