There’s a madwoman loose in my house. What kind of person cries over being asked her last name?
A jilted bride, my new sister-in-law’s voice offers in my head.
A new widow, my uncle Antonio’s voice chimes in.
A woman who had amnesia and just regained her memory only to discover her friends and family thought she was dead and moved on without her, my cousin’s voice squeals.
Some days I dislike that my favorite family member has an addiction to Korean dramas.
Or she just discovered she was adopted and understands now why she’s always felt like she didn’t belong in her family, Keisha’s voice adds, and this time, I can picture her sly grin, because while she might be my favorite family member, she’s not above trying to play matchmaker like the rest of them. She’s also adopted herself—by my mother’s brother, though her romantic spirit suggests she’s more Rutherford than I am—and she’s an exquisite case study in nurture versus nature. She’s just like you, Hayes. She doesn’t fit. But she’s actually adopted, and you’re just weird.
I’m not weird, though it’s taken me years to shake off the label in my own head. I just don’t fit what people expect of a Rutherford. I like math instead of people. I’d rather read historical biographies than talk about the character arc of a romantic lead in a Razzle Dazzle movie.
I puked once getting off of a Razzle Dazzle Village roller coaster ride, which was photographed and filmed for all of the world to see, and the media liked painting me as the oddball for ratings.
God knows they didn’t get anything else clickbait-worthy from my family. Everyone else is too perfect.
They all fit the mold.
Even Keisha, who’s something of a disaster, though thanks to not having the Rutherford name, she’s not frequently linked to us.
But even she had a better media debut. Mine was accidentally being interviewed by a swarm of bloodthirsty paparazzi when I was separated from my family during a movie premiere when I was about six years old, and I got so flustered that I clucked like a chicken instead of answering questions until my father saved me.
I shudder at the memory and once again wish I were somewhere else. I should’ve gone to the house in Nantucket instead if I wanted to get any work done in peace, but the Nantucket house belongs to my mother, and I couldn’t have hit the first button on the alarm panel without alerting her to my whereabouts.
I stood half a chance here.
“Fairchild,” Begonia says. “My name is Begonia Fairchild.”
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. “And that’s difficult to say, because…？”
Dammit.
I did it.
“I picked it after my divorce.” She flashes her bare left hand and a goofy smile while she blinks quickly. Is she flirting with me, or does she have something in her eyeball? “There was no way I could continue being a Dixon, and I never really felt like Bidelspach fit me the way I wanted it to, so I decided to be Begonia Fairchild. My dad would’ve liked it. He was way more the peace, love, and prosper type than my mom ever was. Give me fifteen minutes to shower and put some clothes on, and I’ll pull up that rental agreement for you and we’ll figure out what’s going on here. Did you want some cheesecake? I got enough for a party and I figured it would last me all week, but I can go get more if we eat it all this morning. Oh my god. You’re Jonas Rutherford’s strange older brother. I can’t believe I’m standing here in your house. And I didn’t mean strange in a bad way. That’s just—”
“Stop talking.”
“—what the teen magazines always called you. I’m sorry. That’s a bad habit. I won’t say that again.”
“You’ll shower, pack, sign a non-disclosure agreement stating that you weren’t here and you’ve never seen me, and that you acknowledge I’ll sue for ten million dollars in the event you break your word, and then you can leave.”
I’m being an ass. I generally dislike being an ass, but I’m beyond controlling my frustration and anger today.
I want to fucking sleep, because after I sleep, I have to dig deeper into some inconsistencies that I found in the Razzle Dazzle books right before Jonas’s rehearsal dinner the other night, when I was trying to distract myself from thinking about my cousin Thomas’s funeral and my new role in the company.
The dog whimpers and lies down, covering its nose with a paw like it knows it’s in trouble.
“It’s okay, Marshmallow,” Begonia says softly. She blinks up at me. “I truly am sorry. That’s rude of the tabloids to call you names, and I should know better than to repeat it. I’m a little flustered. It’s not every day that I—well, that I meet someone related to my teenage crush. But you probably hear that enough that it’s annoying.”