Red Blooded (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Victoria came over for dinner once when I’d spent most of the day on an article about speed dating.
The ideas and interviews still steeped in my brain
,
I
asked Victoria if she’d prefer to have a guy just come out with his sexual idiosyncrasies—like that he needed Beethoven on in the background or that he liked involving whipped cream and fruit at least once a week—or if she’d rather have those little romantic nuggets unfold naturally.

She blinked slowly and stared at the maroon tablecloth as her skin took on a similar hue.
“
That’s a rather personal question.
”

“
I’m not asking about your sexual proclivities
,”
I
said
,
flustered and downing more beer than I meant to.
“
I’m
—”

“
I
know what you mean
,”
she said.
“
Would I rather know them up front or learn them later?
”

“
Yes
,”
I
said
,
feeling less like I needed to loosen my tie.

I
smiled.
She shook her head.
“
It’s still an incredibly personal question.
”

Jen narrowed her eyes over her chardonnay and I spent the next fifteen minutes apologizing to the Carmichael girls
,
my wife and my sister-in-law
,
for daring to be so bold.

* * *

It’s 1:00 a.m. Grandpa’s snores have been emanating in a steady, rhythmic lull for more than thirty minutes. The only other noise is the occasional scratch of a tree branch as it yearns against the house.

It’s time.

I tiptoe by the guest room, Dylan’s room, and cringe at the splay of light streaming out from the crack of his door. It’s dim. Not like a lightbulb light, more like an iPad light.

I place my feet as carefully as possible along the floorboards. But it’s an old house—it cricks and bellows when I deign to step on it wrong.

As if responding in chorus, the mattress in Dylan’s room squeaks. Maybe I can get to the attic before he knows I’m the one making the groaning noises on the floor? I pad down the hall, more concerned with speed than my auditory presence, and swerve around the corner.

He doesn’t know how to get to the attic. He doesn’t know that the little door I used to pretend was the entryway to a faraway fairyland actually leads to dusty Christmas decorations and mothballs.

Once in the attic, I assure myself that he’s still tucked away with his iPad. I pull out my phone—flashlight app at the ready, because the gorgeous lunar light spraying across the wooden floor is more aesthetic than functional—and hunch through a bunch of St. Patrick’s Day mugs, a nativity scene and the little Rudolph mail carrier my grandma always puts in the front hall to collect their copious Christmas cards. They get so many she still has to go through them every day, but she will give a huff if you argue against the logic of using the Rudolph.

Finally, I find the rows of yearbooks, separated by child. Jen, my mom; Nate, my uncle; and finally Victoria. She was a freshman in college when it happened. Could there be some clue in the Yale yearbook? God, I hope the pictures are in color and not black and white. Sometimes it’s hard to detect a ginger in black and white. Okay, most of the time it is. Ask Lucille Ball.

I have to tug pretty hard to get the book out, it’s wedged in there like it wants to stay put. But I’m much more stubborn than some stupid object, and soon it’s on my lap as I sit crisscross applesauce on the dusty floor. I’m not sure what I’ll find, so I just flip through, scanning quickly for pictures of my aunt.

“Peyton.” A fierce whisper makes me lurch and spin.

“What the...”

Dylan, complete with his own cell-phone flashlight app, peeks his head above the top stair. “What are you doing?”

“Um...just...you know,” I say. “Flipping some pages around, reminiscing about my aunt’s Yale years...”

There is absolutely no way he’s going to buy that.

“I mean.” I try to save myself. “I was curious about Yale, since you told me about the supper clubs and Mory’s. I think she was a member of that supper club too, and I thought it might be fun to look at some old yearbooks.”

Better—well, by a nose. However, his eyes are definitely not smiling as he continues up the steps. He moves aside poor Rudolph and some fake plastic spiders so he can sit cross-legged next to me. His sweatpants brush my skin—they’re cozy and rough at the same time. The pants cling to his thighs more than they should, but in a rather splendid way. It almost detracts from how nicely his black waffle shirt spreads over his chest. Almost.

“Peyton,” he says, nudging me.

“What?”

“Were you even listening to what I just said?”

Whoops. No, I was thinking about waffle shirts.

“Sorry.” I divert my attention back to the yearbook. “What did you say?” I continue flipping and skimming and thinking of ways to get him to leave.

He shifts so he’s closer to me, his breath tickling a few stray hairs as he says, “I don’t believe you.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m telling the truth.”

Instead of relaxing, like he usually does when I touch him, he removes my hand. “No, you’re not. What’s going on?”

I stare at my thumbs. “I’ve told you too much already. What I know, well, it could ruin our chances of winning the election.”

His eyelids lower. “I think you might have forgotten who you’re talking to. I know the stakes. And I’m on your side.”

“Of course.” I rub my thumb along my lip and press the yearbook to my chest as I scoot away. It feels good to hold something, to hug something, even if it’s just a hard, dusty yearbook. “My mom told me the truth. Well, my mom and my aunt, or, really, my aunt and my mom.”

He stares at me, confused.

“My aunt is my biological mom. And my dad wasn’t my dad,” I say slowly, mostly for my benefit. The reality still feels strange in my mouth. I explain the whole thing to him, or what I know. “But they won’t tell me who my biological dad is. So, that’s why I want to look through these yearbooks.”

His lips descend into a frown, his eyes ice over. “I can’t trust you, can I?”

It pierces through my being. My insides are hollow, like a pumpkin that’s being scraped of its guts and seeds.

I curl my fingers around the yearbook. “I wanted to tell you.”

“But you’re always trying to do something behind my back. Can you blame me if I don’t trust you?” His eyes are focused, earnest.

“No,” I whisper back. “I can’t blame you for not trusting me, but they told me I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“Did they tell you to come down and investigate this? No. They told you to stay away from it. If someone is sniffing around, well, they might figure out even more now.” He runs his fingers through his hair.

“No reporter is going to find out, okay? No one saw us on the way down, we’re good.” My voice rises and energy pumps through me. I’m right.

“We still have to make it back.” His fists clench and he stretches his neck. I’m suddenly very interested in the floorboards. “You’re gambling a lot here.”

“I know,” I whisper, running my thumb along the edge of the yearbook. “I’m sorry, I do trust you. I want to tell you things. But you said yourself that the fewer people know, the better.”

“That’s true, unless those people are helping you,” he says. I still don’t look up, because he’s right. I should have told him. He brushes my cheek and lifts my chin so I have to face him. His touch reverberates down my spine. “Tell me everything, okay. I’ll do my best not to freak out and we can both figure out how to do it without jeopardizing your mom’s career. I’m on your side, Peyton. We need to trust each other. Please don’t lie to me again.”

All I want to do is cup his hand and hold it closer to my face. “I promise, I won’t.”

Unfortunately, he pulls his hand away. Fortunately, he takes the yearbook, spreading it open for both of us.

“So, what are we looking for? Something like a ‘Keep in touch! Especially about that unplanned kid we created’?”

I can’t help laughing, but I slam my palm over my giggles. I definitely can’t wake my grandparents up now. I elbow him in the ribs. He grins.

“No, I figure I’d just look for any pictures with her, especially if she’s near a guy with red hair. I know it’s a long shot, but...”

He nods and stands, crossing the room to the smattering of photo albums. He pulls one out. “It makes more sense to go through the personal photos,” he says as he looks at a few pages before replacing that album and pulling out another. He’s helping me? He’s helping me! “I think I made the Yale yearbook twice so far.” He looks up over his third photo album and smiles. “I think I got it.”

I hurry around him so I can look over his shoulder. He’s flipping through pictures of my aunt with her sorority sisters, my aunt at parties, my aunt at bars.

I shake my head. “She’s too old here. I need freshman pictures of her.”

He closes the book, replaces it, and pulls out two more. The one he passes to me is the winner. My aunt stands in front of a packed-up car in one picture and holds out her new-looking college ID for another. There are more images of her getting settled into a dorm.

“This is Bingham Hall, right?” I ask Dylan, pointing to a photo of my aunt and two girls on a grassy area in front of gorgeous, old buildings.

“Yeah,” he says, and I get a little flutter in my chest when I hear the excitement in his voice. He’s not just helping me, he’s invested in this too.

He leans toward me as I flip through more pages, mostly of her hanging out with friends, getting ready to go out, stuff like that. Then there are some parties and a few guys. She’s hugging an Indian guy in one, and she sits back to back with a black guy in another. But no redheads.

That is, until we flip the page. Then there are several photos of her with one guy. One guy with fiery, bright red hair. One guy who looks too familiar for comfort.

“Is that...?” I gasp. “He didn’t go to Yale, did he?”

I look up at Dylan, hoping he’ll say something about doppelgangers or confusion because I’m wrong about what I see.

He coughs. “Um, yeah, he did.”

I turn the page again, and there he is in a suit, next to my aunt in a dress, like they’re ready to go to a dance.

“No, it can’t be,” I say, choking on my own words.

Dylan puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling. “Well, that would explain why your mom and aunt don’t want you to know who he is.”

“They said it would be too complicated, but I didn’t think they meant this...”

It floods into my system. My aunt went to a dance with Representative Roberts. My aunt hung out with Representative Roberts. My aunt hugged Representative Roberts. And, from the looks of it, my aunt did a lot more than that with Representative Roberts.

And I’m the result.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until Dylan’s soft touch along my shoulder blades stirs me. He rubs my back, slowly, tentatively.

“What do you need?”

“My dad,” I say. “I miss my dad.”

Dylan hugs me again and rests his chin on my head. We stay like that for a long time.

* * *

After I sufficiently smear snot and blather and other unmentionables along his previously perfectly sexy waffle shirt, Dylan gets me back to my room. But I can’t stop the flow. He presses his finger to his lips as he backs out of the room. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers.

I don’t know what he means, but I’m still shaking a little from everything so I go to my bed and curl up under the covers.

Dylan comes back armed with a bottle of water, box of tissues and a bag of gummy bears.

I smile as he sets them on the night table. “You’re the best.”

He smiles, but waits.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I mean, we don’t even know if it’s true.”

I want him to say something about how it’s ridiculous. I want him to say that even though I have Roberts’s thin smile, that even though I may have his stubbornness, his temper, and other not-so-desirable attributes, that there’s no way. It’s impossible.

I want him to say there’s no way that the majority whip is my father. I mean, what kind of coincidence is that?

Except, considering the majority whip and my aunt were at Yale at the same time, it isn’t much of a coincidence at all. Is it? It’s just really, really weird.

I turn to the wall and stuff my face in a pillow. Dylan rubs my back, lightly at first but the pressure increases as he goes, and soon it turns into a massage. I never want him to stop touching me.

“Will you stay? I’m not sure I want to be alone.” I say it to the wall.

The bed squeaks with his weight. He takes my hand and squeezes it before pulling away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I roll over to face him and try to make my stupid mistake not such a stupid mistake. “Yeah, sure, sorry. I’m just feeling all discombobulated and...”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I would stay. I want to. If things were different...I would.” My heart beats faster. He rubs his face and turns toward the door, the wood groaning beneath his steps. Thank God my grandparents are on the other side of the house and have poor hearing. My grandpa especially would not be pro a boy in his granddaughter’s room.

“Dylan.” I thought he’d just turn at the door, but instead he walks back to me. His legs are almost at the bed as he looks down on me.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

I prop myself up with one elbow. A warm feeling infuses my chest as I smell his oaky smell. “Thank you.”

His eyes spark. “Of course. I’m here for you.”

I smile. He doesn’t leave.

“Peyton,” he says, his voice deep.

“Yeah?”

His mouth opens, but, licking his lips, he pivots.

“Never mind,” he says, his voice coming from some deep cavern in his chest I hadn’t realized he’d possessed.

Chapter Thirty

Peyton is so young.
The world is wide open to her.
I’ve tried to explain
,
in the least depressing way possible
,
that she should enjoy that openness.
As you get older
,
the years move along like pegs in a zipper.
All the possibilities between the two sets of fabric are laid out
,
but you tug along
,
year by year
,
clasp by clasp
,
closing them off
,
until you look back and the zipper is completely zipped.
All the possibilities are closed off.

* * *

Somehow we’re able to get through Grandpa’s blueberry pancakes and Vermont syrup without him or Grandma stumbling on the real reason for my visit: to scour family pictures and yearbooks. If they suspected that Dylan had stayed with me, in my room, for longer than either of them would deem appropriate (which is a millisecond past zero time), neither of them let it affect their way-too-jovial-for-pre-noon smiles.

Dylan stands up as soon as it’s clear that my grandfather is done scraping up syrup on his fork to lick in-between his profound thoughts on affirmative action and the minimum wage. Dylan grips his plate and reaches for the empty serving dish. “Please, let me help you with those, Mr. Carmichael.”

My grandpa nods, like, “Well of course you’re going to help me with these, kid.” But when I stand up to help too, my grandma does something weird. Her gentle fingers surround my elbow as she whispers, “Stay. Let your grandpa get a fix on him so we can decide if he’s good enough for you.”

Fire splashes under the skin of my chest. “Oh, no, Grandma, it’s not like that. Not at all. He’s here to keep me in check. Don’t you know that they don’t trust me on my own?”

She shrugs. “You’ve messed up a few times in the spotlight. It happens to trained politicians. It happens to people much older than you. It’s happened to your grandfather. It’s happened to your mother.”

“Well, they don’t trust me especially. So Dylan follows me around to make sure I stay out of trouble.”

My grandma nods and winks. “Tough job.”

“Grandma, really. He wants to work on the campaign, and he wants to make a difference. He’s really annoyed, actually, that he has to babysit me instead of impacting the election.” Maybe my grandmother needs the absolute truth.

“Peyton,” she says. “I’ve had a lot of assignments in life. Some I enjoyed, others I didn’t. I can tell you, that boy enjoys his work.”

“Grandma—”

“Shush,” she says. “And Peyton, you can make a difference in this election, which means him helping you is making a difference in the country, and the world. He understands that. Do you?” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I know that’s a lot of pressure for a young lady, but, fair or unfair, it’s there. You can handle it.”

“I’m trying,” I say with a forced smile that feels limper than I intended.

She nods. “I know you are, and Dylan is trying to help you.” She looks back to the door. The sounds of clinking dishes and running water and the low hum of two men making what appears to be small chitchat when in reality it’s an assessment test. My smile grows bigger thinking of how Dylan will attempt to deftly outmaneuver my grandpa, who seems innocuous but shouldn’t be underestimated.

“I worry about them,” my grandma says, with another wink.

“Dylan knows a lot about politics,” I say. “I’m sure he’s read up on Grandpa’s ways.”

We both laugh. “Well, your father thought he had a good bead on your grandpa too, but it still took a few rounds of Scotch before he won him over.”

I swallow what must be some sort of anti-truth bile. I want to ask. Does she mean Richard Arthur, the renowned writer, or Representative Roberts, the conservative darling? Does she know? She must. Were they both here at some point, trying to have a Scotch to win over the affections of my grandfather in order to solidify their interest in one of his daughters? Why didn’t I think of just asking them before?

Because they’ve never thought to just tell me before. Why would they tell me now? My mom and aunt didn’t fall far from the tree. Carmichaels are pretty good with secrets, apparently.

My grandmother completely mistakes my expression. “Peyton,” she says. “Jefferson needs a 3:00 a.m. feeding or he howls about the house.”

What is she talking about?

Oh, wait. So she was up at 3:00 am.

She winks. “I heard Dylan leave your room. It’s okay. Believe it or not, I was young once too.”

“It wasn’t like that, really, we didn’t do anything.” My voice squeaks way too much for a girl who is, in fact, telling the truth.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Really, Grandma,” I plead. “I was a little upset about something and he was helping me through it, that’s all.”

My grandma gets this smug look on her face as she nods. “Yes, I’m sure it’s in his job description to stay up with you and make you feel better when you’re a little upset about something.”

I have my finger pointed and mouth ready to come up with some brilliant retort just as the kitchen door flaps open. Dylan says, “We better get going. Lisa and Bain want you there two hours before the rally starts so they can go over a few things.”

And, moments later, we’re walking to the car, warm hugs and a warm house trailing behind us.

“I’ll drive,” he says, holding his hand out for the keys. I place them in his palm, trying not to pay too much attention to the brief jolt I get when my fingertips brush against his skin. That’s pathetic, right? We can’t be together, even if we want to be. He so much as said so last night. His career and this campaign are more important than me, as they should be.

We only get about ten minutes away, not even back to the highway, before the fresh-squeezed orange juice and nerves start to band together to make my bladder squirm.

“I have to pee,” I say.

“Can you hold it?” he asks, taking a chance to look away from the road so he can deliver one of his notorious frowns.

“No,” I say.

He turns his blinker on and pulls off the main road and into a gas station. “I guess I should fill us up down here, anyway.”

I get out of the car and head toward the Wawa nearby.

“Peyton,” he calls to me.

I swirl around, smiling, but his face is stone. He lowers his head. “Do you have a hoodie or sunglasses and a hat or something?”

What did I pack when I decided to hastily rush off to my grandparents’ when I found out my aunt was my biological mom and that she and my mom wouldn’t reveal who my biological dad is?

“Um, no,” I mumble.

He focuses on the pump, but his jaw tightens. “Don’t attract attention to yourself. I still don’t know how we’d explain this trip so, hopefully, we won’t have to.”

“I get it.” What does he think I’m going to do, jump up on the Wawa counter and do the polka?

I shuffle in the door, keeping my head down just in case. There’s a line for the bathroom. A woman in a pink, puffy sweater and a girl in a navy blue dress lean against a bulletin board for community announcements as they wait for their turn. I lean next to them.

“It’s gonna be a wait,” the pink puffy woman says.

“Oh, why?” I ask.

She juts her thumb. “That lady’s been in there seven minutes already. We’ve been timing.”

The navy blue dress girl nods while concentrating on her feet.

“Well, I guess we just gotta wait longer?” I say, slipping into my lake talk. We spent so many summers at Smith Mountain Lake that whenever I get into the country parts of Virginia, it just sort of spills forth.

The pink fuzzy sweater eyes me. She scrunches her mouth up as she brings her fingers to her chin. “You look familiar.”

“I have one of those faces.” I smile and try to figure out the best expression I can have that looks both natural but also completely unlike me.

The pink lady nods, happy with my answer. Phew.

But navy blue dress girl narrows her gaze. “Are you Peyton Arthur?”

The pink puffy woman turns, mouth agape. “You are,” she says. “Well hot damn, if you aren’t her, you’re a dead ringer.”

Then she turns to the navy blue dress girl. “That’s the senator’s daughter, right? The senator running for...”

The navy blue dress girl nods. “Vice President.”

I don’t like the cold stare in the navy blue girl’s eyes. She stares at me as the pink dress lady rambles on about how the country is on the wrong track because her granddaughter’s play tea set was made in China, until the bathroom door sings open with a screechy squeak. A pale, greenish girl steps out while holding her hand to her belly.

“Took long enough,” the pink lady bellows.

“Sorry,” she murmurs and rushes aside.

“Well,” the pink lady looks at the navy blue girl.

“Um, you go ahead,” she says, gesturing her arm like she’s welcoming her into a party. Pink lady looks at me and we share the crazy-girl glance together, before she steps in the bathroom.

I can smile at the pink lady. But the navy blue girl leaves me with palms that I need to run along my jeans more often than is socially polite. She looks at me as though she has lasers hidden behind her pupils and it just takes concentration to turn them on.

“I’m part of my college’s young Democrats,” she says, a smile itching in her lower cheeks.

That briefest of gestures gets me to stop my rubbing-my-palms antics. “Yeah?”

“We all think you’re doing amazing. Especially considering how young you are.” She barrels on, as though she had misspoken. “Not that I’m much older or, it’s just, it must be a lot of pressure at your age...”

I nod. My muscles no longer hurt. “Yeah, it is.”

When pink lady comes out, the navy blue girl insists I go to the bathroom before her, which I feel weird about, but getting into a friendly bickering match about bathroom line etiquette with a young Democrat won’t exactly keep with Dylan’s idea of me not drawing attention to myself. So I go in, do my business and come out.

But as I leave, the navy blue girl, who’s there with two of her friends, asks for pictures. I don’t want to be a bitch. Shit. “Sure,” I say, as I stand with them, giving my best, fresh, these-pictures-could-have-been-taken-at-any-time-right? smile.

As I pull myself away, the pink lady points to me. “She’s going to live in the White House soon,” she calls, and a few heads turn. Only a few. Some people care a lot more about their sandwiches or cigarettes than some lady saying something about the White House. Still, the few heads that do turn are a few too many.

The navy blue girl suppresses a giggle. “No, the Naval Observatory.” She waits for the crowd to nod, knowingly, realizing the pink lady’s mistake, but how many people know the VP lives in the Naval Observatory? Instead, they gift her with strange looks.

“Thank you for your support,” I say with a quick smile, before plowing through the door.

I walk up to Dylan, trying to get to him as fast as I can without looking like I’m running away. He’s leaning against the car, checking something on his phone.

“We good?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, just let me finish reading this.”

What? He wants to take time to read something? I pivot and the crowd spills out of the Wawa. They’re pointing at me. They’re armed with cell phones. They’re snapping photos. Images that can easily splinter across the internet.

Shit. There’s no getting around it. With Twitter, and Facebook, and Tumblr, everyone will know I’m three hours from DC, only twenty minutes from my grandparents. Just like Dylan said, people would think it was weird. It would have to be explained. Why would I randomly need to visit my grandparents? Sure, the whole having trouble with the pressures of the campaign would fly, but it wouldn’t look good either. It would make the campaign and my mom look like they were using me, driving me hard when I was only a young college student. No, there has to be some other reason. A convincing reason. A reason that will make everyone so happy and satisfied, they won’t dig or speculate.

I look away from the cameras. What would be a good reason to see my grandparents suddenly? Especially with Dylan in tow.

His steady gaze is on whatever he’s reading.

It hits me, sharp. With the flood of more people outside of the Wawa, and even more phones attached to Instagram and Pinterest and god knows what else, there isn’t time to think. There’s only time to act.

I brush against Dylan, fear gurgling in my stomach. What if he doesn’t get it? What if he doesn’t want to play along?

“Dylan, promise me you’ll keep looking at me as I say this.”

His eyes dart up. “What?”

“Just, don’t look anywhere else,” I say, as I approach him, our bodies almost touching. “People recognized me.”

He jitters, about to look around, but he stops himself. His attention is all on me. “Yeah,” he says, voice low.

“Remember how you told me that in politics we need to make the story our own. Make it something positive?” I close the gap between us, my body pressing against his. He stiffens, but only at first, then his breaths grow deep.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“This is me making my own story.”

My palms glide over his knuckles. I press down on his wrists to help leverage myself up as I stand on my tiptoes. I bring my face closer and closer to his, until our lips touch. I move, but barely, running my mouth along his. His mouth opens, and together, our breaths connect.

We stay there, not moving past the lip-touching, until he lowers his head. His hands fly around my hips. He pulls at me, pressing my belly into his pelvis as his lips come down hard. His tongue slips into my mouth, tender and curious. I reach my hands around his neck, pressing my breasts against him. His right hand reaches just under the back of my shirt, and his fingers press against my lower spine as his left hand scoops my neck, ensuring my mouth stays with him. Ensuring our tongues and lips can stay together, caressing and connecting. His thumb rubs against the sensitive part under my ear. I arch my back as he holds me close. I’m ready to relinquish everything to him.

Just as I’m wanting his hands to skid all over me, just as I’m wanting his mouth to never leave mine again, he draws back. He looks down and swallows. I hold on tighter as his hands glide to my upper arms. We’re both catching our breath as we stare at each other.