An epic disaster.

“Something smells damn good,” Jude said to me, sniffing the air that was thick with the scents of lemon and butter.

His words weren’t only heard by me, as attested by both my parents’ heads snapping back to stare at him.

Throwing a double punch, my mom’s brows peaked at the same time her lips pursed. My dad smiled. You see, where mom saw the bad in everything, the damn in life, dad saw the good. Or at least used to and still did from seven to nine p.m.

Jude chose to address mom first. “Sorry for the language, ma’am.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I was brought up in a house where cursing was like a second language. It comes so naturally I don’t even realize it. But I promise to attempt to filter myself when I’m in your house.”

Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms. “I’ve always found profanity to be a substitute for intelligence.”

My mouth fell open. Even this, for my mom, was crossing into a new level of cruel.

Jude’s expression didn’t change. “In my case, I’d have to agree with you. My report cards have been the things of parents’ nightmares.”

“And from the smirk on your face, I deduce you’re proud of that?”

And now, to join my mouth falling to the ground, I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Whatever was hidden between the layers that made up a person like Jude, no secret, crime, or offense deserved this degree of nastiness.

Glancing over at Jude, I found his face just as calm as if he was om’ing his way through yoga.

“No, ma’am,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“No as in you are proud or are not proud?”

Sliding his hand from mine, Jude looked her straight on and answered, “No as in I’m proud of very little in my life.”

Mom didn’t have an immediate response for this. Even in her paint it black world, honesty of this sort gave her pause. “Sounds like precisely the kind of over achiever I want spending time with my daughter.”

“Mom,” I hissed in my warning voice. Not that it affected her in any way.

“That’s what I told her,” Jude said, “but the thing I’ve learned about Lucy in the few hours we’ve spent together is that she’s the kind of person who doesn’t let anyone make up her mind for her.”

The cell phone mom kept within an arm’s length at all times buzzed to attention. For the first time in who knows how long, she clicked ignore. “And what else have you learned about Lucy? Since you’re the expert.”

Taking my hand back in his, he slid me a smile. “She’s smart, except when she isn’t.”

Buzzing again, mom lifted the phone to her ear. “What a revelation,” she said to Jude before rising and marching out of the kitchen, offering the party on the other end a clipped greeting followed by a three second long sigh.

“Sorry,” I mouthed to him.

“For what?” he said in a low voice. “You can’t control your mom’s actions any more than she can yours.”

“My,” I said, tugging him forward. One parent down, one more to go. “Aren’t we insightful today?”

“That’s a term that no one’s ever used to describe me before,” he said, tugging at his beanie so it sat just above his eyebrows. For all the long sleeves, stocking caps, and ass-kicking boots he wore, I was beginning to wonder if he had the circulation of an eighty year old woman.

“Dad,” I called, tapping his shoulder.

He didn’t look away from his pots and pans sizzling and boiling on the gas range. “Hello, my Lucy in the sky—”

“This is Jude,” I interrupted, not wanting Jude to see me even more as the little girl I already felt in his presence.

Raising a finger, dad gave the lemon butter sauce one final whisk and turned off all the burners. I wasn’t sure how he was able to time an entire meal to the same second, but I was sure this was a phenomenon that skipped a generation when it came to me.

Turning around, he wiped his hands off on his apron . . .

Oh God, how had I forgotten the apron? Jude’s eyes bulged, but he recovered so quickly I was certain dad hadn’t even noticed. Not that he would have cared if he did. The apron had been a present from Italy, Rome to be exact, and depicted the sculpture of David in his glory, in all his glory, hanging down in anatomically correct places.

“Hey, Jude,” Dad greeted, looking quite pleased with the whole transaction.

“Mr. Larson,” Jude greeted, extending his hand. “Nice apron.”

Shuffling the spatula into his other hand, dad shook Jude’s. “I like you already,” he said, wiping a streak of flour from his cheek. “Great name, exquisite taste in culinary attire,” he continued, before looking down where Jude’s hand still enveloped mine. “And you like my daughter. You’re a smart man, Jude.” Winking, dad spun back towards the stove, unleashing a whisking, flipping, and stirring frenzy.

“It’s not hard to recognize something special when life’s thrown a lotta shit your way,” Jude said.

“I’ll raise my hands to the sky at that,” dad said while I worked on confirming my feet were planted to the ground. Something about the way his eyes went all soft when he looked at me and said special was doing a job on me. “Lucy in the sky,” he said, over his shoulder. “Why don’t you forward the disc a few tracks and we’ll play Jude here his Beatles theme song?”

“No,” Jude said abruptly. Dad and I both paused, looking over at him. “My mom worshipped the Beatles, hence the name,” he said, the tension gone from his voice. “I’ve heard that song enough times to last three lifetimes.”

Dad studied Jude awhile longer before shrugging. “Well, I won’t torture you with it any more, then,” he said. “But it’s a great song to be named after. Possibly the second best,” looking over at me, he smiled, “right after Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

“It’s a song about letting drugs mask the pain of life,” Jude said. “I think mom was still loopy from delivering me when she named me.”

Dad studied Jude again, like he was trying to put his finger on something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. “It’s also a song about love,” he said, “and letting that love in when we need it most.”

Jude paused, something so strong going through his mind it was visible on the planes of his face. Finally, he shrugged his shoulder. “Well, whatever it is, it’s just a name.”

“A good one,” dad said, waving a spatula at him. “What’s your last name, Jude?” Dad glanced up as he plated the chicken.

“Ryder, sir.”

“Hmm,” Dad’s forehead wrinkled. “Name isn’t familiar, but you have a face that I feel certain I’ve seen before.”

Jude’s hand tensed around mine. “I get that a lot.”

“Did you grow up around here?”

“I grew up everywhere,” Jude answered, his hand clenching tighter.

“Jude’s family bought the Chadwicks’ place,” I interjected, not sure if it was more for Jude’s or my hand’s benefit. “Maybe that’s why you recognize him.”

Dad mulled this over as he spooned sauce over the plates. “Maybe,” he said to himself. “Maybe not.”

“Can I help you, Dad?” I asked, pulling Jude with me. I was sure if I let his hand go, it might be the last time I’d have it in mine again.

“These two are ready to be set,” he said as he finished saucing the other two. “One thing is for sure, son,” Dad said, patting Jude’s face. “Whether I’ve seen it or not, that is one good looking mug.”

I was used to being embarrassed by my parents, kind of came standard when your father was on the bad side of crazy and your mom was the poster woman for the ice queen, but this was hitting an all time high. Dad, all but stroking Jude’s cheek, dancing around the kitchen wearing the naked bust of an ancient statue, grinning like he was mad as a hatter.

If Jude still wanted to see me tomorrow after tonight’s ordeal, he could handle just about anything else I threw at him. I hoped.

Glancing up at Jude, I found him looking at me, staring at me like he couldn’t help it. Maybe that’s because I could have updated my heritage from Caucasian to Tomato Red.