Red Blooded (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Don’t think about the future.
That’s what they tell me.
It will just make you ache.

But I can’t slip out of consciousness without imagining my daughter
,
far along
,
gray mixed with her red hair as she clutches my old
,
weathered
,
age-spotted hand.
Maybe I will mumble.
Maybe I can barely munch on broccoli.
My teeth have rotted away.
And while she still looks so young to me
,
I’ll know
,
in the corners of my rickety
,
aged mind
,
that she’s old too.
Maybe even a grandmother who buys plastic
,
lime-green crap and too many scoops of ice cream for my great-grandkids.

She stares at me and knows her time on earth is closing in too.
It hurts to have her confront mortality
,
but her wrinkled eyes remind me she’d confront it soon anyway.
I’m not the one pushing it on her.

I
close my eyes
,
letting dark seep in
,
as she pulls at my sheets and says something to the nurse about how she’s going to put on a horrendous political commentator.
That guy who yells about the colors of birth control packets and
,
well
,
while he’s at it
,
the color of ketchup packets.
She’s just saying that to get the nurse to leave.
Triumphant
,
she grins as she clicks and clanks in her purse to get out the contraband candy bar.
Gooey nougat.

Death is sad
,
but I’m old.
She’s old.
It’s time.

I
try to pretend that.
But then I notice that the purse my daughter shifts around in isn’t a purse.
It’s a book bag.
A
sparkly
,
spastically purple book bag.
When she snags my broccoli
,
crunching at it
,
she tells me she’s worried about a quiz in school and Tristan.
“
He’s so fucking annoying
,”
she says
,
looking to the hospital ceiling.
Her face snaps back
,
looking at me.
Her eyes are wide as she clasps her hand to her lips.
“
Sorry
,
Dad.
”

“
You can say
fuck,”
I
tell her.
“
Sometimes you need to say
fuck
.
”

She grins.
It’s a whisper:
“
Fuck.
”

“
That’s my girl.
”

I
breathe in
,
but it’s heavy and heady.
I
once again try to see any strain of gray in her beautiful hair or a wisp of a wrinkle near her eyes.
But there are none.
She’s not too young to realize I’m having a desperate moment.
She takes my hand.
Squeezes it.
I
look at my fingers and her fingers
,
my palm and her palm.
The worst part?
The back of my hand.
It’s not weathered
,
except for the scar I got when I stared at Jen for too long while dicing tomatoes.
It was worth it.
Jen had been wearing that cascading necklace that dripped down her back.

But
,
scar aside
,
my hands aren’t old.
They’re just sick
,
veiny
,
with artificial tubes sprawling out.

And my daughter’s?
Hers are far too soft and porcelain and fresh to have to hold her dying father’s hands.

I
ask her to leave.

She wipes tears from her cheeks.
Swallows.
Floats out of the room.

“
I
love you
,
Peyton
,”
I
say
,
even though she’s already gone.

Fuck.

* * *

We get on the train and find our seats. Dylan gestures for me to go ahead and sit next to the window. As he hoists my bag up above us, his happy trail peeks out from under his shirt. God, I want to run my fingers along those wonderful “V” dents that disappear under his boxers. My gaze meanders to places it shouldn’t.

“I’m up here, Peyton.”

My eyes shoot to his face, which has a delicious grin on it. I turn away, pressing my cool hands to my cheeks to stem the blushing.

He sits down next to me, his knee knocking against mine, and pulls something out of his pocket. It’s hidden within his fist. “I, um, I got you something.”

“What? You didn’t need to—”

“Yeah, I did. I shouldn’t have told Ruiz about the pin. I’m not sure how to make it up to you, but, I saw this and thought...”

He opens his palm. It’s a silver bracelet that culminates in a small circle.

“A bracelet?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Can I?” I give him my hand and he fastens it, his fingers brushing the sensitive part of my wrist and giving me pleasant jitters. “I thought, if you want to be able to see and feel the pin, you could put it in this loop.”

I stare at my wrist and barely notice that Dylan is rubbing his neck and murmuring. “It was just an idea. You don’t have—”

“I love it.” I can’t help smiling even more when I see his wide, full-toothed smile. I undo the pin, which was inside my cardigan, and hook it into the bracelet. “Thank you.”

“I shouldn’t have been so eager to help the campaign that I hurt you. My priorities were out of place. I want you to trust me. I want us to trust each other. I know this set us back, and I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.” I feel like feathers are resting on my shoulders, instead of the Acme-size weights there before.

“So, why are we really going to New Haven?”

“I want to go to a book signing.” I have to say it soft, so our foreheads are just an inch apart as we speak hushed truths on a train.

He leans even closer. “What book signing?”

I pull out my phone and find the entry on the Yale website about Representative Roberts’s visit. He reads the title of the event and sighs, flopping my phone on his knee and looking to the ceiling. “You should have told me this sooner.”

“I didn’t lie, I—”

“Come on, Peyton. This isn’t what I meant when I said we needed to trust each other.”

I sigh and take my phone back. He’s right. And I’ve kept far more things from him than he’s kept from me. “I can do this alone,” I say. “But I want your help.”

He leans into me again, hot whispers against the curve of my neck. “Okay, let’s game out what to do later, too many ears in this car. And we can’t afford to have this be the October surprise.”

The October surprise. Something that unsettles the election weeks, or days, before voting. No, I can’t be the October surprise. This close to voting day, the campaign wouldn’t have enough time to shovel over the issue—it would be fresh in voters’ minds on election day.

I pull back. Three people are at the front staring and pointing at us.

Dylan follows my gaze, before turning back to me. His arm pulls me to him, his nose nuzzles in my neck and makes my muscles burn. He reaches his other hand to my waist and kisses my neck softly. His whisper is sterner than his actions. “Loosen up, you’re too stiff. We’re supposed to be in love, remember?”

Supposed to be.

* * *

Dylan’s friends share a house off campus. There’s something a little damp in the air and the floors of the house tilt slightly. But, I still love it.

“Hey, man,” a guy with shaggy hair and a huge grin comes over to us and wraps his arm around Dylan’s neck, pulling him into a tight, one-armed hug.

“Hey, Paul.” Dylan smiles and pats the guy on his back a couple times before they let go.

Paul holds his hand out to me. “Peyton, it’s an honor to meet you.”

I shake his hand and Dylan laughs. “You don’t have to be that formal with her.”

“Well, it’s Peyton Arthur,” Paul says, his face reddening as he scruffs up his hair. He shakes it off and moves back into the small living room, the video game he was playing on pause. “Zain and Caroline are getting Sally’s Pizza, should be back in just—”

The door squeals open as a tall blonde and an even taller Middle Eastern guy spill into the room talking about how he is not dumb for having to stare at an analog clock for a bit before he knows the time. “Telling time is no longer a useful skill, so my brain hasn’t wasted time learning it.”

I giggle as Dylan interrupts them. “Hey.”

Caroline’s smile seems to erupt as she takes me in. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to meet you!” she says with a lot more jubilation than I had expected.

“Whoa, girl,” Zain says, as though she’s an excited puppy. She shoots him a glare before bouncing over to me.

“Seriously, I have so much to ask you.”

“Caroline.” Dylan steps forward, seriousness awash on his face. “We’re trying to take a break from the campaign. Peyton has to deal with a lot as it is. And, anyway, you can read the news, right?”

Caroline frowns. “I wasn’t—”

“It’s cool,” I say, waving Dylan off. “I don’t mind talking about the campaign.”

She puts her hand on her hip. “I don’t want to talk about the campaign. I can, in fact, read the news. What I want to ask you about is how you finally got Dylan to pay attention to something
other
than a campaign.”

Dylan looks to the wall with a tight face as Caroline laughs and grabs my hands and pulls me to the couch all in one quick motion. “You don’t even understand. I’ve tried to set him up with so many of my friends—beautiful, smart, nice girls—and he just blows them off.”

Dylan crosses his arms. “I didn’t blow any of them off.”

“What about Cherise?”

“Who?” he asks.

Caroline sighs. “The math major, who had this gorgeous long hair and also sings with The New Blue.”

Dylan laughs so hard he exposes his neck. “I didn’t blow her off. I tried to get her to talk about polling numbers, because that’s math related, right? And anyway. She had no sense of humor.” Dylan pulls at his collar in a really adorable way.

“And Olivia. She called you three times after you went to that rally?” Caroline says.

“I made a joke about the budget deficit and she said that she hated political jokes. I don’t know why she kept calling.”

“You didn’t call her back?” I look up at him with the most worried look I can manage. I can have fun with him too.

His mouth drops and his hands spurt out. “No, I did, I did.” He looks to Caroline. “I did call her back.”

Caroline frowns at me. “He politely explained to her that he was too busy for a relationship. Then, because she’s Olivia...” Caroline says with a glint in her eye. I get what she means even though I don’t know Olivia. “...she said she’d be fine with just a fuck-buddy status for a month, like a trial period.”

“She used the term
trial period
?” I crack up as Dylan shakes his head and walks toward the fireplace. He rests both forearms on the mantel and face-plants his head into the wood. His shirt tightens along his back muscles. It would be great to see an unobstructed view of those muscles.

“Anyway,” Caroline shakes her head, but she can’t shake her smile. “What about Megan? She practically runs the Young Democrats. She was perfect for you.”

He lifts his head, but maintains his position, talking to the wall. “She just wasn’t my type, okay?”

“You also told her you were too busy to date.”

“I was,” he says, turning and crossing his arms.

“I guess, since you’re dating Peyton, your workload must have lightened up considerably. Not much going on, right?” She shrugs. Dylan closes his eyes and pinches the top of his nose.

Caroline turns to me. “See what I’ve been dealing with? And then you come along and—”

“I changed my mind,” Dylan says. “I think you two should talk about the campaign. Caroline, aren’t you curious about how Peyton preps for speeches or—”

“Zain,” Caroline yells.

“Yeah, hon?” he calls from the kitchen.

“Aren’t you and Paul desperate to catch up with Dylan?”

“Yeah, of course,” he yells back.

Caroline flips her hand at Dylan. Her bracelets clang together in a little “go away” song.

He looks at me.

“I’m good,” I say, but only between laughs.

“Of course she is,” Caroline says.

Dylan’s chest expands in what can only be an attempt at a cleansing breath, before he walks to the kitchen.

Caroline’s voice slips into a softer, gentler mode. “Seriously, I’m really happy to see him finally find a girl he likes.”

I smile and try to ignore the crushing guilt on my chest. But he can’t trust that girl. “Yeah.”

“He’s a great guy, he’s just a little preoccupied with politics.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say.

She leans back, observing me as though I’m a painting.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

I look up and my heart yammers in my chest.

“Now, that,” she says, leaning forward and pointing at my expression. “Something is going on.”

I swallow and pull at my fingers. “Caroline, I’m sorry but there are some things I can’t talk about...”

She nods and her curious eyes turn sympathetic. “Just, be careful with him.”

Now it’s my turn for the serious eyes. “What do you mean?”

“He’s never fallen for someone before. He stays away from that kind of stuff if he can help it. It’s clear he couldn’t help it with you, and I’m guessing that’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know how to handle it. So...be careful.”

I rub my face. “I haven’t been...but I will be.”

The guys barrel back into the room, all armed with Yuenglings. Dylan hands me a pizza on a paper plate and squeezes in next to me.

Paul clicks around on the TV and brings up
Roadhouse
.

I turn to Dylan.

“I told them it was a great movie,” he says. “A horrible, great movie that they have to see.”