Something was fighting back, telling my gut to take a hike. Something wanted Jude Ryder in my life, no matter the consequences or the outcome.

And whatever that something was, I liked it.

I cut my little Mazda’s engine outside the garage since it was filled to the rafters with boxes and pieces of furniture from our old home that was about four times as large. At one time, we never worried about money, but after dad’s business empire came crashing to the ground, savings dried up and things like second homes and European vacations became luxuries of the past. Mom’s job as an architect paid just enough to keep a family of three alive, but not thriving. Even if we still had all the money we’d once had, alive, but not thriving would still describe the Larson family unit. We hadn’t thrived in five years.

Sliding my coverup over my swimsuit so I wouldn’t have to hear the always to be expected and ever so creative lectures of disapproval from my mom about giving the milk away before someone bought the cow, I jogged up the rickety steps of our front porch.

“Hey, dad,” I said as I pulled the screen door open. After five years, I’d stopped glancing over at the worn blue armchair to confirm he was there, entranced by the television or a crossword puzzle. He was always there if it was any time before seven p.m. After seven, he transformed into a gourmet chef whipping up French cuisine with such instinct you never would have guessed he was Norwegian.

“Hello, my Lucy in the sky,” was his expected response, as it had been for years. My dad was nothing if not a Beatles fan, and his second born had been named for his all time favorite song, to my mother’s mortification. She was, if there was such a thing, the anti-Beatle. I don’t know how my dad managed to get not one, but two children named after the band that created a generation, in my dad’s words, but there were plenty of things that didn’t make sense when it came to my parents’ relationship.

“How was your day?” I asked, only by habit. My dad’s days were all the same now. The only variation was what color shirt he sported and what kind of sauce he whisked up with dinner.

He was just opening his mouth when the first few notes of the Jeopardy jingle sounded and, like clockwork, he was out of his seat and striding into the kitchen like he’d just declared war on it. “Dinner will be ready in thirty,” he announced, cinching his apron ceremoniously.

“All right,” I said, wondering why, after all this time, I still mourned what my dad and I had been. “I’m going to take a shower and I’ll be down to set the table.” I lunged at the stairway the moment I heard the click clack of heels pounding gravel, but I was too late.

“Lucille.” The screen door screeched open, letting in an inescapable cold front also known as my mother. “Where are you running off to?”

“The circus,” was my response.

The ice queen went sub polar. “Judging by the way you’re dressed, or barely, and given your plummeting GPA the past few years, I would say a career as a trapeze artist isn’t that far-fetched.”

Her words didn’t even hurt anymore, no more than a superficial wound. “Good to know I’m living up to your expectations,” I fired back. “I’ll be sure to send a postcard when I hit the big times with Cirque du Soleil.”

Always a proponent of getting the last word, I whipped around and flew up the stairs before we really got wound up. However, I was only delaying the inevitable. We’d pick up right where we left off in thirty minutes when dad chimed the cowbell. Dinner should be interesting.

Slamming my door shut, I leaned against the door, forcing myself to take deep breaths. It never really calmed me like deep breathing exercises were supposed to, but it backed me down from the ledge enough I could get on with the next thing in life, hopefully something that didn’t involve mom. I’m well aware most teenage girls believe their moms hate them and are out to ruin their lives.

The thing about my mom is that she really does. Hate me, that is, and wish my life   will one day be ruined the way I ruined hers. She wasn’t always this way, the definition of a dried up, ball busting, daughter loathing, career woman. In fact, the day my father became a borderline shut-in with some serious issues, I lost the woman who used to leave napkin notes in my lunch box that were signed heart, Mom.

That person was never coming back, but I still found myself wishing she would whenever I slid my tray through the lunch line and grabbed a handful of napkins.

CHAPTER THREE

Some people had roosters. Others had alarm clocks.

I had The Beatles.

My dad was as prompt as he was predictable, and this morning “Come Together” was playing at three quarter volume, which meant it was seven a.m. For a teenager on summer vacation, The Beatles were as welcome as a fire alarm blasting into my ear at the crack of dawn.

Groaning my way out of bed, I slid into the first pair of matching sandals I could locate. A smear of chapstick and a quick tear through my hair with my fingers and I was ready for the morning. The invention of the yoga pant and the pairing with a tank top ranked on my list of top ten most life changing inventions. The stretchy duo served as sleepwear, exercise attire, everyday duds, and the perfect outfit for a morning in the dance studio.

There were a lot of things I could go without—shampoo, candy corns, red toe nail polish, sleep . . . hell, boys—before I could go without dance. Ballet to be specific, but not inclusive. Any and every opportunity I got, I was dancing. I’d been breaking, hip-hopping, waltzing, tangoing, and pirouetting my way through life since age three.

When it was announced we’d be simplifying—AKA downsizing because we were running out of money—our lives, I had one request.

Actually, it was more like a demand.

My dance lessons at Madame Fontaine’s Dance Academy go on uninterrupted. Or cancelled due to insufficient funds.

I didn’t care if I no longer got to wear the name brand clothes and had to shop at half price day at the local thrift store, or if my car was replaced for public transportation, or even if we had a roof over our heads. I had to keep dancing.

It was the only thing that kept my head above water when I felt I was drowning. The only thing that got me through the dark days. The only thing that seemed to still welcome me with warm arms and a mutual love. The only thing that hadn’t changed in my life.

Throwing my pointe shoes over one shoulder and my purse over the other, I opened my bedroom door a crack. The cabin was a rickety old place, with lots of character as my parents put it when they bought the place a decade ago, which had just been a nice way of saying it was a hunk of junk that was lucky to still be standing, but I’d learned two summers ago how to oil the hinges and apply just the right amount of upward pressure on the door handle to get the half century old door to open noiselessly.

I waited, listening for the sounds and noises apart from the “Come Together” chorus. Only when a solid minute had gone by without a click-clack of heels or a trio of sighs being emitted did I give myself the green light.

Mom was either on her way or already at work, so the coast was clear. After last night’s dinner, actually, after the last five years of dinners, avoiding my mom was a top priority, right below dancing.

Leaping down the stairs, an image surged to mind. An image I’d tried to erase from it. An image my best intentions had been useless against.

Jude Ryder, crouching in the sand a breath away from me, grinning at me like he knew every last dark secret of mine and it didn’t phase him one bit. Jude Ryder, golden from a summer in the sand, liquid silver eyes, stacked muscles pulling through his shirt . . .