She stared at him. Agonizing seconds ticked by. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he began to move to the beat. His feet, his hips, his shoulders. She stood frozen. He held out his hand, but his mother—this woman who lived to dance when ordinary mortals could only walk—his mother had forgotten how to move.

“You can do it,” he whispered.

She drew an unsteady breath, the sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Then she arched her spine, lifted her arms, and gave herself up to the music.

They danced until sweat dripped from their bodies. From rock to hip-hop, they showed off their moves, each trying to outdo the other. Strands of hair stuck to April’s neck, and muddy streaks trickled down his bare legs onto the tiles. As they danced, he remembered this wasn’t the first time. They’d danced when he was a kid. She’d pull him away from video games or TV, sometimes even from his breakfast if she’d gotten in late. He’d forgotten there were good times, too.

Right in the middle of a song, the music abruptly snapped off. A crow squawked in the silence. They turned to see a cranky Riley standing by the silent CD player, her hands on her hips. “It’s too loud!”

“Hey, turn that back on,” April said.

“What are you guys doing? It’s lunchtime, not dance time.”

“Any time is dance time,” Dean said. “What do you think, April? Should we let baby sister dance with us?”

April stuck her nose in the air. “I doubt she could keep up.”

“I can keep up,” Riley said. “But I want to eat lunch. And you guys smell.”

Dean gave April a shrug. “She can’t keep up.”

Riley’s forehead wrinkled in outrage. “Who says?”

Dean and April stared at her. Riley glowered back. Then she snapped the music back on, and they all danced together.

Chapter Twenty-three

Blue swiped a highlighting blush across her cheekbones. The soft pink complemented her glossy new lipstick and darker mascara. She’d also used a little kohl liner along her lash line and some smoky eye shadow. She looked great.

Big deal. This was about pride, not beauty. She had something to prove to Dean before she drove away from Garrison.

As she left the bathroom, she spotted the empty pregnancy test kit she’d stuffed in the wastebasket yesterday morning after Dean had left. She wasn’t pregnant. Excellent. Very, very excellent. She couldn’t be responsible for a child, not with her vagabond’s lifestyle. She’d probably never have a baby, and that was fine. At least she’d never make a child go through what she’d experienced. Still, she felt a new emptiness inside her. One more thing she’d have to get over.