There it was, in my Instagram feed on Sunday morning, tempting me. An ad for on-line dating. How did the algorithm target me, a happily married woman with three adult kids?

Ten minutes later, I had googled dating sites, laughed my way through the kitschy names: OurTime, SilverLoveCupid, Eharmony Senior. I gasped at that one. Am I a senior? At 62? And my colored hair wasn’t silver either.

Frank leaned close and sang a line from the song softly. “There's bound to be talk tomorrow.”

Lynn leaned toward him. “At least there will be plenty implied,” she murmured back the response line from the song. 

The moment her eyes opened in the morning, she picked up her phone. It was sadly vacant. She sent another text.

Good morning. I miss you.

She waited. No response. Damn it. He must be really mad.

A man wearing a towel around his waist walked out, his long hair dripping onto his bare chest, “Hey. Sorry. Didn’t see you.” 

Gus stared at the toweled man as he regained his balance. “Who are you?”

As we neared the border crossing with its two guard stations barely big enough for the customs agents and cornfields surrounding us on both sides, I noticed there were no extra buildings, not even a restroom or visitor’s center with vending machines and pamphlets. I smiled. No line at all. We could breeze right over. 

“It’s my condo!” Emma yelled at Ty as he slammed the door on his way out four weeks ago. Since then, she texted him a dozen times with no response from his sorry ass. It was time for his stuff to go. She was almost gleeful. Think of the closet space I’ll get back.

Zach had had it. Seven weeks, the doctor said. Seven weeks of resting with his leg elevated. No walking on it. Nothing. He still had three weeks to go.

If only I hadn’t slid into home. If only the throw to the catcher had been wide. If only the hit had been deeper to left field. Only if... He’d replayed the scene in his head over and over. There was nothing to do differently. It was an accident of baseball, simple.

Dad looked at the black puppy with her pink tongue and pink belly. He adjusted his hands to keep the squirming pup from falling and stared at the little ball of fat fur. 

The puppy responded by licking his hands and then peeing, drops dribbling down my dad’s hands and arms and falling to the floor.

Damn it.

The first time Trevor saw Constance, he noticed her blue eyes, clear and piercing beneath dark black lashes. She ordered a maple creemee cone, small, no sprinkles.

“Just to be clear, I will never date you,” Kylie said.

“Wow, that’s harsh,” Kevin said. “I mean, never is a really long time.”

My snow pants swished as I walked toward the breads. As I rounded the corner, the last package of Klinger’s maple pull apart bread beckoned on the shelf. I imagined biting into the delicious soft bread, drenched with maple sugar glaze and a touch of cinnamon.

It was open mike night at the Ridgeline Bar & Grille. The wood walls gave a mellow echo to the music. The beer was cold. The patrons were amiable, maybe even forgiving. God, she hoped they were forgiving. She and John had played here many times. 

But not in thirty-three years.

Carson blinked. His legs weren’t where they were supposed to be. Instead, a glittery, white flowing robe covered his body. A second ago, he’d been riding in a convertible with his best friend Dillon, barreling down Main Street while pounding back PBRs and screaming the lyrics to Eminem’s “Lose Yourself. Now he had no idea where he was.

Ria loved her early morning routine at the Inn. She could sip her coffee in the empty dining room before the guests woke up, and stare out at the snowy landscape with the horses in the distance creating clouds of smoke as they snorted.

But today …