The Matchmaker's Medium

“It’s not your fault, Amber. I’m the one who kept pushing you to talk about it. You don’t have to apologize.” He looked so sweet and vulnerable; I wanted to walk over to him and give him a ‘big ol’ squash-hug’ (as my grandma used to call it). I wish grandma was here, I thought for the millionth time. She always knew how to smooth over an awkward situation. This definitely qualified.

“So—what do you do now?” he asked, changing the subject. I wanted to hug him even more.

“Well, now I help find ‘matches’ for those who are unlucky in love.”

He stared at me, his mouth open a little.

“What?” I asked, in my fake-confused voice.

“You’re a matchmaker?” the look on his face was wavering between surprised and bemused.

“Sure. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Just that my best friend’s mom was a gypsy fortune teller slash matchmaker back when I was a kid, in the Bronx. And she was crazy, let me tell ya.”

“We’re not all crazy, you know.”

“What made you choose matchmaking as a career?”

“Could you stop saying it like it’s some kind of Disneyland job?”

He chuckled, reaching for the bread. Evidently, making fun of my career does wonders for restoring the appetite.

“Only if you promise to not try and make a ‘match’ for me.”

“Oh, I can guaran-tee that’s not gonna happen. You can take that to the bank.”

He looked up, finally aware that he had ticked me off.

“My bad,” he said, reaching out to me, so I could slip my hands in his. Jerk.

“I’m hungry. Where’s our food?” I said, pretending to be overly-busy looking for the world’s greatest disappearing waiter. He got the hint and pulled his hands back. Again.

Several minutes passed, while I picked at my salad and he fiddled with his napkin.

Awkward much? I thought, wishing I had just stayed home.

“Truce?” he asked, ducking his head just under my chin so I had to look down just to see him.

I giggled, in spite of myself.

“Whew!” he said, wiping his napkin across his forehead. “I almost blew it!”

“Yeah, well, don’t be too sure you’re out of the woods just yet, Mister Mouthy.” I tried to make an angry face, but it came off pretty lame and funny.

The waiter finally brought our main courses, steaming plates of delicious gourmet food easily solving our problems.

“Let’s eat!” he said, digging into a massive steak.

Chapter Seven

We pulled up to his place in separate cars, thanks to my ‘progressive feminine independence’ (his words). It might seem dumb to him, but I had found myself in more than one uncomfortable situation where a guy refused to take me home because he was mad that I wouldn’t ‘put out’. Talk about the opposite of progressive.

I turned off my noisy engine, which was immediately replaced by the sound of barking dogs. Enter Dog 1 and Dog 2, stage left.

Grabbing my purse and cell phone, I killed the headlights and looked at his cute little house. It wasn’t fancy, but it was just like his shop: older and well-kept. The grass was neatly trimmed, along with the bushes and plants at the edge of the yard. The paint wasn’t new, but it was recent; probably touched up within the last few months. He even had a couple of potted plants hanging from hooks above the porch, and a little rubber mat in front of the door that said ‘Welcome’ facing one direction and ‘Farewell’ facing the other. If I smell freshly-baked cookies when we walk in, I’m outta here.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he called from the other room, as I walked inside, “I need to let the dogs out.” I heard a door slide open and shut, the barking moving from inside the house to the back yard.

I looked at the comfortable but worn furniture and minimal decorations on the wall, finally realizing this was a long-term bachelor’s house. Although he’s a clean bachelor, which is a big plus. Walking around the tiny room, I picked up a framed photograph of a very young, sweet-looking girl and slightly older, football-holding boy. They were beaming at the camera, their arms wrapped around a huge black-and-brown dog, whose face nearly took up the whole picture. The Rotty.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Esteban yelled from the kitchen.

“No thanks, I’m stuffed!” I yelled back.

Finally exhausted from a long day, I plopped down into a soft brown La-Z-Boy chair, yanked the handle, and settled back into the cushions, closing my eyes.

“I see you found a place to sit?”

I popped my eyes open and saw his gorgeous face was hovering only inches above mine. Suddenly, it felt way too warm in the room.

“Uh, yep! Great chair!” I said, way too loud. He must have sensed my nervousness, because he smiled and backed away to sit on the other side of the room. I almost sighed out loud, I was so relieved. Why does he make me so damn nervous?

“Cute kids,” I said.

“Thanks. I tried. Maybe the third one will be cuter.”

“You’re a pretty funny guy.”

“I aims ta pleaz, ma’am,” he said, in his best house-slave-imitation voice. Smartass.

“Why you always callin’ me names, white girl?” Jamal said, right behind me. I almost jumped out of the chair, he scared me so bad. What is wrong with you? Why do you do that?

“Somebody has to keep you on your toes. Ain’t gonna be this knucklehead, here,” he said, gesturing towards Esteban. Great. Disapproving Daddy makes another appearance.

“Now that we’re away from that stupid waiter, can we talk about your matchmaking thing?”

I jumped a little at the sound of Esteban’s voice. Juggling conversations with these two was not going to be easy.

“I guess so. Just try to remember I’m not the gypsy queen from the Bronx, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Uh, okay, so…where to start? Hmm…I guess the best place to start is what happened after Isabella.”

* * *

When you’re ten years old, it seems like the whole world exists just for you. Even though we were broke as a joke, it didn’t really matter, because in 1983 a dollar could buy at least two of everything I wanted from the candy section.

“Quit hogging all the green ones!” I yelled, grabbing for the bag.

“You said I could have some. You didn’t say what color!” Chris yelled, raising the bag higher, out of my reach. In the world of kids, if you’re older or taller or stronger, you win. He was all of the above.

“I’m telling mo-om!”

“Go ahead, you big baby, tell mom everything. You know what she’s gonna say. Then you’ll be in big trouble for sure, you stupid tattletale.” One of the worst kid insults of all time. Being a tattletale was the most awful thing a kid could be, so punishment was harsh. Tortures for the crime were Indian burns, purple nurples, swirlies or mega-wedgies. Sometimes you got all of them.

“I hate you!” I yelled back, stomping over to my bike. I spend my tooth fairy money on candy, and Chris takes it all. Brothers suck.

I swiped my foot at the kick stand, ran next to the bike for a few steps, then swung my leg over the side in