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Ouch. That’s a bit of a kick in the gut. Anger surges through my veins, lighting up my senses. I’m a disappointment to him because I don’t fulfill his idea of the perfect Chinese-Indo girlfriend. Not obedient enough, probably. “Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s disappointed,” I snark back.

He actually winces like I’ve hit him. “Um, okay.” He looks down at his feet and I gnaw on my lower lip and wish the sandwould part and bury me alive. “Anyway, I get that neither of us wants any of this to happen, but since it is, let’s just try to get through this weekend and then we can go our separate ways.”

“Yep.”

“Yep.”

“Yep.” I just have to get through the next few days as the fake girlfriend of someone I don’t like, who doesn’t like me back. That’s totally fine. That’s very doable. What can possibly gowrong?

I wake up to a sight no one should ever wake up to—Papa, Eighth Aunt, Nainai, and Eleanor sitting on Eleanor’s bed, staring at me. I jerk upright, going from drowsy slumber straight to adrenaline-pumped alertness in a single second.

“What—what happened? Everything okay?” Dread lurches up my throat, bitter and sharp. Somebody must’ve died. One of our family members. Maybe an aunt or an uncle. Maybe even a cousin.

“George, how was it last night, introducing Sharlot to the family?” Eighth Aunt says, not bothering with any greetings.

“Wha—” I rub my face with both hands. “Why are you all here in my room?”

“Technically it’s also my room,” Eleanor pipes up. “I gave them permission to come in. Not that any of you needed any permission, since you are all my elders and I respect you with every shred of my being.” She grins up at them and is rewarded with a pet on the head from Nainai and a smile that is 100percentgooey affection from Papa. Ugh, why haven’t they seen through her act yet?

“Yes, very true, meimei,” Nainai says in her wobbly old-person voice. “You shouldn’t be demanding permission from your elders to enter your room, Ming Fa. Unless you have something to hide.” Her numerous wrinkles rearrange into a frown.

“No, I wasn’t demanding, I was just—” I sigh. “Never mind. What can I do for you?”

Nainai’s wrinkles shift back into her usual genial expression. “There’s a good boy. Tell Nainai how was your evening with ShiJun?”

It takes a beat for me to recall that Shi Jun is Sharlot’s Chinese name. “Um. It was okay, I guess? We were at dinner with all of you.”

“I saw you two going down to the beach, maybe having a romantic moment?” Nainai grins at me. They’re all wearing Cheshire cat grins now, actually.

I shrink back from them. “No, actually. I—uh—I get the feeling that Sharlot—I mean, Shi Jun—doesn’t like me that much. I think we’re probably better off as friends once this whole event is done, so please don’t get your hopes up, Nainai,” I say as gently as I can. The only other person that Eighth Aunt has told the truth to is Nainai, but Nainai still seems to harbor hope that we might actually end up dating for real. The probability of that happening is less than nil, but try telling that to Nainai.

In reply, they all talk in low voices among themselves, as though I’m not right here in front of them and can hear every single word they’re saying.

Papa: “You’re right, he’s hopeless.”

Eleanor: “Told you.”

Nainai: “He’ll be celibate his whole life. No one will continue the family name.”

“Can I just point out that Indonesia has over two hundred million people? Plenty of families share our surname. It’s hardly as though the Tanuwijaya name will end with me. Plus, it’s not even our real family name.” When my grandparents immigrated to Indonesia eons ago, they changed their Chinese family names to Indonesian ones to better integrate with the local population. “Remember? Our real surname is Lin, and there are probably about a gazillion people on the planet with the same surname, so. Crisis averted.”

They ignore me and continue speaking among themselves. Then they sit back and Eighth Aunt says, “George.”

“Eighth Aunt.”

“We all agree that you are…mm, how shall we say it?”

“Is it loser?” Papa whispers in English. Or at least he thinks he’s whispering. People all the way in the next villa can probably hear his “whispers.”

“Thanks, Pa.”

“I say with love, son,” he says.

“I really don’t think you can call your kid a loser with love.”

He frowns. “Of course I can. I love you, so everything I say come out with much love.”

“Just.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Carry on, Eighth Aunt. So, you all agree I’m hopeless.”