Red Blooded (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

They think you’ll miss the big things.
Like the anniversaries and birthdays
,
the Christmases and Halloweens.
But you savor those already.
When you face the cliff
,
you realize all the little stuff you’re about to wave goodbye to.

Like today
,
when Jen asked Peyton if she had any Chapstick.

“
Why would I have a chopstick?
”
Peyton asked
,
in a true Peytonism.
Sometimes words get jumbled somewhere past her eardrum.
And it’s more than just
Chapstick
becoming
chopstick
.
In the right
,
or rather
,
wrong
,
situation
,
with too much background noise
,
a
tired
,
inattentive Peyton and a mumbling speaker
, craze
becomes
crepes, outfits
becomes
alphets, poinsettias
become
pointsetters, kiosk
becomes
kissing,
and on and on.

“
Why would I ask you for a chopstick?
”
Jen laughed.

Peyton sighed and pointed a finger up in an
“
aha.
” “
You probably said
Chapstick,
not
chopstick
.
”

“
That I did
,”
Jen said
,
smiling.

“
Okay
,
okay
,”
Peyton said
,
clicking around in her bag.
“
I
have Altoids and blush.
”

“
Oh
,
I
don’t think I want to rub those on chapped lips.
”
Jen held her fingers to her mouth and gave me a look as we laughed.

Peyton gave a light
,
fake huff.
“
Well no
,
but in the interests of being helpful
,
I
wanted to give you an inventory of what I could offer.
”

That’s the little stuff.
The good stuff.

* * *

Adjusting to college while also adjusting to the realization that you’re the product of some deep, dark family secret isn’t easy. I need some kind of resolution. Finally, two weeks in, I get an idea.

Dylan follows me down the brick path leading up to the glassy building. “This is the Reiss Science Building. You don’t have any classes here.” He pulls his phone out, presumably to check my schedule.

“Well, it’s not too early to think about what to take next semester, and a professor here teaches this really great class on genetic diseases that sounds fascinating. Did you know that they aren’t all hereditary? Random mutations cause some. So really, it’s not so easy to just say you’re half your mom and half your dad. There’s a dash of chance and fate thrown in too.”

Thank God Dylan doesn’t know me well enough to know that I ramble when I’m hiding something.

He stops and stares at me.

Shit. Or does he?

“You’re not thinking about your mom and dad, are you?”

“No.” I dig my toe into a hole in the path caused by a broken brick. “I mean, I don’t have a genetic disorder. I just think it’s really interesting, that’s all.”

He steps toward me, closing off my personal space. “I’m serious, Peyton. You’re not going to talk to her about your parents, are you?”

“Do you think I’d be that dumb?” I ask with my hand on my hip.

His eyes get real small, but then he wipes his face and mumbles a “fine” as he keeps walking. I press my tongue against the insides of my cheeks as I look straight ahead. We open the heavy, we’re-serious-academics doors and pad along the somber hallway that smells like old, leather-bound books. When we get to the professor’s office, I knock tentatively on the door. A muffled “Come in” streams through. Dylan’s warm body is close behind mine as I open the door. When I turn around, my wrist hits his side, sharp.

“I, um, this is probably going to be boring for you.”

He cocks his head. “Really? I think it could be quite interesting.”

And there’s his damn grin again.

“Well, I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.” I touch his shoulder and feel the muscles there relax. I whisper, “Please, I feel so ridiculous having you as a shadow.”

His phone buzzes. He looks at it and sighs, then points at me. “Don’t say anything that could hurt us.”

I nod as he mercifully turns to answer his phone. I close the door. Professor Javadhi looks up with wide eyes. Perhaps she heard me click the lock.

“Um, hi, I’m Peyton Arthur,” I say, rubbing my wrists. “I emailed you and said I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yes, it’s good to see you.”

“Well, the truth is...can I talk to you candidly?”

She comes around from behind her desk and leans back on the wood, her arms crossed. “Of course.”

“Well, I know you’ve probably heard about the...” I can’t say it, so I just lift up my rather red hair and look aside.

“Your father having dark hair doesn’t mean you can’t have red. It’s rare, but the gene can be recessive for generations.” She jumps right in. Like she knows this is why I’m really here. But I’m trying to get at something specific.

“What about my eyes?”

“As I said, Peyton, recessive genes can hide for generations.” She frowns.

Okay, I’m going to have to be blunt.

“Let’s just say that we didn’t know who my dad was. If you take my mom plus
x
equals me, well, can you, as a geneticist, solve for
x
?”

“So you think there’s something to it?” she asks, her brow intense.

“No, I’m not saying that.” I sigh. Damn, this is not going well.

We’re quiet for a long time.

I need to get what I came for. I can’t risk this for nothing. I already knew everything she has said about how, yeah, it was possible. But I also know what my mom said. My dad isn’t my dad.

I bite my lip and force myself to continue. “Let’s just say that my dad isn’t my biological dad, just, you know, hypothetically. What do you think my biological dad would look like?”

She scrunches her face. “Well, he could look like a lot of—”

“What, statistically, would be most likely?”

“Obviously, someone with red hair, amber eyes, and pale skin, but I want to stress that that doesn’t mean your dad
has
to look that way.”

“What about other traits that aren’t physical? Like, if someone can get angry easily, but neither of their parents do? What does that mean?”

“Genes mix in different ways. And you can’t neglect environmental factors, of course.” She has a sharp wrinkle in between her eyebrows, not unlike the wrinkle my mom gets. “I’m not sure I can help you find what you’re looking for.”

My chest feels heavy, like something’s weighing on my lungs. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you so much for talking with me.”

“Of course,” she says.

I open the door and re-emerge into the hallway where Dylan is absorbed on the phone. Seems like Governor Ruiz accidentally said his budget plan wouldn’t touch social security when that’s not quite true. Dylan’s in damage-control mode as we walk back to my dorm.

But I’m not paying attention. I’m thinking about how that whole thing got me absolutely shit. Perhaps it was a long shot to begin with, but I thought I’d come away with some speck of an idea.

Luckily, that isn’t the only part of “Operation: Find Biological Dad.”

I have another strategy.

I have Tristan.

Chapter Nineteen

Weddings are happy little sad affairs.
Half ending
,
half beginning.
They’re more fun with kids
,
though.
When Peyton was twelve
,
we went to a wedding with the McCoys.
We finished off the cake that didn’t go that well with my Amstel Light while we avoided the Electric Slide.
Then
,
a
song I’d never heard before blasted on.

Tristan’s face lit up and Peyton beamed.
They ran out to the dance floor and started shimmying.
Not in a group.
With each other.
Peyton was dancing with a boy.
She was only twelve.

Jen leaned over.
“
Richard
,
if you hold that napkin any tighter
,
you’ll kill it.
”

* * *

Tristan is too good for a lot of things: the concessions at movie theaters, Lipton tea and, most recently, a dorm room. Last year, his parents somehow skirted around Georgetown’s requirement that freshmen live in the dorms and bought him a condo, complete with a spacious balcony, near campus, reasoning that the investment would pay off more than room and board fees. That’s how the McCoys think about everything—investments.

Sometimes I think the McCoys are really open-minded when it comes to Tristan and his support of legalizing prostitution. After all, there are a lot of sound studies and arguments that show it improves public health and decreases violence. But, other times, I wonder if the McCoys just think everything should be commoditized. And, perhaps, in that respect, Tristan didn’t fall far from the money tree. He’s happy though, and for me, that’s the bottom line.

As Dylan and I walk toward the building, we can see the party on the third-floor balcony. College students cling to the railing, drinks, and other students’ body parts.

“Looks crowded,” Dylan says. We get inside and climb the smooth stairs with backlights behind fake, stylish plants and corporate art. As we enter the bustle, a couple of guys by the fridge point at me. They’ve ingested too much alcohol to be subtle with their loud, slurred “whispers.”

“Wouldn’t it be awesome to plow the future Veep’s daughter?”

It clinks against my eardrum, crystal clear. I chance a glance at Dylan, hoping we can share a laugh, make it a joke. He clenches his fists and stares at them.

I stand on my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear. “Don’t get all overprotective on me.”

His eyes get a little softer as he turns to me. “So we just let them get away with disrespecting you like that?”

“Don’t worry, my honor is doing just dandy,” I say. “Let me have some fun tonight.”

After he does this masculine shake, presumably to un-tense his muscles, he lets me push him along, into the pits of the party. A bare-chested guy with sparkly glitter all over his skin (sparkles and loose wardrobe protocol are both regular features at Tristan’s parties) jostles by me, pushing me into Dylan. He catches me, and I put my hand on his chest to steady myself. But even once I know my feet are properly under me, I don’t step back. He stares at me, lips parted.

“Peyton, get over here.” Tristan grabs my hand, pulling me deep within the swarm of bodies. Dylan’s fingers slide along my arms, letting me go.

“Welcome to my condominium,” Tristan says, leaning into me with a leer. “You know how
condominium
is spelled, right?”

I raise my eyebrow and try to suppress a smile.

“Condom in. I. You...mmm,” he says, enveloping me in a bear hug that comes complete with a little splash of his beer.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say.

He pulls back, a more somber expression casts a shadow on his face. “Let’s get you a drink. I’m sure you need it.”

He goes to the keg on the porch and shoos away a couple guys in line. “Peyton Arthur needs a drink, so you guys can step aside.”

My jaw drops and my hands spring up. “No, no, please, I can wait in line.” I say it flustered and earnest, but the guys peel away anyway, allowing Tristan to pour me a cup. He hands it to me and pulls on my hand again.

He draws me through the party so fast we lose Dylan. I look over my shoulder, scouring the mass of people for his tall, dark figure, but I got nothing. My eyes dart between dancers, making-outers, taking-shot-ers, and a few other bare-chested sparkly boys. Solo cups randomly spring up in impromptu cheers.

But no Dylan.

Wait, isn’t this a good thing? It’s the perfect time to talk to Tristan about what he thinks of all this paternity stuff. And, more important, what he remembers. “Tristan, is there somewhere we can talk?”

His lips spread into a slim smile and his eyelashes fall over desirous eyes. He has no idea what I want.

“I actually do want to talk, and in private,” I say.

“Of course,” he says. “My bedroom is over here.”

It takes us a while to get back through the crowd and, in that swarm and sea of people, Dylan appears. “Peyton.” His chest rises and falls faster than it should. “You can’t just run off.”

Tristan raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, as though he’ll say something, but in the end he just smirks.

“Sorry,” I say. Tristan’s still pulling me. “I’m just going to talk to Tristan for a little bit.”

“Okay,” Dylan says, following. Shit, I can’t ask Tristan about my parents in front of Dylan. Maybe I have to play along at the whole romantic angle. As though on cue, Tristan plays his role perfectly. His hand swerves to the small of my back and he gently pushes me.

But then another hand grabs my open one. Warm and strong. Dylan looks at me, eyes dark, then he looks at our hands, his palm in mine. He lets go. “I need to know where you are, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know. But look, I’ll just be in Tristan’s room for a second.”

Tristan laughs. “Don’t have much faith in me, do you?”

He’s so wiggly with his eyebrows. I turn back to Dylan. His eyes are still on me, but something in his shoulders has shrunk.

“I’ll just be a second. I want to ask him something.”

Dylan stiffens. Shit. That was not the right thing to say.

“I mean...look, whatever we do in there isn’t your business,” I say, more forcefully than I intended, partly because I have to shout over the speakers, the banging music that all of a sudden hurts my ears.

He frowns. “Okay.”

As Tristan opens the door, ushering me in, Dylan doesn’t budge. He plants himself next to the poster outside Tristan’s room—the one showing cartoons in different sexual positions—like a soldier on guard. I put my hand on his shoulder. His muscles loosen slightly under my palm. “Look, go have fun. I’ll find you later, okay?”

“I’m not here to have fun,” he says, cold, crisp. My heart shivers.

I swallow and follow Tristan into his room. It has a navy blue comforter and a bowl with exotic, fluffy-looking fish. “I didn’t know you liked fish.”

“It’s the only pet I trust myself with at college.” Tristan loves dogs, but he’s not so fond of responsibility.

He sits down, waiting for me.

“So...what did you want to talk about?” The teasing grin is gone and his voice buzzes with concern.

Thank God.

“It’s just...this dad stuff.”

Tristan approaches me. He raises his hand to my cheek. I move back away, but he presses forward.

“You okay, Peyton? I know this is a lot of attention, but it’s not getting to you, is it?” His eyes narrow, creases spraying out.

“No, I’m okay, it’s just, do you remember your parents saying anything about...” I look to the ceiling as I cross my arms. How am I supposed to ask this? “Is there anything in your memory, anything at all, that would make you think my dad isn’t my dad?”

Tristan shakes his head. “Don’t listen to those nuts. They’re just trying to win an election.”

“Just play along, okay? Is there anything weird around me, or me being born, or anything?” My voice gets squeaky, but I don’t care.

Tristan’s mouth opens and he looks away from me. He sits on the bed and stares at his folded hands. “Well...”

“What?” I step toward him. “Tristan, tell me.”

“Well, you know how my parents can get sort of miffed about things, and then hold on to their miffs for years.”

“Your mom still remembers how I didn’t eat her lemon cake at your sixth birthday, when I was only four, by the way.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And you know how you were born in Switzerland?”

“Yeah,” I say, twirling my finger to encourage him to get to the facts that I don’t know.

“Well, my parents visited a few times, but during the months before you were born, they wanted to visit and your mom said it would be a bad idea, even after my parents said they’d stay at a hotel. My parents took it as an affront. Who needs to restrict visitors for months on end, you know, even when they’re pregnant?”

I pull my hair out of my face and tuck the strands behind my ears. “What does that mean?”

Tristan shrugs. “I don’t know.”

I nod and rub my lips.

“Look,” he stands and puts his hand under my chin, drawing my face up. “Your dad was your dad. I don’t give a shit what a few crazy wing nuts say.”

I smile at him. “Yeah.”

His eyes grow more focused. “You’re keeping something from me?”

“No,” I say, but I have to shut my eyes while I do it.

“You are,” he says. “Tell me.”

I shake my head, eyes still closed. “I can’t.”

He sighs. “Well, fine, I’m just going to have to tickle it out of you.” He grabs me and tosses me on the bed. His fingers roam everywhere. Tickling under my armpits, tickling my stomach. He even pulls off my flats and tickles me on the soles of my feet. I’m breathing heavy, trying to suppress the laughs. “Stop, no, stop it. Get off me!”

Something cracks. Like wood slamming against wood. And then Tristan is off me. It’s almost like he’s floating above me for a second, before he swirls away.

It’s Dylan. He crushes Tristan against the wall.