“She was a tough one to spot as a bad seed, I’ll give you that. But what about Dylan? He found someone who’s truly into him, and if memory serves, he’s as rich as sin, too, since he netted half of the sale of the company you two ding-dongs founded.”

“True,” I concede, since my twin, Dylan, tried using a matchmaker and wound up falling for her. She also happened to be immune to rich guys, so I think that helped smooth the path to trust. “But even so, I need to focus on Haven. Make sure we launch the marketing campaign flawlessly, especially with ShopForAnything breathing down my neck.”

“I suppose whenever you do date again, we could just paint your face like a clown so no one recognizes you.”

“Oh, yeah. Bozo scored with the ladies, didn’t he?”

“Who doesn’t want a big red nose and floppy shoes on her man?”

“Bozo was a real Casanova.”

“Or,” she says, snapping her fingers, “we could give you a new look entirely. Find one of those aesthetic centers and give you a face-lift.”

I grab the door to the court, and we leave to head down the hall toward our respective locker rooms.

“It’s either that or you’re going to have to become a monk.”

I laugh as I reach the entryway to the men’s locker room. “Yeah, that’s at the top of my list of life goals.”

But as I turn into the locker room, grateful Dale’s not here to talk up what’s next in sexual performance grading, something Olivia said sits up in my brain and insists on being heard.

No, I don’t plan on getting a face-lift.

The idea has some merit though.

4

Sabrina

I zoom in on the prize. The box sits high on the shelf, atop an old Candyland, a beaten-up game of Twister, and a 1980s Trivial Pursuit. Not just the ’80s flashback version. The actual 80s version from shortly after the game came out when US history questions stopped at President Carter.

I reach for the Monopoly box and yank it off the shelf. It imitates a Jenga tower and tumbles down.

“Ouch.” The cardboard smacks my face, and Marvin Gardens and its brethren scatter as the game spills onto the floor of the Salvation Army, where I’m now standing in the midst of an iron, a race car, a thimble, and dozens of pink and green bills.

Crudola.

Maybe I am cursed. Maybe Sasha was right.

Making sure I don’t flash anyone as I bend to the linoleum floor in my once-a-kimono-now-a-cool-red-dragon-skirt, I gather up the spilled pieces.

A woman with wild and curly brown hair and kind eyes joins me. “Let me help you.”

“It’s no big deal. I’ll just pick it up, and then I’ll take it.”

“Are you sure you want it?” Her voice is gentle, full of concern over a game that looks like it’s seen many lives. “It’s missing a lot of pieces. We were going to toss it because the last time someone wanted to buy it, he said there was no Boardwalk and then left in a huff.”