Page 111 of Made for You

But not enough like a person to be kept awake.

The card reads FINAL JULIA PROTOTYPE–Ethical Algorithm and Organo-Synthetic Systems Testing.

I look into her eyes, which are open, though they see nothing. How did they test the algorithm? Was this prototype conscious? How long? Did she have to endure traumatic testing situations to make sure she defended the correct human in violent scenarios, or was it all run through a computer? I’d almost prefer if she looked more like a crash test dummy. As it is, I can’t help but put myself in her shoes. At some point, someone turned her off. Andy? Eden? Some lowly intern? This version of Julia couldn’t fight that. Did she want to?

I could stay here all night, facing what I might have been, or what might have been me, and running through the track record of pain Andy has inflicted not only on me but possibly—likely—on these prototypes. But at some point, I have to move away from these Julias and choose myself, because no one else has, and no one else will.

I finally face the door to Andy’s lab. Lay my hand on the lever handle and push it open, into what could either be my end or my second beginning.

The lights are off inside, save a glowing area at the far end where Andy’s back is outlined in the light of his screen and a small desk lamp. He’s wearing headphones, so he hasn’t noticed my presence yet.

As I step inside, I feel the vastness of the lab rising around me, the darkness cut through with the glimmer of parts and scraps on the long metal table. And the glint of Lars behind his glass, winking at me like the reflection of a knife.

I told myself once upon a time that reality was formed by choice. Naive again, Julia. Choices aren’t pure. They can be manipulated, bent like light through water, and if choices are based on lies, all they build is a house of cards. No—reality is static, a core nucleus, the truth about who you are in some vital convergence of atoms and essence, of energy and intent. Reality is the inalterable who that lies under the skin.

When the door closes behind me, Andy swivels around and lowers his headphones. “Who’s there?” He doesn’t sound scared. But he will in a second.

THEN

By four in the evening, I’m a wreck. Josh has been going in and out of the garage for what feels like hours. The camping gear is in the trunk of his car and now he’s in the kitchen, making a bunch of peanut butter sandwiches.

I’ve opened a bottle of wine, because I need something to calm me down.

The problem is the hiking trip, but it’s not the hiking trip. It’s that all day Josh has been pretending to have told me when he didn’t. I know he didn’t. I wouldn’t forget a thing like that.

It’s that I want him to leave, but I need him to stay.

It’s that flash of hope when I first saw him packing. Hope that he was leaving me. I don’t know what I want anymore.

And yet I do. I want Josh to love me.

Not for the cameras, or amid the glitz, not for the approval of an audience or the pursuit of a dream, but for me, here, now.

Not for the winning of a heart, but for the keeping of a heart.

“You didn’t tell me about this trip,” I say, taking a glug directly from the bottle of wine, because at this point, fuck it.

“It’s just one day,” says Josh as he pulls out a jar of jelly.

“We need better communication, Josh.”

He bought land without me. He signed up for episodes of The Proposal without me. He made these hiking plans without me. And even though in the grand scope of things, a hiking trip isn’t that big of a deal, the common denominator is without me.

“It’s one day,” he repeats, smearing jelly on bread. He’s as handsome as he’s always been, but tonight his beauty leaves me cold.

Captain chooses this minute to whine at Josh’s feet. He can sense the food preparation.

“Will this fucking dog ever shut up?” Josh snarls. I don’t move while he grabs Captain’s collar and drags him out the back door. I watch Josh through the window as he attaches Captain’s leash to the old doghouse in the back of the yard.

Josh returns. He puts the sandwiches together, sliding each one into an individual plastic baggie. Two pieces of bread that fit together because they were cut from the same loaf.

“Just tell me,” I say as he opens a cooler bag and stacks the sandwiches inside. “Do you still love me?”

He doesn’t even look at me. “I’m not answering that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re drunk, Julia. God. This conversation is over, okay? We’ll talk when I get home.”