Then

It's an addiction, watching our season.

When I nurse Annaleigh at night, I sit in the rocker and watch it on my phone. When Josh is out, I watch it on my laptop while I prep a meal or clean a bathroom, keeping one ear out for his return so I can snap the screen closed. My time on The Proposal is the closest I'll come to having a childhood. The innocence, the raw emotion, the discovery. I feel sorry for that Julia, hurtling toward pain, but there's also a twisted fascination watching it all unfold like the glittering train wreck it is.

Sometimes Rita watches over my shoulder, from her picture on the mantel.

I have the dialogue memorized, and I find myself murmuring along. There are certain parts I always laugh at, like the outtakes after our Paris episode when they reveal that a motorcycle kept revving as we talked, forcing Josh to repeat himself over and over. Or the time a flock of birds attacked Cam on the beach.

Watching Josh with Cam is especially addictive. They are different together than Josh and me. More at ease. Maybe even more genuine. In retrospect, I look stiff. Reserved. All my interactions with Josh seem...tame. Did you notice that, Rita? I didn't feel reserved at the time. I felt wild and open. Was I actually cold, or is it just in comparison to the heat of Camila? Reality seems more and more like a mist. Hard to see through. Impossible to hold.

Our wedding is the hardest to watch, because things were already headed downhill, although there's literally no sign. Not a wilted expression, not a grumpy face, not a twitch of the mouth. It's picture-perfect. I don't watch that episode more than a few times. I stick with the earlier stuff, up to the proposal, though I faithfully skip the breakfast with Rita.

I go through the motions of my life, but my head is in the past. Maybe my heart is, too.

One evening, over a quick dinner of hash browns and eggs, Josh says, "I bought some acres."

Annaleigh is asleep, and even though I'm exhausted, I really tried to make the table look pretty, with a few wildflowers in a vase and matching silverware.

"It's time for us to have our fresh start," he says, squirting ketchup in a zigzag pattern over his hash browns.

"Acres? As in land? Where?" I say, torn between a burst of hope and a flash of anger that we didn't make this decision together. Sure, we've talked about buying land. I guess I imagined we'd drive out and look it over together before making an actual purchase.

"Twenty miles from here. You're going to love it, Julia. Space and trees, that's all there is. We can design our own house and finally have some fucking privacy."

"But...where did you get the money?"

He scoops up a bite of hash browns, chews, swallows, and because of that I know I'm not going to like the answer. His throat bobs as he swallows.

"I signed with The Proposal for a one-year follow-up miniseries. Eight episodes."

I feel myself go cold.

I've been watching the show like it's a thing of the past. Poking it like a dead animal. Well, the dead animal just opened its eyes.

"I thought we were done with cameras," I say, voice neutral. But my mind is racing. What would it look like to enter that world again—or rather, let it enter our world? A cruel hope ignites. Would Josh turn back on for this performance? Come back to life?

"Do you want to stay in this house forever?" he says, his tone cold.

"Of course not." I hesitate, then plunge forward, because why the hell not. "There's a documentary. With Netflix. It would be a big chunk of money, but I've... I've been turning them down."

Josh frowns. "Don't you think we should have made that decision together? How much money are we talking?"

"I thought we wanted our privacy."

"Privacy costs money, Julia."

We look at each other across the table. I get it—that we might need to compromise to earn our spot in that better place. But this compromise feels too big. The straw that might break us when I'm trying so hard to hold us together.

"Josh." I reach out a hand and cover his in mine. This very thing—our hands touching—used to give me such a thrill. Now? At best, it's like nothing. At worst, excruciating. And I don't want it to stay that way. "We need help. I think we should find a good therapist."

His laughter has a mean edge. "What therapist is going to agree to treat a Synth? Maybe you should call WekTech for a tune-up, Julia."

He withdraws his hand and finishes his dinner in silence.

I'm completely numb as I rise to clear the table.

"Want me to run the dishwasher?" he says. Amiably. "I think it's full."

"Sure!" I say. At this point, everything I do is theater. This can't be real; therefore, I can't feel hurt either.

Josh washes the pan I used for the hash browns. Feeds Captain and cleans out his water bowl. I sweep the kitchen floor and mess with the thermostat, because it's supposed to get down into the forties tonight. Around eleven, Josh goes to bed. But I stay in the family room, feet tucked into the crevices of the old couch. With all the lights off, I open my laptop and find the proposal episode. I hit Play.

I watch Camila step out of the helicopter to get her heart broken.

Then I watch myself step out of the helicopter. Also to get my heart broken, though not on that day.

I don't want more filming. I don't want my life to be a show. I want it to be real.

On the other hand, there's Annaleigh. Granted, she's not aware of much now. Graffiti on the side of the house is beyond her notice. It won't always be that way, though. She deserves a childhood of trees and space and safety. Maybe I can agree to more filming, if it's for her.

It's not that I can't sacrifice for Josh. I could, and I still believe there is a possible happy future for us. But while my love for him is a sputtering flame I'm fighting to protect, my love for Annaleigh is a bonfire.

If I can't have safety, she will. She must.

The next afternoon, as I put Annaleigh down for her second nap, I'm ready to tell Josh yes. I'll film more episodes, and I'll call Ally Buoncore and sign the contract for the documentary, too. Whatever it takes so that this precious little person who belongs to me can have safety and happiness.

I turn on the sound machine and gently close the nursery door. Then I head to our bedroom, where Josh is tearing about the room. Why is there a duffel bag on the bed?

My first thought is, Oh my God, he's leaving me.

Something traitorous sparks in my heart, fast like an eye blinking.

"Are you going somewhere?" I say.

His face is tense, his voice clipped. "Don't you remember? Hiking trip."