Chapter 6: Matchmaking and Doubt

I passed my eighteenth birthday without incident; my two brothers are both engaged, and only I am left.

I didn’t even have a party—just Mom, a store-bought cake, and a game of Scrabble. The real celebrations were for Derek and Caleb, their faces plastered all over society pages with their fiancées.

The housekeeper in Mom’s apartment hinted several times, wanting her to ask Dad to arrange a marriage for me.

She’d drop not-so-subtle hints about eligible girls at church, slide bridal magazines onto the coffee table, tsk-tsking about my lack of initiative.

But Mom still eats and drinks as usual, shakes her head and doesn’t care, living by the principle that blessings are determined by fate—no need to worry, life will sort itself out, there’s no need to chase it.

She always tells me, “Worry is like a rocking chair—it keeps you busy but gets you nowhere.”

With no worries, she’s getting rounder by the day.

Mom’s never met a cinnamon roll she didn’t like. If gaining a little weight means more peace of mind, I say let her enjoy it.

I quite agree with Mom’s view.

If life wants to throw me a curveball, I’ll just catch it—maybe. Or duck.

The housekeeper is too anxious. The President’s son—could he really stay single?

She acts like my bachelorhood will bring shame on the whole country. I tell her, “Relax, I’m not the last man in America.”

Sure enough, one day at a family barbecue, I ran into Vanessa, who saw I’d grown up and offered to find me a nice girl.

She swept in, lipstick perfect, eyes calculating, and declared she had a list of candidates. I suddenly lost my appetite for ribs. I stared at my plate, poking at coleslaw, wishing I could shrink down to the size of a pickle.

With Vanessa getting involved, Caleb’s mom was alarmed too, and the two families started bickering, neither willing to back down.

It became a full-on matchmaking war, both sides making phone calls, arranging lunches, treating my love life like a congressional bill to be negotiated.

They both pestered Dad, each wanting me to marry their own niece.

I swear, you’d think I was a prize steer at the county fair the way they were fighting over me.

Noah spoke up for me:

He tried to inject some reason into the chaos. “Let Jason have a say,” he said. Of course, no one listened.

“The oldest son is marrying the only daughter of Senator Preston, with a dowry of a hundred thousand shares. The second son is marrying the legitimate daughter of Governor Harding, a pillar of the establishment.

You may not be as prominent as the oldest, nor as noble as the legitimate son, but you’re still the President’s son. Whether marrying a senator’s daughter or a prominent lady, it’s more than enough.

How could you settle for distant relatives from small families?”

He made his point, but all I heard was ‘Jason, you’re not chopped liver, but you’re not steak either.’

I couldn’t help but laugh.

I doubled over, nearly spilling my sweet tea, picturing myself paraded out for inspection like a blue-ribbon hog.

With all this matchmaking, why do I feel like a prized racehorse?

I half expected someone to measure my teeth or check my posture.

Noah is different from me.

He’s the golden boy—he’s never worried about getting picked. He’s always been the one holding the reins, not the one being led around.

He doesn’t know—having a wife is better than none.

Not everyone is like him: young, proud, the most dazzling guy in the city, the dream of every girl at school.

I’ve seen girls slip him their numbers at gas stations, hand him notes in the hallway, send him Valentine’s Day cookies with their Instagram handles iced on top.

When his family chose a wife, they screened the whole country inside and out.

The Thompsons put the FBI to shame—background checks, interviews, references from Sunday school teachers. I swear, the only thing missing was a reality show.

The requirements included, but were not limited to: good family, spotless reputation, upright parents, helpful siblings, outstanding talent…

His dad kept a spreadsheet, color-coded by region and GPA. It was a whole production.

After three or four years, they finally settled on the young daughter from the Montgomery family.

She was the only one who ticked every box—plus, her family threw great parties. Noah seemed relieved when it was finally over.

I may be the President’s son, but I’m nowhere near his league when it comes to marriage.

I’m just hoping for someone who’ll laugh at my jokes and not mind my napping habit.

So I turned to comfort him:

I clapped him on the shoulder, “Hey, buddy, even you know I’m not a first-round draft pick. Don’t sweat it.”

“Even you know I’m not prominent or noble enough, so how could others not know?

Prominent families always want to hitch their wagons to the rising star; who would bet their treasures on a son like me, already out of the running?

Besides, I have the ‘good name’ of being slow-witted, not at all the knight in shining armor. I doubt the girls at their debutante balls are eager either.”

I tried to keep my tone light, but deep down I knew I was telling the truth. The country club crowd wants headlines, not the guy who fades into the background.

Noah glared at me, his eyes full of sympathy, pity, anger, and helplessness, all mixed together.

He hates it when I sell myself short, but he can’t argue with the facts. Still, I saw him clench his jaw like he wanted to fight my battles for me.

In the end, he concluded:

“Don’t worry! Dad will never agree.”

That was his way of promising he’d always have my back—even if the rest of the world thought I was a lost cause.

Some days, I wonder if Noah’s right—maybe I am wasting my shot. But then again, whose shot is it, anyway?