Red Blooded (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“
Do you think I should try to go to Yale
,
like Mom and Victoria did?
”
Peyton asked me the other day.

“
You should go where you want to go.
”

She nodded.
“
The thing is
,
I
don’t know where that is.
”

“
When you get a little older
,
you’ll visit colleges and you’ll find one you like
,”
I
said.

She approached the bed and chipped at the wood on the post before wrapping both hands around it.
“
I
want you to take me places.
”

I
rubbed the comforter.
Even the task of getting up and going to the bathroom sounded tiring.
I
wasn’t in any position to take her on a cross-country college-hopping tour.
“
Peyton...
”

“
I
know you can’t go far
,”
she rushed on.
“
But maybe
,
some day
,
when you’re having a good day
,
we could go to Georgetown.
”

I
swallowed.
“
Okay
,
I
can do that.
”

* * *

When Dylan finishes putting my last book on the top shelf above my desk, and I finish pretending not to look at the glorious dents in his abs that reveal themselves each and every time he reaches up, we have an awkward moment.

“Well, I guess you’re all unpacked.”

“Guess I am.” I look at the floor. “Do you want to hang out, or something?”

“Well...”

“It’s just,” I say as I roll my left shoulder to the window. “From here I can only see what it might be like to actually go to a college party. I get it, you know.” I do this little woe-is-me twirl into my bed. I hold my wrist to my forehead. I might as well play it up. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t go out, and I don’t want to keep my friends from going out, and I have nothing to do here either. I’m stuck.”

Dylan walks over and looks down at me. “I could think of things we could do.” My face bursts on fire and I use my faux dramatic wrist to hide how absolutely brilliant red my skin must be. He makes a weird noise in his throat and runs both hands through his hair. “What I mean is we could work on some talking points or discuss policy issues or...”

My embarrassment is replaced by annoyance. Despite my frown, he keeps rambling. “...we could practice that pizzeria smile Lisa wants you to use or go over some possible pitfalls or...”

I karate chop the air. “Enough.”

“What?” he asks. “I thought you wanted to work on being a better asset to the campaign.”

“I do,” I say. “But some nights don’t you just want to give your brain a break? Do you even know how to do that?” I raise my hands in the air in exasperation and leave them there because the stretch feels good. I’m a horizontal zombie.

“When I’m not responsible for making sure some 18-year-old girl stays in line, yeah, I can be fun.” He crosses his arms and frowns.

“Sorry,” I mumble to the ceiling.

He grabs my hand, his fingers warm, and pulls me up. “We can do anything you want, as long as we stay in here,” he says, pointing to the floor. “So, what do you want to do?”

Anything I want? That’s not quite true, but I still get an idea. “You’re 21, right?”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Yes.”

“Why don’t you go get yourself—only yourself, of course—some beer and bring it back? We can play a drinking game. I’ll have water, obviously,” I say.

“Obviously.” He smiles. But he doesn’t move.

“Come on, Dylan, what did you do your first night at Yale?” I put my hand on my hip.

“I went to bed at 8:00 p.m. so I could be fresh for classes, after kissing a picture of my mom, saying three Hail Marys and donating to a cute puppy charity, of course.”

I stare at him until his dimple cracks and he grabs his wallet. “What kind?”

“Port City, if they have it?”

“You know, no reporters are going to know your beer preference. You don’t have to pick the only brewery in Alexandria.”

“I like it, okay?” I smile as he closes the door. That was a lot easier than I thought.

* * *

When he gets back, we sit across from each other on the floor as he reaches into his bag and uncaps a beer. He hands it to me and gets another for himself. “So, what game do you want to play?”

“Kings.” I spread the cards in a circle before he can decide maybe he doesn’t want to play kings.

In a two-person game of kings, things can get a little boring, as a few cards mean only one of us will drink. But finally we get to a good one. A Jack. The “never have I ever” card. I rub my finger along the card as I think. When I play with my friends, we usually start with something we did. Pretty much all the salacious things I’ve done are tied to Tristan, though, which doesn’t feel right to bring up. So, I keep it tame. “Never have I ever waited to be picked up in the departure area of an airport because I thought, well I’m
departing
the airport.”

We stare at each other. He doesn’t move.

“Really, just me?” I shrug and drink as he laughs. “Okay, I got a good one for you.”

“Bring it,” he says.

“Never have I ever resented a girl named Peyton for ruining my career.”

He shakes his bottle. “I’m getting thirsty over here.”

I smile. Sure, that was blatant fishing, but I needed to know it. He doesn’t resent me, or at least he won’t admit it. Maybe I’ll try another round of blatant fishing for my finale.

“Never have I ever wanted to be with someone, but couldn’t because it would be bad for a campaign.” I bring my beer up to my lips slowly, feeling the glass touch my lips as Dylan raises his bottle. We drink together, with locked eyes.

My stomach flips. Suddenly, it’s rather hot in here. I take off my cardigan and put it on the floor next to us.

“What’s this?” He runs his fingers along the strands of cloth pinned to the inside of my cardigan.

I unpin it carefully and hold it up to him. Three tiny pieces of cloth weave together in an infinity symbol. “This white cloth is from my mother’s wedding dress. The pink cloth is from my baby blanket. This black cloth is from the suit my dad wore when they got married.”

He squints at it. “That’s...nice.”

“My mom gave it to me after he died. She said if I kept it with me, it would be like our family was always together, even when we’re not. So I pin it inside my clothes or have it in my pocket.”

His eyes get wide and excited as he reaches for his phone. “That’s a great story, really humanizes your mom. We can use that. Maybe in a TV spot or speech or—”

I frantically grab his phone. “No, this is mine.”

“What?”

I sigh. “You know my dad wrote a book about dying, right? He wrote about me and all the things we did while I was growing up.”

“Yeah, of course I know that,” Dylan says.

“I don’t blame my dad for writing the book. We talked about it. I gave him permission. He needed to do it. But, as a result, hardly anything we have together is private, or sacred. This—” I hold up the pin, just a small silver safety pin with a few strings of cloth, “—is one of the few important memories I have of my parents that everyone doesn’t know. Do you get it? No one knows about this. Not even Tristan or Annie. I like it that way, okay?”

“Then why did you tell me about it?”

I look away and run my thumb along my lower lip. Why the fuck
did
I tell him?

“Well, you asked,” I say, feebly. It’s harder to breathe than it should be. “But, keep it between us, okay?”

He passes the cardigan and pin back to me. “Between us.”

Chapter Seventeen

Peyton was only ten when Jen first ran for the senate.

She got why Jen wasn’t around as much
,
and she held it with surprising grace
,
given her age.
To balance things
,
I
stopped taking writing assignments outside of my existing contracts so I could have more time with Peyton.
While Jen met union leaders and attended fundraisers
,
I
made every soccer game and band concert.
While Jen traveled to remote Virginia counties
,
I
listened to Peyton practice the flute and made her pancakes for dinner.

“
You okay with Mom being gone this much?
”
I
asked Peyton as we sat by the fire pit in our backyard listening to the summer crickets chirp.

She rested her chin in her hands.
“
I
miss her
,
but I understand.
”

“
She loves you very much.
”

Peyton looked up.
“
And she loves you too
,
Dad.
”

* * *

I thought college classes would be fun. But no.

In Anthropology, 200 students steal glances at me. I find it hard to comprehend that I’m more interesting than widows climbing onto burning pyres and men who fit bones in their noses, but somehow, I am. I’m more exotic than a man donned in red paint, or the woman who can carry gallons of water on her head. Look, no hands!

In Calculus, the teacher throws out questions, three landing on me, even though many students didn’t receive a question at all.

But Intro to Public Policy is the worst, of course. The professor sniffs and laughs and snorts about the election. He rocks on his feet, hands behind his back, as he says some people think it’s a sport—the electorate is the audience, Romans surrounding a bloody stage, thumbs up and thumbs down, boos or yays. It’s all for their enjoyment. The election is for our entertainment, as are the players.

“But the election isn’t a game, it’s not a sport,” he says, rubbing his palms as he paces in the front of the room with springy, excited steps. He stops and nails his gaze on me. “Isn’t that right, Miss Arthur?”

I open my mouth. It feels like cotton balls have been living among my saliva. I cough. “Of course, it’s not a game. Many important issues are at stake.”

Dylan is unperturbed by all these events. He sits next to me, gliding along with his tablet.

Yes, my babysitter has to come with me to class. Bain had someone call each of my professors and explain the situation. I wonder how that went. “We’re afraid Peyton is going to throw the election by answering a question in your class, so we need her handler to be there.”

I know what I did to earn such mistrust, but I still resent it. And all this attention and unease makes me tired. And hungry.

So at Leo’s, the dining hall, I’m ready to experience Georgetown’s fine food and finally see friendly faces. I slop the serving spoon around in the soup before taking a big, drippy portion and plunking it into my bowl.

“Tomato basil?” Annie asks, tray in hand. “Remember when your dad used to make that for us on rainy days?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking about.” I plop one more ladleful for good measure, pick up my tray and stare at the soup. Annie knew my dad, of course. Would she know something that could help me? I trust her, I do. But she trusts other people too. She told Lindsey Shaffer that I slept with Tristan. And Lindsey proceeded to let it slip at a party when she swallowed too many Jell-O shots. I get it. Lindsey is Annie’s best friend from high school, and not a malicious kind of girl. But it would be too risky to talk to Annie about my dad.

“Tristan’s over there.” She nudges at a table. Tristan waves. I look over my shoulder at Dylan, but he’s busy getting some green beans. Oh well, he’ll find us.

We walk over and plunk our trays down. “So, how was last night?” Tristan asks with wiggling eyebrows.

“You did something last night?” Annie asks.

“I told you, even with a babysitter, the campaign thought it was too risky. There were too many reporters covering the ‘Peyton becomes a college student’ story. It won’t be a story in a few days, and then I’ll be able to emerge, so to speak.” I push some soup into my mouth so I don’t have to explain any more.

“That sucks.” Annie shrugs. “But I guess it makes sense.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Tristan says, leaning over his salad.

I hold the spoon in midair. “What?”

“Dylan is hot. And he has to be by your side all the time. Why aren’t you making the most of things?”

My skin heats up as Dylan comes over and slides into the seat next to me.

“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” I say softly to Tristan.

“Seems like a great idea to me,” Tristan says, his grin slipping across his face.

Dylan puts his napkin in his lap and dives into his mashed potatoes.

I shake my head and stuff more pureed tomato into my mouth.

Tristan takes a different approach. “So, Dylan, any girl or guy back home who’s missing you?”

Dylan stares at him like Tristan had just asked him if he preferred vacationing in the Dead Marshes or the Fire Swamp.

“I haven’t been back to San Jose since Governor Ruiz started his campaign.” Dylan puts his left forearm on the table and props his right elbow as he eats. “He needs me on the trail.”

“This is the trail?” Tristan asks.

Dylan’s jaw stiffens and he stares past Tristan. “So maybe this wasn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing, especially given how hard I’ve worked...” He closes his eyes and says it with finality: “I do what they need me to do to help us win.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, running my thumb along my spoon.

At the same time Tristan says, “What are you sorry for?” Dylan overlaps with, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

They glare at each other.

“Anyway,” Tristan points a fork at Dylan. “What about Yale? Is there a girl or guy there?”

Dylan continues munching. In no rush to rejoin the conversation, he looks at me. Whoops, I’ve been staring. I examine the swirls of tomatoes in my soup.

“No girl. No guy.” Dylan takes another bite. Matter over.

“Well then, you should come to my party this Saturday.” Tristan says. “I mean, with Peyton, of course. Well, not
with
Peyton. Or...maybe it will be
with
Peyton.”

Oh. My. God.

I kick Tristan under the table.

Tristan kicks me back, and I groan. Annie giggles, but I can’t blame her. This is all a bit of a shit show.

Dylan scratches his chin and shifts in his seat. “We’ll have to see what the press situation is like on Saturday.” He goes back to his mashed potatoes.

“Okay, but keep in mind that this is my party, so it’s a private party. You know what, I won’t even let anyone in unless I personally know that they aren’t douches. Unlike that skank, Cheryl, who just let whoever the hell walk in her door.”

“She’s not a skank,” I say, because Cheryl isn’t. “She’s just too nice to say no to anyone, including Jim.”

“Skank, no backbone, same thing,” Tristan says.

Annie laughs. “I’m not sure you’re allowed to call someone else a skank.”

Tristan and I laugh too, but Dylan doesn’t join in.