The Suitor Search

“YOU NEED TO find a husband.”

The six words carry a foreboding chill—one definitely not meant to greet Jackie Sinclair’s ears first thing Friday morning.

Readjusting her handbag on her shoulder, she closes her parted lips and scrunches her eyebrows. ”Excuse me?”

“A husband.”

Her uncle’s voice is washed out in static—a result of their long-distance call.

“I know you’re finishing up your final year of high school, but I’ve been thinking it’d be in your best interest to find at least a fiancé before you let university swallow you whole. Having someone there for you will really put me at ease. Especially considering my schedule keeps me too busy to be there for you myself.”

Despite paying him a mindful ear, anger consumes her like a wave. All because it’s familiar conversation. There have been many occasions where her uncle’s casually slipped arranged marriages into conversation or left underlying implications. But he’s never been so forceful about it. Needless to say, this dip in their business-as-usual exchange has succeeded in putting her in a foul mood.

“Uncle, I’m eighteen.”

“So?”

She can’t believe his audacity. ”So,” she snaps, “I’m way too young to get married!”

“Nonsense. Countless people have tied the knot at eighteen.”

“Such as?”

He can’t give an answer.

“Look, Jacquelyn,” he says instead. “I’m not telling you to get married. Simply, engaged. You don’t have to have a ceremony until you’re ready.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m saying this for your benefit. It’s a Sinclair tradition to marry as soon as possible. Your mother and father had an arranged marriage and they lived perfectly fine, correct?”

A sharp sting sears through her chest at the mention of her late parents. “That—”

“Although your parents weren’t given a choice in the matter, I’ll make sure you do. How about if I present you an array of men and you choose whomever you want between them?”

“My answer is still no! A hundred times no!”

He sighs. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

“But, Uncle—”

“Have a nice day at school.”

The line cuts off.

She tosses her phone into her bag. “Jerk! The entire world isn’t dictated by money, you know!”

Wind surges through her straight black hair and plaid skirt. Students donned in identical maroon blazers, ties, and skirts amble through the tall, brick gates, past lush greenery and flawless clay carvings. With every tap of their shoes; every wave of their hand, giggle, smile, or appearance—their upper status is represented.

And etched onto the plaque hung front and centre of this towering fortress are the words ‘Hawthorne Prep’—a high school crafted by the wealthy, for the wealthy, and only the wealthy.

Jackie’s shout trickles to the forefront of her mind as if to mock its irony. Readjusting her one-shouldered bag, she heaves a final, disgruntled breath and strolls forward.

“Who am I kidding,” she says, the heels of her ankle-boots clicking against the pavement. “It is."

The main campus overflows with multicoloured flowers, glistening off the rays of the morning sun. Uppity conversation stirs around, all of which Jackie finds second nature to ignore. Interacting with her peers has never been a priority to her as, more often than not, it ends terribly.

Truthfully, if not for her uncle and Luca’s adamant nagging, she wouldn’t waste her breath attending at all. However, with only a month until she’s officially free from the constraints of high school, there’s little to avoid.

Maybe when she does graduate, her uncle will stop treating her like a child who needs every aspect of her life dictated. And also grant her the freedom to be single for as long as she chooses.

As she zigzags to the back of the building, past the dewy grass and fields, she’s whacked at the back of the head.

The impact sends her toppling over.

She saves herself in the nick of time, expertly darting out her hands and swinging her foot to regain her balance. As much as she hates having gone through rigorous hours of self-defence training growing up, it’s allowed her the opportunity to get used to losing her footing and falling. So unlike her spoiled peers, a small bump in the road won’t faze her. That being said, the sheer amount of lessons hasn’t bestowed her the endurance for pain.

Clenching her teeth, Jackie pays heed to the agonizing pain searing ruthlessly through her neck. What in the world was that? A white ball lies by her foot, giving her an instantaneous answer. She scoops it up to study.

“Ah! Sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you!”

Twisting her head, she watches, dumbstruck, as a boy dashes across the field. The metal baseball bat in hand; the white helmet on his head reading ‘HAWTHORNE’ in capitalized letters; the insurmountable amount of dust clinging to his black turtleneck and white pants. It all comes into focus with every stride of his legs.

In seconds, he arrives, bending over to catch his breath. He tosses his bat onto the grass and removes his helmet. Strands of messy golden hair cling to his forehead, sweat glistening against his sun-kissed skin.

For a moment, all is quiet. Then, something sets on his face, and he awkwardly runs his fingers through the backside of his head.

“Sorry,” he apologizes again. “I hit a home run and it ended up coming here. Are you. . . hurt at all, Jacquelyn?”

Although it should’ve surprised her that he slammed a home run this far—the distance between here and the field is tremendous—Jackie perks at one thing only.

“You know my name?”

A smile breaks out across his face. “We are in the same English class. Many others since tenth grade, too, if you can remember. . .” He clears his throat. “I’m Hudson Brodeur.”

“Didn’t ask.” She plants the ball onto his palm. “Home run or not, whacking someone at the back of the head with a baseball and trying to start some useless small talk afterward is a dirtbag move.”

“I-I— It wasn’t my— What can I do to make it up to you? I’ll do anything!”

The excruciating ache soaring through the backside of her head is difficult to ignore.

“Well, since you offered, I can always return the favour.”

“By return, you mean. . .”

“How much do you suppose a bat hurts?”

The sweat pouring down his face doubles. “W-well— I-I—”

“Don’t tell me you’re chickening out? Even after offering to “do anything”?”

“Th-that was before— I’m, uh, very fragile! A-and happen to like my body the way it is. And my legs. . . I have a game coming up, and my team needs them—me—”

“Kidding.”

He blinks consecutively, voice dying in his throat. For a good while, he stands, rigid. ”Huh?”

“I’m kidding.” Jackie pivots on her foot. “I’m not cruel enough to whack you with a baseball bat. . . as entertaining as it sounds.”

No doubt, he’s jaw-slacked—gaping. He can’t muster even a retort. “I. . . That’s—”

“Consider us even, Hudson.”

Jackie’s hair billows over her shoulder as she turns to go. The moment she has her back turned, she does what she always does when she interacts with her peers: deletes them from memory and pretends their interaction hasn’t occurred at all.

Hudson, on the other hand, loiters in definite wonderment, watching until she disappears into the school building entirely.