Eyes wide, Gemma says, “Wow. But how does that help with matchmaking?”
Halmoni places gentle hands on Gemma’s arm. “All this information helps us determine who would be the best match for you. Who we call your ‘fated.’ ”
I’ve heard this speech so many times but each time it stirs something in me, fills me with an overwhelming emotion that catches in my throat. “And wewillfind a good match for you. We believe that there’s someone out there for everyone. Happiness guaranteed.”
Gemma looks properly convinced when she says, “Well, okay! I’m so excited to start this…journey!” She follows me through the office, past our brass plaque that reads:We have a100%success rate for true love. Guaranteed.We’ve had this guarantee since the business opened and it’s one of the reasons why our reputation is so solid. Because it’s true—everyone we match stays together.
I take Gemma upstairs, and we pass by a wall of photos documenting the nearly five decades of One & Only’s existence. There’s an old photo of the first office in Koreatown, a nondescript storefront in a strip mall, next to a billiards hall and Chinese takeout. The leap from that spot to where we’re standing today, in a beautiful colonial building in Beverly Hills, feels like a miracle. In the photo, standing in front of that first storefront, are Halmoni, Emoni, my grandfather, and a young Sunny. Holding her hand is another little girl—Evette, my mom.
We enter our reading room—a relaxing space with plush sofas low to the ground, dim lighting coming up from the baseboards, and woven Korean textiles on the walls. String music, played by the traditional Korean instrument called the gayageum, is piped in quietly in the background.
The vibe is very muchfancyancient magic.
Adding to that is the ancestral shrine we keep tucked away in a corner. It’s nothing flashy—just a small wood table with two (electric) candles, a stick of incense, and a brass bowl of water. Most Koreans don’t keep an ancestral shrine year-round. They only put them up for special holidays like Chuseok in the fall or Lunar NewYear if they do it at all. But our family? Well, we’re not like most families.
Gemma and I sit across from each other. She looks around, absorbing it all. “Wow, this is such a cool space.”
“It’s where the magic happens,” I say with a smile.
Gemma uncrosses her legs and lets out a breath. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I believe in all this”—she waves her hand around the room—“but at this point…”
“You’ll try anything?” I finish for her.
She nods. “Yes. No offense.”
“I understand. Let’s make you a believer, shall we?”
2
“Please focus on the charm over my shoulder,” I say.
Gemma’s gaze shifts to the little jade bird hanging on a cord of red silk from the ceiling, hovering just behind me, and I wait for the moment her features relax.
My eyes skim her face, landing on each spot briefly—eyes, nose, mouth, chin, cheeks. “You have a very symmetrical face, which implies harmony.”
Gemma smiles a smile that is automatic for someone who is complimented about her beauty regularly. “Thank you.”
“Your brows have a high arch—cleverness.” Another polite smile from Gemma.
I take in her eyes. “Your eyes are close-set, which implies suspicion. You don’t trust easily.” The smile stays on her face but doesn’t reach her eyes. “You need someone honest, someone who will not play games.” It’s the first time there’s a break in her composure, a little wobble. I know I’ve hit on something real.
“Your nose implies fortune,” I say, not giving the reason—large nostrils. “And your wide mouth indicates generosity. Whoever you end up with will be entrusted with both your heart and finances.”
There’s a beat of silence and then she lets out another low, nervous laugh.
“And now I’ll just be reading silently, so please sit through the initial discomfort.” I try and sound warm when I say it, and not like a gynecologist. I look at her again.
As my focus becomes laser sharp, it happens. The room around me dissolves. And with neck-snapping speed, I find myself on a busy street. Filled with horse-drawn carriages and people rushing around me, dust kicked up from the dirt-packed road. The scent of horses and trash and food mingle together in a way that screams “before modern-day plumbing.”
A quick look at the outfits—hats on the men, bustles on the women—and I know I’m in a turn-of-the-century city. There’s a boy nearby holding up a newspaper and yelling something in Spanish. The sound of horses clopping is overwhelming and I try to orient myself, to ground myself and not feel overwhelmed by what’s surrounding me. I look up at the sky—blue behind all the industrial smoke—and take big breaths. When I look back around me, I see her.
Gemma, or whoever she is in this lifetime, is rushing down the street, dodging the busy traffic. She’s wearing a long brown-patterned dress with a bustle and a dusty-rose velvet bonnet with black ribbons floating behind her as she dashes down the sidewalk. I follow her, careful to keep my eyes on her hat. She eventually pops into a shop—a dressmaker, the cheerful bell above the door chiming as she sweeps inside. And, as if I’m watching a movie, I am now in the shop, too. Gemma is behind the glossy wood counter, busy putting on a striped apron over her dress, speaking rapidly to another woman in Spanish, and they are both laughing.
I catch her reflection in a mirror, and it’s the face of a different woman. Our past lives don’t embody identical bodies, but while I’mhere, I am able to see them as I know them. No matter how many readings I’ve done, the magic of this never ever gets old. I look at the details of the shop—the neat rows of colorful thread behind the counter. The glass display case filled with various sewing notions. The open cupboard filled with spools of ribbon—thick velvet, creamy lace, saturated grosgrain, pastel satin. I want to reach out and touch them.
The bell chimes again and the chatter stops.
Gemma stares at the man who has walked in. He’s got salt-and-pepper gray hair and impeccable tailoring. Before I can process him, a woman enters and lays her hand on his arm. Gemma looks away, her face red.
