Red Blooded (22 page)

Epilogue

The February chill burns at our cheeks as we zigzag through Capitol Hill and park as out of the way as possible. You never know when an ambitious paparazzo will try to get a photo of Peylan. There were plenty of shots of us at the inauguration parties and even a few on one of my recent trips to Yale. But, fortunately, we aren’t nearly as popular as most of the couples who make their way into
US Weekly
. We should be okay, but tonight there’s no room for error. To be safe, we turn a few corners we don’t really need to turn before walking into the back entrance of an apartment building.

I use the key Representative Roberts sent me and soon we’re making our way up the stairs. Roberts isn’t the only congressman who has a studio apartment in the building, a home away from home, and it’s too likely we’d run into someone in the elevators. But if anyone does see us, we have a backup plan, supplied by my mom. She found out one of her trusted former staffers also lives here and, with her help, we know have a reasonable excuse for being here, just in case.

Finally, we’re knocking on his door. Mrs. Roberts opens it and beams at me. She ushers us in and peers out into the hallway more dramatically than is needed, but it makes me laugh. “We’re getting good at this covert stuff, aren’t we?” she says as she closes the door and presses her back to it firmly, as though she’s keeping intruders out.

“Yeah, we are. Thanks so much for having us, Mrs. Roberts.”

“Oh, hush, I told you to call me Kaylie,” she says as she brings me into a hug.

Representative Roberts pours two Scotches and hands one to Dylan. “And you can both call me Representative Roberts.”

We laugh as Kaylie looks to the ceiling and shakes her head. Honestly, though, calling him James doesn’t seem to fit.

Dylan’s about to take a sip when Roberts stops him. “This isn’t just any Scotch, it’s celebratory Scotch. Peyton told me you got an internship at the White House this summer.”

“That’s amazing,” Kaylie says. “Those are really hard to get.”

Dylan grins and shrugs. “Well, I know a guy...”

Roberts laughs. “First rule of politics, know the president of the United States.”

When I first came to dinner at the Roberts’, sneaking in through the back just by myself, I figured we’d be all polite and avoid political discussions. But, thankfully, that’s not the case, and usually Roberts or I make some small political quip that tumbles into a full-blown discussion on what exactly is wrong with America today. Surprisingly, we actually agree on a few things. But that isn’t nearly as fun as disagreeing. Especially now that Dylan’s here to chime in too.

After a heated debate about health care subsidies, Kaylie sighs.

“Okay, honey,” Roberts says as he helps himself to more mashed potatoes. “We’ll stop talking about politics.”

“There are other things in the world, you know,” she says.

“Really?” Dylan rubs his chin in confusion, which gets us all laughing.

“Well, for example, like young love,” Kaylie says, with a dramatic but sweet sweeping hand gesture. “You must be looking forward to being back in the same city.”

“You have no idea.” Dylan squeezes my hand. His touch still gets my muscles all wiggly. “But, some things are worth the wait.”

* * ***

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Turn the page for an excerpt from
HEARTSICK
by Caitlin Sinead, now available at all participating e-retailers.

Heartsick

by Caitlin Sinead

Of course I’d be the one at a frat party talking to a gay guy about how I don’t want to discuss my abstract art with his Sunday school class. If I was normal, I’d be slipping around on the beer-soaked floor while unfamiliar guys tried to curve their fingers around my hips. That’s what Mandy is doing.

But no, I’m explaining to Conrad why my latest art project is not an homage to Christ. “I know it looks like a circle and then a cross, but the red paint is meant—”

“Yes,” Conrad says. “The circle of life. Rejuvenation. Redemption. Reincarnation. Christ and the blood he gave for us. It was very moving.”

I am in no way shocked. Conrad disappointed his good-ol’-boy father when he came out. He disappointed his Baptist mother when he joined the Unitarian Universalist church. But he never disappoints God.

“Finding meaning in art is like finding meaning in life,” he continues. “It’s like finding God.”

Yes, Conrad, I got it. You. God. Besties.

I sigh into my beer. “It’s actually the symbol for O positive. People with that blood type can give to all positive blood types, but can’t accept that blood in return. And they can’t help their only outside donor, O negative. It’s made out of razors to symbolize how people bleed to help others, even those who can’t help them.”

Conrad scratches his temple.

“Um, okay, Quinn. Yeah. That’s a really neat idea too.”

He’s just being polite. I don’t mind that one iota.

As I take another sip of liquid that passes for an alcoholic beverage, Conrad nods to the mash of riled-up private parts attached to students on the dance floor.

“Looks like your freshman is having a good time,” he says.

“Yeah.” I smile. “I think he’s going to be okay.”

Danny is my adorable art department mentee. I’ve been on mentor overdrive because he had the misfortune, along with, oh, 20 percent of the school, of attending that party, the one in late August that no one likes to talk about. Though whispering about it, apparently, is just fine.

Some kids could shrug it off, but not Danny. The Monday after it happened, he shrunk into the corner of the art studio, elbows on his knees, like an old doll that was tossed and forgotten. As I knelt next to him, producing an expert mix of sensitively timed nods and distracting dirty jokes, my legs lost circulation. But it was worth it. He came around.

Now he’s living it up, swaying rather racily with a girl in my dance troupe. He even has a diaper covering his black hair. Yes. The frat pledges have to wear diapers.

Mandy jives her hips near him, smiling that sly smile—the one that means she knows she’s in control—as another diapered guy slides his fingers up and down the fabric of her dress.

Conrad taps my shoulder. “Why aren’t you out there getting your groove on?” He has a knack for using the corniest applicable sayings in any given situation. It might be my favorite thing about him.

I shrug. “Don’t feel much like dancing.”

“Or...” Conrad tilts his head. “Is it because you have only one man on your mind?”

I cannot raise my eyebrow high enough. “You know me better than that.”

Conrad grins. “Maybe this is the year you decide to settle down?” His eyes narrow. “Rashid’s a great guy.”

“I know, I know.” That’s part of the problem. It’s practically a fact: Rashid—nicest guy on campus. Hell, sweetest guy in the whole commonwealth of Virginia.

A couple days ago, as we walked home after grabbing a drink, leaves shivered in the cooling air and the sky grew darker. Heavy raindrops fell on Rashid and me as we pummeled through puddles to get back to my house. He studied me as I wrung out my hair on the porch. I watched the water creep between the crevices of the boards. His wet fingers glided along my damp cheeks. His pelvis pressed against my belly. He held on to my waist as he brought his mouth to mine.

I try to forget about how good that felt and concentrate on what Conrad is saying. Except he just continues to extol Rashid’s virtues. “...and he’s smart. Like genius smart.”

Like genius smart.

“Nothing is going on between us. It was a one-time thing.” I say it flatly, my palm doing a slow-motion karate chop in the air. You know, to show I’m serious. “It was nothing.”

Conrad crosses his arms and frowns. Disapproval crashes over his face. “It wasn’t nothing to him.”

Fortunately, I don’t have to respond to that. A piercing female voice penetrates the hip-hop slamming through the speakers. The yell isn’t a fun “whooeee” kind of a yell, it’s an “I’ll cut you, bitch” kind of yell.

Natalie.

Her face burns red as she thrusts her fist in the air next to Danny’s head. He backs away, taking the diaper off his head and holding it at his chest with both hands as though he’s at a funeral.

He is paying respect to the dead.

Respect or no, Natalie’s rants against him continue. “You just let him leave! You let him walk out the door with the keys.”

The distance between them shrinks and the others around them are repelled, oozing out from the volatile middle. But they don’t go too far. They want to see this shit. A few pull out their phones to record whatever is about to go down. Knowing Natalie, it’ll be a show.

Danny looks at the ground and murmurs, “I’ve told you, I didn’t realize he was driving. I’m sorry.”

I sigh and turn to Conrad.

He nods. “We all need saving sometimes.”

I dash into the circle of people on the dance floor. “Natalie,” I say, and her hair seems to swish in slow motion as her heated eyes land on me. I hold my hands out and open my mouth, but nothing is there.

“You were there too,” she says. Despite all the logical things I had said to Danny, guilt still burns in my muscles. Yes, I was also at the party, the one people only whisper about. Unless you’re Natalie—then you shout about it. She tenses her fists. “You could have stopped him.”

“Natalie, I know nothing I can say can make up for your loss, but you—”

“No, it can’t,” she says, rolling her shoulders back and crossing her arms. Waiting for me to try anyway. But my breath is gone. I purse my mouth and take a step back. I bump into Mandy, who has been behind me the whole time. Of course. She’s always got my back.

“Look—” Mandy swipes around me and zeroes in on Natalie, “—Josh shouldn’t have driven that night. We’re all sorry he hit your sister, and if you want to find out wherever the fuck he is now and go yell at him, do that. But leave the rest of us alone.”

Natalie breathes in and holds it. No one speaks or coughs or so much as squeaks their shoes against the floor. We ignore the song bellowing encouragement for everyone to pick out a sex buddy.

Finally, Natalie speaks. “You come here for a few years and think you own the town. But all you do is ruin it. You ruin us.”

Cheers burst from the townie contingent of the crowd. Perhaps none of them realize they are, in fact, at a Poe University frat party.

Mandy leans in. “Poe didn’t kill Lynn. You need to deal with that.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to deal with.” Natalie grabs Mandy’s wrist.

Not the wrist. Not the wrist.

“Come on, Mandy,” I say, bursting forward. “Let’s just go.”

Mandy stares at Natalie, but she pulls her wrist free and walks toward me. No one but me understands how hard that must have been for her.

Natalie pushes the issue. “You all share some blame. And this guy—” she points at Danny, “—took shots with him.”

Danny’s dark brows pucker on his otherwise slack face. “We thought he was walking home...” he says, the words limping along.

“Danny,” I whisper. He looks at me, but shakes his head. Mandy is already turned toward the door. I follow.

Natalie’s voice rises behind us, like she’s the victorious one. “Yeah, get out of here, and take this spic with you.”

Way. Too. Far.

I swish around just in time to see Danny’s crumpled, hurt face. Mandy blows by me to get to Natalie. She raises her hand and unleashes a slap that ricochets along the frat’s walls.

I rarely condone violence. Okay, I don’t condone violence. But a speck of warm pleasure hits me as the red blossoms across Natalie’s cheek.

But then, dammit, tears glisten along the rims of her eyes. I scrunch my face and look to the floor, focusing on the splashes of beer and chunks of mud here and there. I shake myself and tug on Mandy’s hand and whisper our mantra, “Don’t be afraid.” But it’s hard to speak loud enough to overcome the applause. Yes, people actually clap. Natalie has been on her tiring tirade for weeks.

As Natalie recovers, she lunges toward Mandy. A brother grabs Natalie’s arms, holding her back. My mind fumbles for ways to mediate this when the frat president motions to some guys.

That’s how Mandy gets escorted out.

It makes sense to pick Mandy. Politically, what frat president wants to kick out the grieving townie sister of the dead girl? Even if she is a racist. There’s already enough tension between college kids and Allan kids.

Mandy squirms away from the brothers as they take her toward the door. “At least let me finish my beer.”

“You need to leave now,” one brother says. Not as a directive. It’s just sound advice.

She smacks her red Solo cup into my free hand. “Drink this. I’ll meet you outside.”

I check on Danny first, but he’s good, surrounded by his pledge brothers. I look in the drink. I don’t want it. But Mandy stares at me as she’s pulled away. It’s the principle of the thing. So I take a big swig so she can see. But once she’s out the door, I set both our not-quite-empty cups on the counter.

As I follow Mandy into the cool September night, I rub my rosy pink flats against the grass. They’re sullied from the disgusting swirl of swill that pools on frat floors. We journey down a back road toward a much more civilized arena—the row of bars along Main Street, the height of the thriving, or not so thriving, social life in Allan. We crush over the pine needles until we get to the brick walkway. “Let’s just go to Sally’s,” I say.

Mandy rubs her eyes vigorously.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, my eyes just feel sort of, I don’t know, weird.”

I pull some eye drops from my purse.

Mandy looks to the sky and squeezes the liquid into her eyes. When she hands the drops back, her hazel irises look violet next to the purple stones on her necklace. Light rays can achieve mischievous feats.

“I shouldn’t have slapped her.” She circles her fingers around her wrist and whispers, “But I had to.”

“I know.”

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HEARTSICK
by Caitlin Sinead.
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Copyright © 2014 by Caitlin Sinead Jennings