Red Blooded (16 page)

Then he looks to the crowd that I realize, belatedly, has been joyously catcalling from the Wawa doors. He leans to the side of me that they can’t see. His warm breath blows against my ear.

“That was just for show?” he asks.

I mumble something and try to nod my head. Up. Down.

“Okay.” He lets me go and climbs into the driver’s seat faster than I thought possible. Especially now. My legs feel like Jell-O, my mind feels like something even less solid than Jell-O. I look up in a haze. He opens the door a sliver. The familiar, gruff, Dylan voice is back. “You coming?”

Chapter Thirty-One

The ride is quiet. Dylan’s focus on the road is so steady, it’s as though it holds some eternal truth. When I finally stop feeling like Jell-O, about an hour in, I try to make conversation. I ask him if he ever had a pet turtle named Raphael, who his favorite chipmunk is, or if he thought that the “You’re so Vain,” song was really about Warren Beatty. But his answers are single words and grunts. (No. Simon. Grunt.) But what really worries me is that he’s also ignoring his phone. Turning the ringer off every time it buzzes and refocusing on the road, his knuckles turning white against the steering wheel.

So he didn’t want to be with me because he thought it would hurt his career and the campaign. But he also doesn’t want to kiss me when it will help the campaign?

We pull into the rally and Dylan tries to drive to the staging area, but the security teams are stern and strict. “Sorry, sir, only authorized vehicles are allowed here.”

Dylan says. “Peyton here can show you her ID.”

The officer ducks his head in to have a look. I scramble for my purse and pull out my license.

“Hmm,” the officer says, reading it over. “She was supposed to be arriving by car service.”

“Yeah, our plans changed,” Dylan says. “But she’s here, and we need to get backstage because she’s speaking.”

The officer makes a few calls. Dylan presses his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

He turns to me, his eyes drained. “This is what happens when you deviate from the plans. We end up having to figure out shit as we go, which is sometimes just how things go. But this time it was for no good reason.”

“You think me finding out who my biological dad is...” I stop and look away. I don’t want to hear what he has to say.

He sighs. “That’s not what—”

The officer strides back. He hands the license to me, reaching over Dylan. “Okay, take a left, and then two rights. You’ll see a loading dock area. Find a place to park and knock on the door that has the big ‘FU’ above it.”

As we drive away, I laugh.

“What?” Dylan asks.

“The big FU,” I say, smiling.

I can tell he’s trying not to smile, but it breaks anyway, and soon he’s laughing and shaking his head. “Sometimes you’re so poised and other times you have the maturity of a twelve-year-old boy at summer camp.”

“Why do poise and immature humor have to be mutually exclusive?”

Once we get to the door, there’s a big hulky security guard waiting for us, but he lets us in.

We walk through the stony gray hallway.

“Bain wants to see you,” a guy I don’t know says to Dylan.

“Where is he?” Dylan asks.

“509A.”

“Okay, and where are they doing makeup?” Dylan says, motioning to me.

The guy shakes his head. “It shouldn’t be a surprise that he wants to see both of you.”

Dylan looks at me, and then ahead, as he keeps walking.

Shit. Those images from the Wawa must have gone viral.

Dylan whispers to me, “Look, things are probably going to be different for us going forward. I doubt Bain is calling us in to say how happy he is.”

“I’ll tell him it was my idea, because it was. If it’s a mistake, it’s my mistake.”

He grins. “I don’t think it was a mistake.” His grin fades. “But they’re probably not going to be very happy with me.”

The creases against his eyes somehow stray even further, roots leading to his hairline. I want to rush to him, hug him and stick my nose in the crook of his neck and tell him we’ll figure it out. In fact, I almost do that, but Bain’s roiling shout stops me.

“Hey, you crazy lovebirds.” The pulse in his vein throbs like never before. His cheeks grow harder and his glare freezes over. “Follow me.”

* * *

Bain gets us into a back room with a few chairs and lots of posters and rallying signs that will be handed out later.

“Sit down,” he says, waving his hand angrily to the chairs.

“I’d rather stand,” I say. Dylan stands with me. We wait. Bain paces back and forth, but I know what he looks like when he’s really, really angry, and this isn’t it.

This is something different. The way he shakes his head, not disdainful but confused. Oh, anger’s there. It’s prickling below his skin and flashing behind his eyes, but there’s something else there too.

“Do you know how many Tweets and Facebook posts and Tumblr GIFs with animated hearts have gone up about how fucking adorable you two are?”

I’m not sure if that’s a rhetorical question, so I stay silent. Bain stops pacing and he rubs his forehead with his palm. “If you two were developing feelings for each other, why didn’t you fucking tell me? We could have fucking handled this differently.”

Dylan’s stone-faced. Right, this is worse for him. It makes him look unprofessional if we just couldn’t help ourselves and had to make out in front of a Wawa.

“The thing is,” I say. “It was a ploy.”

Dylan closes his eyes and breathes out.

“What?” Bain rushes toward me, his face in my face. “You just decided to kiss the guy who’s been following you around, handling your communications, as a ploy? Do you think this is a game?”

“No,” I say, face hot, body shaking. “I know it’s not a game. That’s why we kissed. I made a mistake. And...”

Bain cocks his head toward me. His nose is way too close to mine. I can see the texture in the blue of his eyes, dark swaths against light ones. But I’m not backing down. “Look,” I say. “I was having trouble dealing with all this campaign stuff, and I wanted to get away. We went to see my grandparents, but Dylan was worried that...” I look to Dylan, who rubs the back of his neck.

“I thought it might look like she was under so much pressure from the campaign that she had a breakdown and fled to her grandparents’,” Dylan says.

“Is that what happened?” Bain presses.

“Well, not exactly, but...” God, I am teetering on a cliff, tiptoe tips dashing over slippery rocks at the edge of a canyon.

Bain is so close. I take a few steps back, but my foot snags on a bag on the floor. My body tenses and I’m about to topple. Dylan grabs my hand and steadies me. He holds on. My feet have been solid for a few seconds, so I mumble a thanks and pull away.

Bain’s eyes shift between us. “So...you decided, once people saw you, that you had to do something. And that something was kiss Dylan?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I, well, we.” I look at Dylan, who nods for me to continue. “We thought that this romance might be a distraction, a positive side story. I took him home to meet my grandparents because I...because I...”

“Because you love him.” The word
love
has never sounded so unlovely. I breathe in and look at the floor. Bain steps back, finally relieving me of his coffee breath. “It better be because you love him, because if it’s not, you’re going to look like a slut.”

Dylan steps forward, fists clenched. “That’s too far, Bain.”

Bain raises his hand to him. “Down, boy. I wasn’t saying she is a slut, I was saying she’d
look
like a slut. You, being in communications, should understand the difference. But keep up that protective boyfriend routine because we need to show how much you care about Peyton, and how much she cares about you. You know, to avoid that whole slut thing.”

Slut, slut, slut. Why does he keep saying that?

“Why would I be a slut?” I steam forward. “So I had a tame kiss with a guy in August, and now this? If that makes me a slut, then most of the college girls in America are sluts. Aren’t we supposed to be the progressives? The ones who don’t bat their eyes at female sexuality?” I’m more emblazoned as I run on.

Bain, to my surprise, sighs. His shoulders relax and he puts his hands on his hips. “Look, Peyton, I meant what I said. You’re not a slut. Hell, you could sleep with half your hall at Georgetown this year and I still wouldn’t think you were a slut. But it’s not what
I
think that matters. It’s what
they
think.” He swashes his hand out, presumably to capture the great wide world. “And if they think you just kissed your communications guy to distract them as a maniacal ploy, if they think you’re playing them, then don’t be surprised if the internet erupts with the term slut.”

I pull back and try to tame the venomous bile urging up my vocal chords. He’s right.

Bain is right.

I look at Dylan, my eyes misty, my mind desperate. His lips part.

Bain smiles. “But if, on the other hand, you really are in love, or at least getting there, then that’ll be romantic and sweet. Is that what’s happening?”

Dylan looks at me, but I can’t read him. Will he say yes? Does he feel what I do?

We both stay silent. Neither of us wants to bare our souls to Bain.

“Fuck, guys,” Bain says, shaking his head and crossing his arms. “Fine. Whatever. It doesn’t matter what’s actually happening, whatever the fuck that is. But as far as the media and public are concerned, until November 8, you two are madly in love.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“
Whoa
,”
I
told Peyton as she climbed on top of my lap with a Popsicle—an extra treat for the kids at the wedding.
“
Let’s get a napkin.
We don’t want to mess with this suit.
”

“
Why not?
”
she asked.
She was in that three-year-old phase where she questioned everything
,
from why we put wood around pictures and hung them on the wall to why rocks have dents in them.

“
I
married Mom in this suit
,”
I
said as I took a wet napkin and pulled it along each and every one of her sticky fingers.
She looked up with her mouth in a wide
“
O.
”

“
That’s magical
,”
she said.

“
It is.
”

* * *

Lisa comes in, oblivious to the tension, or perhaps used to it. Every time she walks in on an interaction with Bain and someone else it’s probably broiling at the edges with angst and anger. She taps my shoulder. “Makeup, now.”

I look at Dylan. “I’m sorry,” I say, before realizing Lisa had meant makeup, not make up.

I swivel and don’t glance back. I don’t do anything. I stare at Lisa’s tight black curls as I follow her down the corridors. I nod along as she tells me how the rally will go. My mom isn’t here. She’s at a fundraiser in San Francisco. So, in a way, I’m representing her. “Governor Ruiz will probably call you up so he can say a few things about your mom and try to humanize her.”

“Okay,” I say. The way they talk about humanizing my mom, you’d think she walked around with her arms at perpetual right angles and her neck unable to move while she talked in a monotone voice: “I assure you I am not a robot. I am a real life human, just like you. Please vote for me. End of transmission.”

Whatever. If my mom needs humanizing and I can humanize her, then okay, I’m down. But it’s hard to pay attention to much else because my stomach is still swirling from the thought of walking around campus holding Dylan’s hand. Kissing Dylan. Doing much more fun things with Dylan. I figured out a way for us to be together, just like that. We can be together
and
help the campaign.

I force those happy thoughts out of my mind as I climb the stairs to the stage. I give a big, full-arm wave along with a glowing smile. The crowd cheers and stands and hurrahs. It feels great.

“Thank you so much for coming out today and supporting us,” I say, reading the teleprompter as instructed. “I know you all care deeply about this country, just like my mom and Governor Ruiz. Together, we can get things back on track. We can help our nation be prosperous while also being responsible international stewards. We can help the lowest among us when they’re down, while also creating conditions that allow everyone a chance to strive and succeed. It doesn’t have to be either-or.”

The crowd thumps and cries, and if I couldn’t see all their big smiling faces, I might have been more nervous. But no, it’s all positive energy. Which is good, because that’s exactly why I’m here.

“Please help me welcome the next president of the United States of America, Tom Ruiz.”

As Governor Ruiz enters, the crowd roars. Say what you will about the guy, he knows how to endear himself to the masses. He strides to the podium as I back away from it, finding the place that Lisa had pointed out to me before. But Governor Ruiz touches my shoulder and won’t let go.

“Thanks, Peyton,” he says. “Now, I know some of you might think you already know Peyton, and that you know how close she was to her father, Richard Arthur, but you may not realize what a wonderful mom Jen can be. Let me share a story with you.”

Governor Ruiz pushes me forward. My heart beats faster and resists my attempts to calm it down.

“Peyton often wears a hidden pin fastened to her clothing.”

Shit buckets. How would he know that? My mom wouldn’t...

Dylan.

“Peyton, do you have that pin now?”

What? Can I lie? Can I shrink into a sliver of a girl and fall between the cracks of the stage? Can I shove the Democratic Party’s presidential candidate without getting shot at by the secret service? Can I run off stage and throttle Dylan?

My options are so very paltry.

“Yes,” I say, so soft that he tilts the microphone to me.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, again. Redundant.

“Would you mind sharing that pin with us today?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Not redundant. I need eight yes’s in my head in order to move forward with the verbal necessity.

“No, of course not.” My fingers brush along the edge of my dress and undo the pin, my shaking hands nicking my thumb slightly. I place it in Governor Ruiz’s hand. He is mercifully gentle. He examines it like it’s a fine jewel he just found in a cave in the rainforest. He holds it up as though it represents victory itself.

“When Peyton lost her father, Jen Arthur made her this. It’s a pin with a strand of fabric from Richard Arthur’s wedding suit, a strand of fabric from Jen’s wedding dress, and a strand of fabric from Peyton’s baby blanket, all woven together into an infinity symbol.”

His eyes focus and, for a moment, it’s as though he’s alone in the room with just that pin, and maybe me, but not the thousands of people who now sit hushed, staring at the jumbo screens zeroed in on three shreds of fabric.

“Peyton, how did you feel when your mom gave this to you?”

“I felt...” I wipe my hands on my dress and stare out into the crowd without taking anyone in. It pounds in on me, how important it is to humanize my mom, how important it is that we win this election. How unimportant my feelings, my thoughts, my memories are in the entire process.

It’s not fair. But it is what it is.

Like a good girl, I must play along.

“I felt better. Stronger. I keep it with me so when I’m nervous, for example, just, you know, hypothetically speaking...” I hold my palms out, “...if I’m in front of thousands of people.” The audience laughs and my chest feels a little less tight. “I know I can touch it, or feel it under my cardigan, or dress, or in my pocket, and I know that in some way my dad will always be with me. And I know that my mom’s love can also sustain me. We both miss my dad, and always will. But we have each other.”

And, on cue, I cry. Small tears that might not have been noticeable if the pesky cameramen hadn’t caught them and drilled in on them. But as I stare at the jumbo screen and my way-too-big nostrils, the image swipes away. Now the screen displays a woman and a girl in the audience. They hug and wipe away tears. Then an older gay couple, one of whom is in a wheelchair. They clutch each other’s hands and smile through firm, weathered faces. A young woman cries as a man stands behind her, squeezing her shoulders and whispering things in her ear that make her smile.

I look to the audience. They feel me. I feel them.

Governor Ruiz’s hand falls on my back. “Thank you, Peyton, for sharing that with us.” He puts the pin back in my palm and closes my fist around it, giving it a subtle squeeze, before he turns back to the audience.

I walk numbly to my spot as Governor Ruiz continues on about my mom’s warm character and how, just like she’s always there for me, she will always be there supporting him, supporting the nation.

Finally out of the spotlight, or at least to the side of it, I’m able to process what I had to push away before. I look to the side of the stage, scanning faces. Bain’s hard frown as he looks at his phone, Lisa’s contemplating creases as she nods to someone and Dylan’s pleading eyes as he stares at me.

His forehead crinkles and he teeters a little, like he’s about to sprint to me. He mouths, “I’m sorry.”

My jaw tightens to the point of pain. My chest constricts. I turn back to the audience.