Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

Dark, expressive eyebrows seemed to move on their own as he turned his head a little this way, a little that way, trying to figure me out. With his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, I could see his massive biceps pop and twitch with every movement, covered in warm-brown skin the color of my morning coffee-and-cream. I was so stunned by his beauty—yeah, that’s right, that’s the word, beauty —that I almost forgot my own name.

“Uh, I, um, it’s—”

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to grab me by my elbow. He steadied me with his powerful grip, which practically made me faint, it was so stimulating. What the hell is wrong with me? I managed to think, just before Jamal stepped into view.

Oops.

He looked like a disapproving father, arms crossed on his chest, eyebrow lifted, mouth scrunched into a smirk-frown.

What? I managed to think, trying to play innocent. He wasn’t buying it. Just kept standing there, shaking his head.

“Ma’am?”

Huh? What? Who, me?

I cleared my throat, trying to hide my nervousness. “Yes?”

“Are you all right? You looked like you were about to fall over.”

“I’m fine, I think I’m just dehydrated from this heat.”

“Come inside, let me get you some cold water. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll work.”

I just stood there like a moron, staring at the name sewn on his shirt over the breast pocket: Esteban.

He gave me a little bump, trying to get me moving. I complied, letting him steer me toward the shop door, still holding my elbow. Then he put his other hand on the small of my back. Oh, God, I really might fall over, I thought. What is happening to me ?

Jamal finally gave up the ‘disapproving daddy’ role, and walked through the wall, to the shop on the other side.

Show off, I thought, automatically.

“Jealous,” I heard him say, faintly, from inside the building.

We walked into a shop that was old—but more well-kept than most brand new office buildings. The tools and equipment weren’t the newest things off the assembly line, but they were taken care of. I was instantly impressed. From experience, I had learned it isn’t having the most money that counts—it’s taking care of what you have. Anyone can just go out and buy new stuff. It takes a special kind of person to care for things long enough for them to have a history.

“Have a seat, miss.”

He directed me to an overstuffed chair in the corner of his office, past the shop area. I sat, trying to look like a believable ‘damsel in distress.’

“I’ll be right back with the water, okay?”

“Thank you,” I said, as he walked out. And, boy, how he walked out, too. I almost fell out of the chair, trying to watch his tight butt in those Dickies pants—

“Hello,” Jamal said, directly in front of my face.

I jumped back in shock, my hand to my neck, like a really distressed damsel. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack ? What the hell is your problem , Jamal?”

“ My problem? I’m not the one just got busted staring at someone’s ass. A stranger’s ass.”

Now he was acting more like a jealous brother, instead of disapproving daddy. Not really an improvement.

“Go away.”

He frowned at me. I looked away, pretending to check out the wall calendar. When I looked back, he was gone. Good riddance.

“Here you go,” said Esteban, handing me a little paper cup of water. “It’s not much, but it’s cold, and it’s clean. We have it delivered by those guys who wear uniforms like ours. Pretty funny, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, suddenly very interested in my cup of water. I guzzled it and handed the empty cup back to him.

“Wow,” he said. “Were you thirsty?”

“Yeah,” I said. Evidently, that’s all I knew how to say, now.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Oh, for crying out loud.

“Good. Can’t have beautiful ladies falling in my parking lot. Bad for business.” He winked at me, and my heart slammed into my stomach.

“Haha,” I managed to squeak out. Ugh .

“So—what brings you here, on this beautiful 200-degree day?”

“Oh. Well, I’m here to talk to you about Victoria.”

“Victoria. Oh, the big—I mean, the nice lady who was in the accident?”

I giggled, in spite of myself. “Yeah, her.”

“She already picked up her car, a little while ago.”

“Oh. I didn’t know it was done.”

“Yep. We try not to take longer than we have to. Especially with, uh, certain types of people.”

“You mean, people who make you crazy if you don’t finish at the exact minute you said you would? Those types of people?”

He chuckled, “Yeah. That’s the type.”

“Well, I didn’t want to talk to you about her car. Not just her car, anyway.”

“All right. What did you want to talk to me about? Besides the car, I mean.”

“Well. I’m not sure how to ask this…”

“Let me give you a hint: think of the question, then say it out loud. Does that help?”

“Ah, a fellow smartass. I love it.”

He smiled, his goatee framing his pinkish-brown lips that were so soft looking I wanted to reach out and—

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, touching his mouth and cheeks with his dirty fingers.

“No, oh, crap, now you have grease all over yourself.” I reached around him, grabbed one of the clean shop towels on a shelf next to his desk, and started wiping his face. I was doing a pretty good job, too, until I noticed his expression: uncomfortable shock.

Well, that’s just great; now he knows I’m a total nut-job.

“Sorry about that,” I muttered, instantly dropping my hands to my sides. I looked at the ground, kicking my foot a little, twisting the shop towel and seriously contemplating making a break for it. Instead, being the chicken I really am, I just stood there wishing I could evaporate into the air.

“It’s okay.” He walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall, “Mind if I use that?”

I looked at the towel in my hands like it was a snake that somehow slithered in when I wasn’t looking. I tossed it to him fast, like it was on fire. He caught it easily, in his big, strong hand with those long fingers –

There I go again.

“Whatta you think?” he asked, turning from the mirror and motioning toward his now-clean face. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Jeez. I hope there won’t be permanent brain damage from whatever this is.

“So, now that you’ve had plenty of time to think of your question, are you ready to ask it?” he teased.

“Yes.”

“Great. Fire away.”

“All right, so, she came to me and told me her grandmother’s spirit—“

“Oh, is that all? You want to ask me about her abuela’s spirit appearing every night since her accident?”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Not bad. Not bad at all.

“Sure, that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

“In my family, they say things like that are ‘messages from the next life’. Nothing to be scared of, just—a news story, delivered by a reporter from the other side.”

Nicely put.

“So your family has it?”

“Has what?”

“It. The Spirit Mark.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, sorry. That’s what I call it. It’s kind of like a gift—or a curse, depending on your perspective—where you can talk to spirits. You know, ghosts.”

“My mother had it. And her mother, before her, my abuela . It’s pretty common in our culture, talking to spirits. We don’t see it as shameful or ‘crazy’, like most of you do.”