"Then stay Ophelia Finnegan."
"But if I don't change my name, will it draw suspicion? It's so much more legit if I take your name. I mean, who would get married and change their last name if they weren't really in love?"
She seems so much more concerned about fooling the authorities than I am. I'm not the first athlete to do something like this, and I probably won't be the last. Perhaps I'm naive, but I can't imagine, with all that's going on in the world, the government spending its time and resources to track me down. It's not like I'm violating my visa or anything. I'm simply accelerating my path to citizenship.
"I can't predict whether or not we'll draw government scrutiny. I don't have a say in this matter. It's totally up to you." But even as I say it, I know I'm lying. I want her to take my name.
But I don't know why.
Nor do I have time to examine this feeling.
She sighs, scribbling what will be her new moniker. Her forehead creases into a frown as she stares at what she's written.
Ophelia Henry.
"Oh."
"What is it?"
"My initials. They're going to be O.H. Oh. O. Henry."
Like the candy bar. I haven't thought about those in years. The name makes me smile. "Those were the best."
Ophelia looks at me like I have three heads. "What? Isn't O. Henry a poet or something?"
I shrug. "Perhaps? But I'm talking about Oh Henry! The candy bar. I don't know if you can even get them anymore, but when I was a kid, I loved them. I tried to tell people they were named after my family, but thenSeinfelddid a whole storyline with a character who was the heir to the Oh Henry! fortune, and it ruined it for me when it ran in syndication back home. But not the candy. That was still scrumptious. I mean, chocolate fudge, peanuts, and caramel, all coated with chocolate. I don't know if I loved them because of the taste or the name, but they were my absolute fav."
I should probably shut my trap. Here we are, rushing against the clock to get married, and I'm wagging on about a childhood treat.
"That sounds delicious. Okay, fine, I'll be Ophelia Henry." She wrinkles her nose as she says this.
I put my hand on hers. "Remember, it's temporary. You don't have to be Ophelia Henry forever."
She looks up at me, her eyes deep and serious. "I know. It's just …"
"I know. Not what you had planned. Trust me, this wasn't my script either. I never thought …"
"Are you two done yet?" the clerk calls, her Boston accent heavy.
Ophelia jumps up. "Yup. We're all set. We were just …" she looks back at me, "trying to process the moment."
"Process when you're not on the clock. Judge Mahoney leaves at four-thirty."
I glance at my watch. It's already ten 'til four. "Right." She processes our paperwork, takes our payment, and then points to a door at the end of the hall.
We head through the door and into an empty room. There are stacks of chairs against the wall and a white floor runner down the middle. At the end of the aisle is a large sheet of plexiglass on a stand, like a mirror, but transparent. I suppose in non-COVID times, the room would be set up to accommodate a few guests. Instead, it's rather depressing.
Ophelia is looking around, her shoulders slumped. Yes, I agree, this whole thing is a downer. Of course, that's how my life has been ever since I got into that car with Phaedra Jones. This is simply one more thing.
Judge Mahoney comes in, wearing an ill-fitting gray suit and tie, his mask down around his chin. He heads behind the plexiglass. "Okay, you're my last. Let's make this quick. You can take your masks off if you want to."
Both Ophelia and I remove our masks, and she slides out of her coat. We step to the end of the aisle and wait for Judge Mahoney to begin. He reads in a monotone voice, not looking up from his papers. "Xavier," he begins. Due to his local accent, it sounds more like Xa-vya. It actually reminds me of how my dad says my name. "And Ophelia. You come in today as two individuals but will leave as one. As you stand here before your friends and famil—Dammit, Charity, she was supposed to give me the updated version." He swears under his breath.
He continues to drone on. I should pay attention, but all I can do is look at Ophelia. Her gaze remains on the floor, and her hands clutch the small bouquet so hard her knuckles match her dress.
I'm not sure where Judge Mahoney got this script from, but it can definitely use a once-over. Or a thrice over. He speaks so fast that I can barely process his words. I'm grateful because if I could hear what he was saying about love and commitment and relationships, I'd probably bolt faster than my fifty-yard dash.
Xavier Henry, how did you break the world record for speed?
