The Fairest Kind of Love

by Crystal Cestari

  “Psst! Amber!” she whisper-shouts, barely audible over the kitchen clatter. “AMBER!” I jerk up to see her wildly motioning for me.

  Wiping pomegranate juice from my fingers, I ask, “What’s up?”

  Wearing a formfitting cocktail dress, with golden hair accessories matched to her gilded wings, she looks completely out of place in the chaotic kitchen. “Your friend Ivy is here. . . . I recognized her from a few months ago. She’s on a date with a fairy gentleman, and he’s causing a bit of a scene.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like . . .” She bites her lip. “Just come see. Vincent is getting upset.”

  Gah. I holler to Marcus that I’ll be right back, and hit the dining room floor. A large group has gathered around one of the center tables: vampires, trolls, warlocks, and the like all laughing hysterically at some kind of spectacle. As we get closer, it’s clear they’ve assembled around Peter and Ivy’s table, where the fairy of the hour is letting it all hang out, orange wings and all, regaling his audience with some sort of swashbuckling tale that I can’t imagine ever actually happened to him.

  “And then I said, ‘See you in Neverland, jerk!’” Everyone cracks up at his mildly lame joke, but Peter is loving the attention, a smile as wide as his wingspan. He throws an arm around Ivy, who’s equally thrilled to be in the spotlight, beaming like a recently crowned pageant queen. Totally glam, she’s dressed in a mermaid-blue sequin dress paired with starlet blond waves, while Peter almost looks like a different person; sherbet hair cut short and mussed with product, wearing a tailored suit that could’ve been swiped from John Blitzman’s closet. To the casual observer, they’re just a beautiful, popular couple living it up on a night on the town, but Peter’s never struck me as a “life of the party” kind of guy, and while I’m impressed he’s indulging in magic culture, hobnobbing with so many supernaturals is not something I ever expected of him.

  I give Alessandra’s shoulder a pinch and then squeeze into the lively circle. “Hi! Hello! Can I get anybody anything?”

  “Amber!” Peter leaps toward me, kissing both my cheeks like we’re European BFFs. “How are you, darling?”

  Darling? Wow. That’s quite an improvement over his previous opinion of me. I haven’t seen him much in the past few weeks. Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder. “Peachy. And I can tell you’re golden.”

  “Definitely, definitely!” Gripping my biceps with Hulk strength, his eyes dance all over my face, unable to settle on a destination. I try to make eye contact, but he literally cannot focus, like he’s existing on a separate plane. Something is not right at all. Peter quickly loses interest in me, turning to an ogre on his right, giving me a chance to slide in next to Ivy, who is casually stealing the cherry from her date’s martini.

  “Hey, uh, what are you guys doing?” I ask.

  Impossibly lush lashes flutter my way. “We’re on a date. What does it look like?”

  “It looks like Peter’s gone manic.”

  She shrugs, twisting a golden curl. “Or maybe he’s finally acting like himself. Did you ever think of that? He was trapped in that hellish family hole that poisoned him toward the magical community and now he can finally breathe.” Our eyes follow Peter as he heads up to the bar; after ordering another round, he does a flying backflip off the countertop to rousing cheers. I cringe when I spot Vincent near the front looking extremely displeased at these shenanigans.

  “Ivy, has Peter been playing around with more magic?” I ask, watching as he hovers over his newly acquired fans, wings shimmering against the golden countertops. “I mean, we’ve given him potions to help heal his wings, which look perfectly fine now, but has he had access to other stuff?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” she says flatly.

  “It’s just . . . his behavior seems like a complete one-eighty, and magic could be playing a part.” I pause, not even wanting to insinuate further, but I know I have to. “Unless you have something to do with how he’s acting . . .”

  At this, she throws her napkin on the table, jumping out of her chair to loom over me. “What, you think I’m sirening him to be the life of the party? That I’m forcing him to be this giant personality for my benefit?”

  Well, yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking.

  Ivy presses her glossy red nails into her temples, making an active effort to calm herself down. I can almost hear her inner monologue, reminding herself not to take vengeance on innocent plebes. “I’ve learned my lesson, okay? Maybe the old me would’ve pulled tricks like that, forcing my boyfriend to be something he’s not, but I’m not doing that ever again. Per your matchmaking, Peter and I have a long life ahead of us, and I’m not going to waste my powers on stupid crap when I just got them back.”

  “Okay! Okay. Sorry. Calm down,” I say, holding up my hands. “I was just asking.”

  Ivy takes a deep breath. Fire and fury subsiding, she sits back down. “Besides, I want this to be real,” she adds with a much softer tone, which makes me feel horrible for accusing her of anything.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “As a matchmaker and . . . friend . . . I’m invested in your relationship too. I just thought since Peter’s hanging from the ceiling that I should check in.”

  “Thanks, I guess. We’re fine.” She keeps a steady glare on me, red lips pursed like she has something to say but doesn’t know how to form the words. I consider bolting, lest they be filled with venom. “Also, since you’re here or whatever,” she continues, “I wanted to say thanks for taking me to Wisteria Farms in the first place. You didn’t have to do that, especially after everything I’ve done to you, and . . . well, you’re a bigger person than me, Amber Sand. I owe you one.”

  That is definitely the absolute last thing I expected to come out of her mouth. I guess we’re now officially friends. What a world. “Um, sure. Any time.”

  Uncomfortable in our bonding moment, Ivy stands, crossing the room to Peter, who leans her back for a very passionate kiss to whoops and hollers all around. I shield my eyes.

  Ivy being nice, Peter being . . . whatever that was . . . What’s going on? I think as I head back to the kitchen. The Peter I’ve come to know is not this loud, showboaty person who flaunts his wings and makes out with his girlfriend in public. In all my visions of him, he’s always appeared quiet and kind, more comfortable with a night in than going wild in the city. I get that he may be battling inner demons, trapped between the life he was taught and the possibilities before him. And that’s not the kind of turmoil to just quickly and easily sort through.

  I have an itchy feeling that magic is playing a part here, as much as I don’t want that to be true. He took those healing potions a while ago, and any possible side effects would have left his system by now. Magic affects everyone differently, but at worst he would’ve felt the extreme relaxation common with painkillers, not this hyperactive personality reversal.

  I text Rose, feeling like she should be kept in the loop here.

  Hey I’m worried about Peter. He’s used some magic, and now he’s not himself.

  A few minutes later, she responds:

  And?

  And? Sheesh.

  And I was thinking you could help? Advice? Anything?

  Peter’s a big boy. He can deal with this himself.

  Wow. Wonderful. Why should I care if his own family doesn’t? I throw down my phone, but I already know the answer.

  Because I made a promise to Jane, and matchmakers stick together.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up to another text from rose:

  Hey can I ask you a favor

  For real? She cannot be serious. I love how when I ask her for literally anything, she gets all up in arms, but she has no problem turning around to see how I can help her. It is too early for this kind of hypocrisy. I type and delete several raging responses before replying with a simple:

  Sure

  It took real restraint not to add an eye roll emoji. I’m treating myself to a donut
later for my maturity.

  Jane’s birthday is coming up and with Peter gone and her parents all in a huff, she’s feeling kinda anti about it. Would it be cool if I brought her up to Chicago for a quick visit today?

  Hmm. I told Ella I’d take a double shift at MarshmElla’s today, assisting her while she takes care of some custom orders. I can’t back out on her, especially since I haven’t been around as much this summer. But I guess there really isn’t anywhere better to celebrate one’s birthday than in the world’s most delicious bakery, right? I agree to meet up, and send off some texts to Charlie and Ivy, seeing if they can get Peter to drop by for an extra-surprise visit. That should earn me some Big Matchmaker Sister karma points for sure.

  A short while later, I’m in MarshmElla’s kitchen, boxing up an order of iced diamond-shaped sugar cookies for a bachelorette party while Ella nervously rushes around, taking stock of any and all baking tools that could be intriguing to a small child.

  “And you promise you’re not bringing a pint-sized demon into my store?” Ella asks, putting the pie weights on a high shelf so little fingers can’t be tempted to throw them around. Her panic is justified, if not a little bit over the top: last spring, she added “Cake Decorating Birthday Parties” to her menu of offerings, thinking it’d be a fun way to bring new customers into the store. Unfortunately, the first and only party was a total disaster, causing sugar-fueled monsters to smear frosting all over the walls while their parents stood idly by, too busy sipping wine coolers out of water bottles. Ella and I were finding runaway sprinkles under the booths and display cases for weeks, bleaching food-coloring stains out of all our aprons and linens. Ella vowed never to host anything for anyone under voting age again.

  “I promise,” I say, forcing her to put down her collection of cookie cutters. “I personally vet anyone I bring to this sacred space.”

  She eyes me, blowing a stray blond strand out of her face. “Good! You better. Last time I was afraid someone was going to lose a finger in the stand mixer!”

  “I know, don’t worry. I’ve got this under control.” Luckily, Ella had bought a ton of party supplies before nixing that particular business plan, so I have plenty to work with. I string up some streamers and a birthday banner over our biggest countertop, and fill the workspace with containers of rainbow-colored frosting, sprinkles, and candies that are just aching to top the dozens of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry cupcakes I baked this morning. The setup looks pretty awesome, if I do say so myself, and I make a mental note to ask for something similar when my birthday rolls around.

  The doorbell chimes, and I hope it’s Peter, here to celebrate with his sister. But the second I peek my head out front, Jane comes running toward me, mint-green hair flying behind her like the mane of a happy Shetland pony frolicking through the fields. How can you not smile at that?

  “Happy birthday, my friend!” I cheer as she wraps her tiny arms around my waist.

  “Thanks, Amber!”

  I pull back, giving her a quick once-over. Her pastel polka-dotted dress helps her blend right in with the sugary confections all around us. “Wait, have you gotten taller since the last time I saw you?” She preens, tilting her chin up in an attempt to grab some extra height. “Yup, you did. I can tell.”

  Rose saunters up behind Jane, smiling over the birthday girl’s happiness. Dressed in tattered cutoffs and a floor-length black trench coat, she’s rocking a completely different vibe than her little cousin. She gives me a quick nod, arms crossed in what could either be approval or annoyance—it’s hard to tell with her. All I get is a quick “Hey,” which kind of bugs, causing my spirits to dip for a second.

  But Jane, mesmerized by her surroundings, doesn’t notice. Brown eyes dart excitedly from pudding to pies, unsure where to start first. “This place is so cool!” she exclaims. “It smells soooooo good in here!”

  “Doesn’t it?” I agree, enthusiasm returning. “If there’s anything I can teach you in this world, it’s desserts. Real ones, not that healthy junk on your farm. Just sweet sweet refined sugar.”

  “Yay!” She claps her hands, bouncing on her toes.

  “C’mon, let’s go in back.”

  Jane is equally pumped to see the cake decorating spread and instantly jumps up on a stool to get a better look. “Is this all for me?” she asks innocently.

  “Of course!” I say. “You’re the birthday girl!” I introduce Ella, who initially approaches the little matchmaker with the caution of a woman scorned, but they take to each other pretty quickly, since Jane has no trouble diving into the magic before her. She grabs a strawberry cupcake and slathers it with green buttercream even before I’ve finished tying an apron around her neck, then moves on to creation number two, a vanilla base with extra, extra, extra M&M’s on top. Not that I’m surprised. Extreme sweet tooth is a well-known matchmaker trait.

  After her third cupcake is complete, Jane asks, “Can I eat them?”

  I shove a double fudge cake in my mouth, choking out a “Duh!” through the crumbs for dramatic effect. She bursts into laughter, childlike squeals filling the kitchen before taking a bite of her own treat.

  While Jane’s busy chowing down, Rose pulls me aside. “Thanks for doing this,” she says without a scowl. “Her spirits are already much higher than they were. She’s really been missing Peter.”

  “Speaking of which,” I start, sensing an opportunity. She can’t totally blow me off on this subject when we’re standing face-to-face, can she? “I meant it when I said he seems out of sorts. I don’t know Peter that well, but when I saw him last night, he was like a different person.”

  Rose sighs, glancing up at the ceiling as if she’ll find some serenity there. “Look, I don’t want to seem like I don’t care, but Peter has never been my favorite. His worldview is so simplistic, all rose-colored glasses and whatever. He always thinks everything will be fine.”

  “Okay . . . Isn’t that just . . . optimism?”

  “It’s inaction,” she grumbles, pierced eyebrows pinched in disapproval. “Yeah, things will work out, but you have to work them. You can’t just sit around expecting that things will go your way. Peter’s never been through a hardship, and if he is now, maybe that’s a good thing.” She shrugs with a little too much satisfaction. “Let him see what it’s like to struggle. It’ll make him stronger in the end.”

  There’s a lot I could say to this, but getting in a heated argument when Jane is a few feet away doesn’t seem like the best birthday gift. I can’t expect to understand the Wisterias’ entire family dynamic, but all this super-strict tough-love stuff doesn’t sit well with me. “I’m not going to force you to get involved, but let me just tell you this: I tried to get Peter here today, so he could spend time with his sister. Isn’t it concerning that he didn’t show up?”

  Rose considers this. “I mean, it’s not great. But I stand by what I said.”

  This is pointless, and beyond frustrating. I shake my head, dropping the conversation to rejoin the birthday girl. Ella has willingly brought out her various piping bags and icing tips, showing Jane how to make intricate frosting flowers on top of her cupcakes. The kid’s a natural, and I shower her with praise. We crank up the kitchen radio and start dancing as we decorate, spinning and twirling as sprinkles and edible glitter rain from our fingertips. It’s so fun, I let out a crybaby whine along with Jane when Rose says it’s time to go home.

  “Sorry, kiddo, but I told your parents we’d only be gone a little while,” the fairy says through a frown. “It was already a stretch for them to let me take you anywhere, so I don’t want to disappoint them.”

  Jane pouts, sadly stepping off the stool.

  “But don’t worry,” I say, trying to end on a high note. “You can take all these cupcakes home!”

  “Really?!” Her face lights up again.

  “Totally! You decorated them; you deserve to eat them.”

  Once we’ve boxed up the dozens of desserts and said our good-byes, Rose pulls a ha
ndful of fairy dust from her trench coat pocket, and my naïve little heart does a backflip. Maybe she wants to reward me with a wish as a thank-you for Jane’s special day? I would forgive all her crabbiness and unwillingness to help in Operation Peter if that were true.

  But upon seeing me eye the golden glitter like a drooling fiend, she shakes her head, sprinkling the dust over herself and Jane. “Fairy dust: it’s the only way to travel.” And with a wish, they’re gone, causing Ella to yelp in surprise and fall backward into the cooler.

  “Did they just . . . What in the . . .” she gasps, pinching a hand over her heart in shock. “Amber, you live in such a different world!”

  Yes, yes, I do. Which is why I’m not going to give up on Peter, for Jane’s sake. I’ve seen a lot of weird magical stuff, and I don’t want him falling down the wrong rabbit hole. Something is up with him, and I’d rather stage a magical intervention before this Jekyll becomes a Hyde.

  I NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE point of video games until i started dating Charlie. They always seemed like a colossal waste of time. Why would you want to traipse around artificial worlds when there’s so much magic in real life? But then he introduced me to an old-school version of Mortal Kombat, and I found knocking someone to the ground—even virtually—to be highly satisfying. It’s not like I’ve never punched anyone (thanks, Ivy!), but this is a much safer, less punishment-inducing way to let off steam.

  “Boom!” I shout, standing up for a victory lap after my Sonya Blade destroys Charlie’s Johnny Cage. I run around his couch, punching the air in front of me.

  “Boom? Really? That’s your throw-down phrase?” Charlie complains, tossing his controller on the floor.

  “That’s right.” I hover my nose an inch from his and whisper, “Boom.”

  “I never should have showed you this game.”

  “Too late now!” I raise the roof, do the running man, and every other lame move I can think of. His eyebrows jump above his glasses in an “Is that so?” expression. Then he ropes me back to the couch, smothering me with a pillow as I dissolve into laughter.