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through the spindles of a stool and dragged him around the island until he was diagonally across from me.
    I reached for the bottle and wrote SPIN THE BOTTLE on it in white chalk in my old loopy letters.
    “So, who’s up for a little fun?” I was getting better at the sexy-voice thing. I looked from chair to chair, pretending my former husband and sons had never sat in them and that this was a high school party: lights out except for a single lava lamp off in one corner, “Born to Be Wild” pulsing in the background, hormones raging, hearts beating.
    I gave the bottle a generous spin and leaned back to let fate have its way with me.
    The bottle skittered across the shiny granite to the edge of the counter. I lunged and caught it just before it fell off.
    The mouth of the bottle was pointing between two bar stools, so I spun it again.
    It pointed right at Finn Miller.
    It’s not easy to fake a make-out session with a long-haired mop, but I gave it everything I had. I closed my eyes and stroked the long, scraggly mop-locks and tried to remember the smell of Brut, the Pepto-Bismol taste of a hastily chewed and then spit-out piece of Clark’s Teaberry gum, the heat of an unremembered boy pressing up against me.

To: Finn Miller
From: Melanie
Subject: Re: sweet dreams of you
I remember that Leon Russell concert like it was yesterday. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Was I a good kisser? (In the dream, I mean!)

To: B.J.
From: Melanie
Subject: Re: Spin-the-Bottle Reunion Centerpieces
Oh, grow up. (No offense.) And no, I haven’t booked my flights. I’ve moved beyond high school.

CHAPTER 7
    The next morning I tucked a branch of flowering crepe myrtle into the chalkboard bottle sitting on the kitchen island to make it less conspicuous. Every time I looked at the bottle, I practically blushed, but I still couldn’t make myself put it out with the recyclables. I mean, acting out a harmless little fantasy was progress, wasn’t it? Before I knew it I’d have a sparkle in my eye and a spring in my step.
    Either that or I was totally losing it.
    I added some water to keep the branch alive, possible evidence that I was both lucid and compassionate. Then I woke up my laptop to check my email. I’d gone from checking it once or twice a week to checking it fairly often. Okay, a lot.
    My cell phone rang, distracting me from the disappointing absence of a new message from Finn Miller. I didn’t recognize the number.
    “This is Melanie,” I said.
    “And this is Ted Brody, who bought a sculpture of yours at the Art in the Park show.”
    “Oh, right,” I said. “Hi. And, well, thank you.” I’d been thrilled to hear Endless Loop had sold, on the first day of the show, no less. As much as I loved my work, I only made money when somebody bought something. The house was paid off and the property taxes weren’t high, but since Kurt had left, I was paying the utility bills myself. And crazy food and gas prices on top of that. I was okay for now, but I was really feeling the lack of a paycheck I could count on. The sale of Endless Loop gave me a little bit of breathing room while I figured out what the hell I was going to do next.
    “Don’t thank me yet,” Ted Brody said. “I’ve got a restaurant to run here, and when a hose breaks loose on a busy night and sprays a courtyard full of diners, and their food , I think you’ve got to find a way to make that up to me.”
    “Oh, shit.”
    “My sentiments exactly.” Ted Brody’s voice was rich and deep, and totally pissed off.
    I closed my eyes. “I am so, so sorry. If you tell me where you’re located, I’ll come over and weld the hose on permanently for you. And in the meantime, if you take two wrenches and turn one in each direction, really hard, it’ll hold. And maybe wrap some duct tape around it for extra reinforcement, not that I think you’ll need it. Wait, maybe you shouldn’t turn it on again until I make sure it’s okay.”
    “Ya think?”
    I scrunched my