The Matcher

By Chanelle Coates

At age nineteen, Devon Andrews crosses a busy city street in the attempts of saving a strangers marriage proposal. But it comes with a deathly consequence. Flash forward two seconds after impact, and he is standing, virtually unscathed, in a foreign place he has never physically been to before. It turns out that his act was categorized by the afterlife as a sacrifi ce for love, which in turn allows him the opportunity at a less-than-average postmortem gig, working for the CI (Cupid Incorporated).To Devon, the obvious choice is to accept the position as a matcher, especially when superabilities and immortality are at play. But whats also obvious is that his fi rst ever case will be anything but a breeze.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490763361

Chanelle Coates

Chanelle Coates is eighteen years old and has recently graduated from Stanstead College. She will be taking a year off from school to travel, with the aims of broadening and brightening her writing scope. Ever since going to Europe with her class in grade eleven, she has been thrilled by the beauty and diversity of different locations on this singular Earth. Like Devon, she wants to see all “the worlds within this one.” She has been born and lives in Quebec, Canada, and is the daughter of Erin and Scott and the sister to her younger siblings, Shayla, Levi, and Dawson. Chanelle is also an avid reader and painter and is passionate about the environment and healthy living. “The Matcher” is her first novel.

Book preview

PART ONE

The Transition

I

Hopeless romanticism is a concept realists find trouble in empathizing with but find no trouble in laughing at. While the romantics sit at coffee shops and attempt to read, with their eyes actually, restlessly darting around the room, trying to spot the person who should walk up to them any second now to compliment them, sit down, buy them a second cup, and fall in love, the realists are across the room at table number four, bouncing around dry sentences that are completely wrung out from any belief in so-called true love. Katie may say to Carrie, who nods her head in agreement, that love is an illusion, something people dreamed up to ward off the haunting idea that we are born alone, live alone, and die alone under the pretext that Danny broke up with her on the night of prom.

Katie and Carrie are realists who joined the club two years ago. Said club consists of people whose force field against often attached heartbreak is to simply stop believing in love. They don’t want to feel stupid either, because being super thrilled for a few months and then having to tell your family and friends that it didn’t work out is embarrassing. They don’t want to be fools, but they certainly are fools in believing that being a romantic gets you nowhere.

The reason I’m so sure of this is that even though I died when I was nineteen, long before having the chance to even meet my soul mate (I think), I still managed to end up with more than most people for the sole fact that I truly believed in love. I believed (and still believe) that it always conquers and that for one, it exists. I believed (and still believe) that it always conquers and that, for one, it exists. Now you’re probably all What? Devon, you just said that you died. Why the eff are you talking like you’re still alive? Yeah, well, my afterlife is not really the norm, to say the least.

I was working at the market on a Sunday morning, just like I had been doing three Sundays before and three Sundays before that. My mom and dad owned a booth since I had been seven. Dad took care of the pumpkins and other veggies, and Mom took care of the finer details, like the flowers, the wrapping, and the chalkboard signs that read Freshly Picked, 100 percent Organic and Three for $5. I took care of making the customers laugh with my big brown eyes, chubby cheeks, and child wit. The older I got, the more I could do, and now they even let me run the booth on my own during the afternoon.

So it was Sunday, and fate just wasn’t on my side. This young guy, probably five years older than me, was looking pretty nervous as he chose some tomatoes and fresh basil. Then right before leaving, he noticed my mom’s arrangements and pulled out another $8 from his leather wallet, and I swear, that change pocket was alive with metallic rhythm; his hands were shaking so much. He handed me the cash from his last-minute purchase, and his phone began ringing. The short conversation confirmed my forming suspicions.

Hey, you. You’re still coming to my place later, right? Good. I can’t wait either. Yeah. Yeah, I have something superimportant to say. Well, it’s more of a question really. Of course, I’m cooking. There’s no way we’re getting takeout tonight. OK, yeah. I love you too. Bye.

Definitely proposing. Definitely. He thanked me for everything and left. He wasn’t the type to walk too far for a crosswalk, so he looked quickly both ways and dashed to the other side before the white Jeep coming from the left could reach him. I returned to split vision so that I could add to my sales notebook and still be aware of new customers. That’s when I saw a blur of pale yellow on the counter in front of the cash; he forgot the roses for his girlfriend. I have this instant image flash in my mind of his perfect night being ruined or at least watered down. People underestimate the power of flowers. Quickly following the vision, my body was filled with a rush of heroism in the name of love. I asked our neighbor Joyce to watch my booth for a minute, said I’d be right back.

I too didn’t bother with the crosswalk and got to the other side easily enough; one car went by, and I saw the next few would only reach the spot I was at in a minute. The guy was already in his car. His blinker was on, and he was ready to pull out, but he noticed my out-of-breath figure with the flowers held high in a Statue of Liberty pose but with elaborate waving motions in his rearview mirror. I came around the car to the passenger side, and he rolled down the window before I was quite there.

No way, man. I can’t believe I did that. Thank you so much seriously. People underestimate the power of flowers, you know? I said I know because I did know. It had been my exact thoughts, and I have not a single doubt that, by this time tomorrow, this man will be engaged.

I gotta get back to the other flowers, I said.

Right away, he replied, Same, same. I got some spaghetti to get cooking.

Don’t forget the onions. At first, his expression told me he had no clue why I would tell him not to forget the onions, but then recognition flooded his face, and he laughed. I only said it to tease him about forgetting the flowers.

Good luck, I said genuinely this time. He thanked me again and drove off. For a few moments, my eyes followed his car, and then I stepped back into the road, lost in thoughts of what his girlfriend might look like and what her expression might look like when he pulls out her ring.

It was because I wanted his night to be perfect as much as he did, and it was because I kept thinking about it after I made sure that it would be that I died. This time, I didn’t look both ways or even one way when I was crossing where there was no crosswalk.

My mom and dad had me, and then they decided to sell things at a farmers’ market on Main Street. I began working there, and then one Sunday, a man came who only noticed flowers at the last second. Then his girlfriend called at that exact moment, and he probably got excited just by hearing her voice, and the flowers slipped his mind as images of her filled it up. I had to deliver them, and that other driver had to get somewhere fast, so he was above speed limit even though, maybe, on most days, he respects the roads.

It wasn’t someone’s fault, but something went wrong somewhere. Just like some things are meant to be, I was meant to no longer be. So the world teamed up and worked pretty rigorously to create a sequence of events that would lead to my demise.

There was nothing, and then there was a thud. The car was the bullet, and I was the body, shot from a gun at lightning speed and irreversible, except it didn’t lodge itself into me. I could barely see as it happened, but I remember there being the most extreme pain of my life, shards of glass severing into my eyes and torso and then nothing. Nothing. The car hit me at the right or wrong spot, depending on how you look at it. I don’t think too much about the circumstances of my death anymore because there are more important things to spend my mental energy on, namely, the new case that I’ve been assigned to.

Any romantic bashers out there might say, "See? Love kills." But I’m fine with that because everything does to some extent or another. But not everything saves. Not everything is worthwhile.

II

Following the accident and also after the strange time between life and death when my body was deciding if it was really over or if I was salvageable, I didn’t come to a gate in the clouds or face to face with some god. I’m sure this is the case for most people, and if not, then they must arrive at the ember-filled polar opposite of heaven, the underworld. You’ve probably assumed because of my poorly concealed foreshadowing that neither of the two destinations was mine; in fact, that day, I arrived at a place entirely unheard of, the CIH (Cupid Incorporated Headquarters). Not so typical.

I could see streets and people below me sure, but I knew I wasn’t extremely high in the sky. Immediately, I felt I was no longer in Canada. Europe surely. Maybe Paris. But how? I looked down at myself and stretched out my arms, wiggled my fingertips, and squeezed my palms. This can’t be real, I thought. It was actually impossible. Here I was in a place I’d never seen for myself, virtually unscathed. It was as if I had teleported across the planet to the top of some stone structure from the horror scene where my organs halted. I wasn’t sad or scared; I couldn’t even feel shock or disbelief because I had not the slightest understanding of my situation. What is happening? It was the only question racing circles around my mind. After a few laps and attempts to speak with strangers nearby, a man squeezed out of the crowd, with his eyes clearly set on me. It was the first sign of recognition I had seen in minutes. Beforehand, I felt completely invisible.

Devon Andrews? he inquired.

Uh, yeah? Where am I? Who are you? was my quick rhetoric. I needed answers fast. I must’ve looked like some nerve-worn kid from a sci-fi film, whose entire life is flipped pancake-style in the opening scenes.

"You and I are in the city of love, Paris, atop l’Arc de Triomphe. And we’ll get to who I am soon enough. First, allow me to help render you aware of your condition and begin the Transition."

"What! Why am I here? Condition? I’m dead! I just died! Where’s the blackness? I’m not supposed to talk or feel or be anymore! I—"

"Calm down. You are dead. But you are also alive, in a way, and isn’t that better?"

Better? Are you crazy? I’m dead but a tad alive. Why on earth would that sound better? I was flustered, but I knew I had to calm down. I figured that maybe he did know something; after all, he spoke that way, and I was hungry for information. I’m sorry, what do you mean? Please. I don’t understand.

It’s all right. No one does on the first day. You have your old life behind now, this is true. However, you are among a rare percentage of people who have the chance at something else. Not quite a life but a purpose, an existence. There is a sole reason for this. You died your death in the name of love. Postmortem, only ‘romantics’ are asked to work for me. And I will let you in on a secret: we are not hopeless at all. You probably thought I was a myth, Devon, but it’s just not the case. My reason to be—my mission—is to cross the paths of destined lovers and to open the doors of buildings that have always been erected but simply invisible so that soul mates may finally meet. They are the puzzle pieces, waiting to be interconnected, and I am the master puzzle maker, but even masters need help. The world is too large for me to build alone. That is why I have an immortal team. So I am asking you, Devon, do you want to work for Cupid?

III

The next thing I did was really more impulsive than voluntary. I started laughing in the guy’s face. It had to be a terrible joke, which was what made it so funny, I guess. After a short while, I got it out of my system and noticed that his face had remained neutral, as blank as if he dealt with this kind of behavior on a regular basis, and it stopped fazing him a long time ago.

We both stood there silently for a couple of minutes, and I turned to what he had told me over in my head again while noticing people down on the pavement, bustling around and stopping for never-ending pictures—one of just themselves, one with their friend, one with l’Arc in the back of them, and one of just the structure. The sky was a grayish blue today, my favorite kind of sky because it can be anything you want it to be—mysterious, calming, elegant, powerful, sad, anything. Well, what had I expected him to say anyways? My being present made no sense whatsoever, so the explanation wasn’t likely to make much either. I decided to go along with it. If he was lying, I would find out sooner or later.

"OK. You’ve piqued my interest to say the least. But you’ve got to understand that I hate being in the dark, and I am absolutely clueless right now. So start talking, Cupid." I let him know that I was all ears, but I was also all business. He needed to cut to the chase and not dance around the topic with mystical comments and empty allusions.

"All right, Devon, you got it. I warn you now though. If you focus too much on how I am possible, how I came to be, you’ll get nothing. We’d be here for years, and God only knows that I’m not going to decipher and recount