The Fairest Kind of Love

by Crystal Cestari

  My best friend walks onstage, human perfection in a light blue sundress. There’s a slight shake in her step, but she smiles bravely as she takes a seat on her fuzzy throne. I am going to bake her so many treats after this.

  “Welcome, my dear,” Madame coos. “You are so lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Amani blushes, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

  “Tell us about yourself, won’t you?”

  Amani swallows hard, looking into the blinding stage lights. “Well, um, I met someone last year. At first, I couldn’t stand him. Everything about him seemed too cheesy, too fake. And even though I could tell he liked me, the feeling was not mutual.”

  “Mmm.” Madame nods. “How many of us have been in that situation before?” The audience applauds in agreement.

  “But then,” Amani continues, “something changed. I don’t know how. The more I got to know him, the more I learned his come-ons were an act; he was nervous around me.” A smile spreads across her whole face. “Which was actually kind of cute. And now we’re inseparable. I can’t imagine life without him.” The crowd sighs.

  Madame wipes a tear from her eye. “Then what brings you here, dear? Is there a lingering question in your heart?”

  “Ugh, that’s so manipulative!” I mutter. “I would never—”

  Charlie presses a finger to my lips. “Shhh, we’re almost there.”

  “Well, I feel lucky, I suppose, to have already met my soul mate.” Amani directs her gaze to exactly where we’re sitting. She’s up there for me, of course, so we came up with a believable line. “I guess I just want to know if all this”—she gestures around the stage—“is real.” Nailed it.

  “Of course, sweet child. Let’s take a look.” Madame reaches for her and takes a deep breath. “Now let’s gaze into your happily-ever-after.”

  Here we go. The screen behind them lights up, and an image begins to form, almost as if someone is sketching it live behind the scenes. With every stroke, my heartbeat quickens; I could very well go into cardiac arrest before this is done. Faster and faster, a face takes shape, and I don’t even realize I’m clutching Charlie’s leg until he lets out a small yelp of pain.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, releasing my death grip, but keeping my eyes on the screen. Any minute now, I’ll know for sure if Madame L’Amour is friend or foe: someone who can guide me on my bumpy matchmaking journey, or just a game show host who’s enjoying fifteen minutes of fraudulent fame.

  Madame lets go of Amani, whose hands go straight to her face when she gazes at the screen. And it looks like we’re all winners today, because smiling down at us is Vincent.

  ANOTHER MATCHMAKER. ANOTHER ME. another person to understand the craziness in my head.

  The truth creeps into me slowly, like food coloring seeping into water, spreading its shade to full saturation. I wanted Madame to be real—I hoped for this outcome—yet the cynical core of my crusty heart had prepared me for disappointment. I sit, stunned, as Amani confirms the man on the screen is her boyfriend, to the thunderous approval of the audience. Fans wave, feet stomp, and Madame beams, wrapping her guest in an enormous hug, before thanking everyone for joining in the romantic fun.

  “Be sure to visit the Finding Gifts of Love Is Magic gift shop on your way out!” she coos, gesturing to the exit. “Use the hashtag ‘open your eyes and see’ for a chance to be featured on our next season of webisodes!”

  The applause goes on and on, even as the spectators exit the theater, until only a few people remain, including Kim, Charlie, and myself. I cannot move, I cannot breathe.

  Eventually my eyes come back into focus to see Kim’s face hovering in front of mine. “She looks really pale,” she says to Charlie.

  His concerned expression comes into view as well. “Yeah, let’s see if we can go find Amani backstage.”

  They guide my nearly petrified body through the theater. I hear passing comments of “Best show ever” and “Did you see her face? So heartwarming” as we weave toward a door offstage. Charlie drops the Blitzman family name with the security guard (which is basically a skeleton key to the city thanks to his dad, John, being the mayor) and we’re in, witnessing the behind-the-scenes actual magic of Matchmaking Magic!

  It’s not a lot, actually. A few people mill about with clipboards and headsets, while contestants one and two eat heart-shaped cookies at a sparsely stocked snack table. I’m in such an altered state that I don’t even reach for a treat; you know I’m far gone when my brain bypasses sugar.

  “Kim and I will go look for Amani, okay?” Charlie says, stroking my upper arm. “Don’t go crazy. Just stand right here.” I don’t move. “Perfect, just like that.” They walk away, and I’m drawn toward a bright light on my left; a single dressing table glowing with white lights and fake jewels. And there, sitting on a director’s chair, is Madame, genuine matchmaker and potential salvation, working to untangle her tiara from her hair.

  “Excuse me, Madame?” I croak, my voice wavering like a fangirl meeting her boy-band crush.

  “Hmm?” Her gaze doesn’t leave the mirror, as a particular wave of her hair seems determined to live in the tiara forever.

  “I wanted to congratulate you on your success, and . . . maybe see if we could share some tips, because, uh . . .” Well, there’s no real way to dance around it. “. . . I’m a matchmaker too.”

  She stops detangling to give me a once-over, confusion clouding her eyes. “You’re what?” she says in a midwestern accent so thick it almost knocks me over. She then clears her throat and repeats her question, this time in her familiar French. “You’re what?”

  Okay, that was weird. “Yeah, I live here in Chicago. I only found out about your show this morning, but I feel like we were destined to meet.” I cringe at my own phrasing. “Sorry if that sounds corny.”

  “Well, that’s . . . wonderful.” But her tone doesn’t convey wonder, more like bewilderment. There are piles and piles of rags on her dressing table, caked with makeup she’s wiped off her shockingly young face. On the screen and even onstage a little while ago, I thought she was in her late fifties, but sitting here now, she looks only a few years older than me. And, am I crazy, or is that a fake nose peeking out from under the rags?

  “I’ve never met another matchmaker before,” I say, my earlier doubt starting to creep back in. “I thought maybe we could meet up sometime, exchange some stories.” Her eyes dart around the room, like she’s looking for an escape. This fidgety creature before me is the opposite of the confident, whimsical woman who just wowed hundreds of people. “What do you think?”

  Madame gets right in my face, revealing that the crinkles by her eyes were definitely drawn on. “Now, you listen to me,” she threatens, le français gone for good. “I don’t know who you are, but stay away from her, okay? She’s been through enough already, and I’m only trying to help.” A pointer finger dangles in my face, threatening to scratch my nose.

  What? My brain on tape delay, I can barely get out a response to that nonsense. “Who are you . . . What are . . . Huh?”

  “Did my aunt and uncle send you? Ask you to play a ‘matchmaker’”—she puts the word in air quotes—“to try to butter me up? Gods, they are unbelievable.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “I told them that everything would be fine, and I’d bring her back in one piece, but no, they can never break out of their tiny worldviews!”

  My using the m-word was apparently a trigger for some kind of strange family drama, but I don’t want to give up when I’m so close to gaining an ally. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I just need—”

  “I don’t care what you need,” Madame snaps, cutting me off, flames in her eyes. “I only care about her. Now, get out of here before I have Paul call security.” She turns back to her mirror in a huff.

  This is what I get for trying to connect with one of my own: a total crackpot. The light at the end of my tunnel goes dim as I resign myself to never understanding what is wrong with me. “Listen, I don’t kn
ow what you’re talking about, and I certainly will stay away from her, whoever that is, since I definitely don’t want anything to do with you.” I turn on my heel, scolding myself for putting faith in something as stupid as a streaming show, when Amani sweeps in from the abyss and drags me away.

  “Everything is hopeless!” I’m whining as she pulls me in a corner. “For half a second, I believed we’d found an answer, but—”

  “Amber, shut up for a second,” Amani instructs. “You’re right: Madame’s not who you need. But there’s someone you have to meet before you go dig yourself a grave.”

  “But—”

  “Nope. Zip it.”

  I close my mouth, but only because when it comes to my best friend, she usually knows what she’s doing. She guides me to a back office about the size of Windy City Magic’s supply closet. Inside sits a tiny wisp of a girl, hair sea-foam green, with a constellation of freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. Cautiously, she approaches, like a little woodland creature venturing outside her nest, looking up at me like she’s hoping I’ll give her a lollipop.

  “Is this your friend, the matchmaker?” she asks Amani, voice like a baby bird. She barely clears four feet, and can’t be more than eight years old. What is this kid doing back here?

  “Yes, this is my best friend, Amber Sand.” Amani gestures to me like I’m a game show prize. “Amber, meet Jane Wisteria.”

  Jane’s soft brown eyes crinkle with a smile. “It’s . . . nice to meet you,” she says, bashfully bowing her head as she grabs at the hem of her floral tee.

  “Sure, uh, you too.” I sign a subtle WTF to Amani, because while I’m sure this little sprite is quite darling, I’m pretty much over this whole scene and would like to go eat my body weight in ice cream.

  “So, when they took me backstage, I figured I’d be doing a quick meet and greet with Madame to get the whole backstory banter thing going,” Amani starts, “but actually, I didn’t get any face time with her until we were onstage. After I signed some sort of nondisclosure thing, that Paul guy took me to meet Jane. Turns out, she’s the actual magic behind Matchmaking Magic!” I look back at Jane, who gives a small, friendly wave. “She’s a real-life, honest-to-goodness matchmaker. She’s the one who saw my match with Vincent; she’s legit.”

  This is one reveal too many. My head is spinning, so all that comes out of my very eloquent mouth is “Wha?”

  Amani ignores my bewilderment. “When Jane started describing Vincent in perfect detail, I freaked out.” Jane’s eyebrows knit in worry over this comment, so Amani quickly adds, “In a good way! It was amazing. I mean, Amber, it was almost like talking to you, minus the years of hardened bitterness.”

  “My vision was so clear too,” Jane confirms, just above a whisper. She seems incredibly nervous to be talking to us, as if someone nefarious is listening to our conversation. “I could see you both all snuggled up in each other’s arms.” She shakes her head like she’s said something wrong, yet adds, “It was so beautiful.”

  Amani keeps going, despite the uneasy energy emanating from our tiny new friend. “Amber was the one who helped me find him!” my bestie brags. “She met him in real life, and after envisioning him for so many years, she led me straight to him.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Jane manages her first real smile, revealing a mouth full of baby teeth. “I’ve only seen one of my visions actually come to life, and it was really cool for me.” Her eyelashes dance with a dreamy flutter as she and Amani both look at me with emoji-heart eyes.

  “Okay, um, can we pause for a second?” I ask, breaking the lovefest. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what’s going on. You’re a matchmaker, and yet that woman out there is, what, channeling you? Why?”

  “It’s . . . complicated.” Jane plays with a stack of woven bracelets around her wrist, eyes on the floor. I’m beginning to worry about why she’s so skittish talking about her talent. If she weren’t standing there like a shaking baby deer, I’d be all over her with my questions, but something tells me if I press too hard too fast, she’ll just melt into a puddle of her own anxiety. “I promise you that all the show’s matches have been real, though. If I were you, I bet I’d want to know about that.”

  “Did that woman come up with the super-corny theme?” I ask.

  Her face drops. “You don’t like it?”

  Seeing this innocent critter fade instantly makes me feel like a monster, so I try to save face. “We just have different styles, I guess. Unique matchmaking techniques.”

  Cheeks red, she nods in agreement. “I’d love to learn all about yours. Um, I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but I’ve never met anyone like me before, and Amani thought we could be friends.” She stops for a second, light chocolate eyes probing mine. I know that look; I know what she’s doing. Only I’ve never had anyone look at me like that before, like she’s staring into the deepest parts of my existence, digging up truths unknown to even myself. It’s intense, intimate, and I suddenly feel very exposed. Is this how my customers feel when I’m working with them? No wonder they get so squirrely. I blink away so Jane can’t continue, but I know it’s too late.

  “Do you want to know?” she whispers.

  My response catches in my throat. Do I want to know my match? It’s something I’ve craved since the second I learned it was a possibility. My thoughts tornado to Charlie: How long have I anguished over this uncertainty? How much turmoil has seeing every other happily-ever-after but my own caused? Jane could tell me, right here, right now, and it would all be over, yet suddenly I’m scared, the complete opposite reaction I ever expected. What is wrong with me? What’s with the hesitation? I’ve dreamed of this, prayed for this, even conjured the Fates for this, yet it feels too fast, too easy, and maybe my blood sugar is low or something, but it’s all just too much.

  “Would you want to know?” I ask, dodging the question.

  She shakes her head, mint-green hair cascading over her shoulders. “Definitely not. I want falling in love to be a surprise. That is, if boys ever stop being gross.”

  I laugh to myself; I don’t want to spoil her about most boys being eternally disgusting. In fact, I got pretty lucky to find a diamond in the rough, a guy who loves me for me and stands by my side, no matter what random stuff I throw his way. I was never one to imagine a “dream guy,” a mental amalgamation of all the unobtainable features of the male species, but if I did, mine would be Charlie, 100 percent.

  “Okay, tell me,” I suddenly decide, bracing myself as if I’m about to be dunked in a tank of cold water, waiting for the rush of her reveal. No matter what she says, there’s no turning back, so I’ll just have to be my totally chill, easygoing self and accept whatever the Fates have decided (because that’s always been my MO, right?).

  Jane instantly brightens, gently taking my hands like a tender patron of love. Her fingers feel so small in my own, and I wonder how long she’s been matchmaking. A year, tops? My talent emerged when I was seven, but I was a raging blabbermouth for years, unable to deliver matches with any sense of style or sympathy. I didn’t start working my Windy City Magic table until I was around thirteen, since my habit up until then was to just blurt out whatever I saw as soon as I saw it. This girl is light-years ahead of me, a charming little doe pleasantly weaving hearts together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. At her age, I was stacking up enemies left and right, but she has thousands of fans. Kids today!

  She looks up at me, sweet as sugar. “Your match is—” But the most important sentence of my life is cut off by shouting and sounds of a struggle behind us. Like a frightened bunny, Jane scurries and cowers behind me, grabbing on to the back of my leg. Selfishly I want to shake her free, along with the last word of her sentence, but based on the terror on her face, she knows exactly what that yelling is all about.

  “Jane!” Madame shouts, running toward us from offstage. Gone is all her stage makeup, and the wavy brunette wig; instead, she wears a lavender fauxhawk, with multiple face
and ear piercings. Quite a reversal from her wholesome grandma image. In close pursuit is an older couple, stomping forward in a furious rage. Jane squeals behind me as Madame joins our cluster, though Amani and I have no idea what’s going on.

  Madame stands firm as the aggressors approach, unclasping the cloaks around their necks. Suddenly, two pairs of wings spread wide above us, our jaws dropping as they flutter to attention.

  Good Gods . . . fairies! This just got way weirder!

  I’ve never seen fairy wings so close up—the few fairies I’ve met always keep them hidden—and I’m astounded at how intricately detailed they are. Similar to dragonfly wings (which I’ve studied on slow days at the shop), hundreds of swirling membranes create a waving, fluttering pattern, illustrating a summer breeze. Each prismatic section bends light like the edge of a bubble casting rainbows, and I’m so hypnotized it takes me longer than it should to realize that, beside me, Jane has been holding her breath for longer than should be humanly possible.

  A gentleman with ice-blue hair, a potbelly, and a slight hunch steps forward, brilliantly blue wings expanding to reach full span as he walks, giving him an extra air of authority.

  “Jane,” he says, poker-faced, dark gaze focused solely on her. “We’ve missed you.”

  She exhales sharply, eyes instantly glassy. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she cries. Papa? Her hand grips my thigh so tightly she very well may draw blood.

  A plump fairy woman stands behind him with cotton-candy-pink hair, clutching a handkerchief to her lips. “We are so glad you’re okay!” she blubbers.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Jane echoes, rising to stand by my side. Her head hangs low, minty strands covering her freckled face. The three share the same paler-than-pale skin and pastel-colored tresses, yet Jane seems to be lacking her parents’ appendages. I quickly check her back to see if I somehow missed this very distinctive feature, but there’s no telltale outline underneath her clothes. Interesting.