Page 5 of Made for You

My free hand, I put over my belly. I was in the last trimester of my pregnancy, and some strong maternal instinct was burning through me: I must protect my baby from this man.

“If you don’t like how we do things in Indiana,” said Sheriff Mitchell, “it’s a free country. Move.” He stood slowly, thrusting his hips forward and stretching his back. “Oh—congratulations on the baby. Fifty-fifty Bot-human?”

“Get out,” hissed Josh.

The whole scene has played in a single second in my head. Staring at the sheriff now, my heart is racing, my grip tightening around my baby. “Can I help you?”

This morning, Sheriff Mitchell’s eyes don’t sweep. He tips his hat without breaking eye contact, and I step back without choosing to.

“Julia Walden?” As if he has to confirm.

“Yes,” I say. This has to be about Josh. Frantic questions are already screaming through my head.

Mitchell adjusts his holster, drawing my attention to his gun, handcuffs, billy club. Even though every ounce of me wants to wring the words out of him, I force myself to be still. There’s a nearly audible tick-tick-tick in my head, like my very being is counting out the painful wait.

“I’m afraid we have some questions for you, Miz Walden.”

“What questions? Is my husband okay?”

His grin is slow, like he’s relishing this.

“Could we come in? You might want to sit down.”

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.

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