Red Blooded

by Caitlin Sinead

  I laugh. “Are you capable of making a nonsexual analogy in conversation?”

  “I’m sure I’m capable, I just think it might hurt the first time I tried, you know? Unless the conversation was already flowing and nicely lubricated,” he says.

  It’s just like Tristan to get me smiling, even when the world is otherwise crashing down around me.

  When the cab pulls up to Reagan National Airport, I’m glad there aren’t reporters around. They would have had to know my schedule, which, I’m guessing, wasn’t released. So, why does Dylan even have to meet me?

  But there he is, holding on to a black rolling suitcase as he stares glumly into the traffic. I get out and rush toward him. I’m not sure why I rush.

  “Dylan.” I expect his expression to brighten when he sees me. But, if anything, when his eyes absorb me, they grow darker.

  He hands me a ticket and turns to go inside. As we walk, he talks, hurried and hushed. “Don’t say anything to anyone. If you want a soda, I’ll get it for you. If someone asks for directions, I’ll tell them. You don’t speak to anyone until we get you to Lisa and Bain, understand?”

  “Yes,” I say as my flip-flops try to keep pace with his sleek, black shoes. I don’t want to meet his gaze. I don’t want to see the frustration in his eyes. I don’t want to see the darkness and the creases that mean he’s disappointed in me.

  “Peyton!” a voice rings out, and I instinctively swirl to meet it.

  A woman rushes up to me holding out her phone. “Hi, Peyton, Jane Patel from the Washington Post. Can I ask you a few questions before your flight?”

  “No, I—”

  Dylan’s hand comes down on my shoulder and he squeezes gently. “Peyton’s not answering any questions now,” he says, stiff and cold. His hand glides down my spine until his fingers push against the small of my back, telling me to keep moving forward.

  We pick up the pace and walk faster, his hand never leaving me.

  “Peyton, do you really think Richard Arthur may not be your father?” The reporter yells as she scrambles after us.

  My heart races and I don’t know why. It’s not the reporter. It’s Dylan’s hand, which burns into me as we rush along.

  We win this race as we veer into the first-class lounge.

  Dylan runs his hands through his hair. “I told you not to say anything.”

  “I was about to tell her I couldn’t answer questions,” I say.

  “When you say it, you look like you’re avoiding questions. When I say it, you look like you’re doing what your handler is telling you to do. The latter looks better. Get it?”

  “So, I’m just a mute puppet being pushed around?” Heat swells in my chest. Fine, it makes sense to me. But I don’t like it.

  “I’m sorry, Peyton,” he says in a softer tone. “But, yeah, sometimes that’s the right move.”

  We plop onto a couch, propping up our luggage near a TV. Vulp commentators can’t trip over themselves enough to say my name. But they seem to have moved on from the shock of the revelation that I searched Google for info on genetics and are now interested in the kissy footage. Or, I’m sorry, they’re discussing how they’re not interested in it.

  A commentator stands in front of a big screen of me and Tristan pecking away, again and again, in repeat. “Because of the detailed accounts of Peyton in Richard Arthur’s bestselling book, The Troubling Transition, on some level Peyton feels like America’s collective daughter. So we want to know who this mystery man is. TMZ has released a few theories and all you have to do is use the hashtag #PeytonMysteryMan on Twitter to see people demanding he comes forward.”

  Dylan stares at me, jaw tense. The darkness in his eyes takes on urgency. “It was Tristan, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling bristly for no apparent reason. Why does he say it like it’s an accusation?

  “Do you think he’ll try to get attention for this?” Dylan asks.

  “No, he won’t,” I whisper, hand out flat. “He’s not like that. He’s my best friend.”

  Dylan blinks a couple times and grips the edge of his bag harder before he looks back at the screen.

  “But,” the commentator continues, “others are saying all this attention on the video is unfair. Peyton is a young woman. Certainly she’s entitled to her privacy. Certainly she can use strong language to ask someone to back off. And is it so scandalous for an 18-year-old to kiss someone at a party? Perhaps we should just leave this part of her life alone.”

  As he says all this, the video continues to play over and over: Peck. Peck. Peck. Slaps against my mind.

  Finally, they turn back to talking about whether or not my dad is my dad. They show pictures of him at my age. Pictures of us together. Pictures of him before he died.

  I pull at the threads along my sweater, wrapping them around my fingers as I watch. Dylan leans over. “It’s okay, we’ll figure this out.” He eyes me like I’m a Rubik’s Cube. “Maybe we should go for a walk or something, get away from this.” He points his thumb to the TV.

  “And risk running into a reporter again?”

  He scratches his chin, then pulls out headphones. “What kind of music do you listen to?”

  “I like lots of stuff, but I’m sort of on this bluegrass kick lately.”

  He raises his eyebrows, but I’m thankful for those skeptical eyes. Give me skeptical over disappointed any day.

  “What? It’s good,” I say. “People in California don’t appreciate bluegrass?”

  He releases his side grin. “Some do.”

  We’re listening to the smooth renditions of Greensky Bluegrass when the video pops up again. Me kissing Tristan, over and over.

  I turn away. Dylan jerks out his earbuds and jolts up. He strides a few steps to the front desk.

  “Can we turn the TV off for about fifteen minutes?”

  “Sir, the TV is for all first-class customers. I—”

  “Look.” Dylan clutches the desk. “It’s really upsetting my friend, and even if she wears headphones she can still see everything, so can you turn it off?”

  The man stands up. “I’m very sorry that it is affecting your friend, but most of our guests enjoy watching the news, and it’s a little presumptuous that—”

  I jump up and grab Dylan’s arm. “It’s okay, really.”

  Dylan’s knuckles tighten on the counter, his muscles tense under my fingers. “No one else is paying attention. He can turn it off for fifteen minutes.”

  Dylan glares at the man, who doesn’t notice because he’s busy taking me in. He coughs into his wrist and blinks. “Of course. Perhaps we could change it to CNNMoney until your flight is ready to board?”

  “That would be great, thanks.” Anger still echoes in Dylan’s voice.

  We enjoy fifteen minutes of bluegrass sans the video of me kissing Tristan before it’s time to board. As I settle into my window seat, I lean over to Dylan. “Why were you so mad?”

  “What?” Per usual, he’s rather absorbed in some political article on his tablet.

  “Back there, with the guy. You were really angry.”

  Dylan does that thing again where he squints into the distance. “So, only Peyton Arthur is allowed to respond emotionally to things. I’ll take note of that.” He smiles, one of his smiles that I can feel in my knees. “We’re all passionate in our own ways, Squib.”

  “Of course we are, it’s just that you seemed really upset.”

  He looks at me like he’s trying to figure something out. Finally, he sighs. “I was in charge of the PR around an upcoming fundraiser. I met with reporters, I organized all the logistics and I even got a chance to have drinks with a new executive at a top PR firm to get advice on our strategy. Everything was going really well, until they pulled me off of it to...”

  H
is hard stare is easy to read. “Instead of running something important and gaining experience, you’re just looking after the VP pick’s fuckup kid.” My cheeks hurt. I hate that I want to cry. “I’m sorry you have to be here.”

  His face goes soft. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not.” The heat rises in my tense cheeks as they burn with the effort not to cry, because me crying would make all this even worse. I turn to the window.

  He touches my shoulder and my muscles go warm and wiggly. “Peyton, please, look at me.”

  I sigh and turn back. His eyes crease. “I shouldn’t have unloaded on you like that, it was unprofessional. I’m sorry. And it’s not a big deal. It was just one event. I’m sure they’ll let me lead another project soon.”

  I force a small smile. “Yeah, I’m sure they will.”

  Chapter Nine

  Peyton hated when I went on research trips for my books. But I’d become known for covering regional subcultures, and it’s hard to research regional subcultures without actually going to those regions.

  Still, whenever I left, she cried and wrapped her hands around my leg, holding on a lot tighter than you’d think a three-year-old could. I walked and groaned and lamented. “Why am I having trouble walking? Usually I walk fine, but today...” I’d say, picking my child-wrapped leg up with no little amount of effort. “It feels like something’s holding me back.”

  She’d laugh into my knee, mixing giggles and tears on my cotton pants.

  * * *

  As soon as we get to headquarters, they tell us to wait in the boardroom. I’m too jumpy and itchy to wait, but Dylan sits quietly, so I try. I sit down, touching the glass on the table. I make smudge marks. I put my hands in my lap and ignore them.

  Lisa flaps the door open, bursting into the boardroom. She sighs at the sight of me.

  “Lisa, I’m so sorry, I had no idea they were recording me. I mean, a hidden camera? I didn’t realize I was in a spy movie.” I tweak my lips up into a can-we-see-the-humor-in-this-yet? smile.

  There’s no humor to be had. She crosses her arms and stares at me. Death rays are coming from her eyes. “Seriously, you didn’t realize that people have phones with recording devices?”

  Dylan frowns at the glass, and I swallow back any other jokes I was going to make along with anything that was left of my pride.

  “Peyton, you wait here. Bain is going to handle you,” Lisa says. I’m starting to hate the word handle. “Dylan, I need to speak with you.” She turns to leave.

  He pauses, watching me.

  “Now, Dylan,” Lisa calls from the hallway. He pivots and follows her.

  I don’t want to cause any more trouble, but twenty minutes swim by and I really have to pee. So I get up and walk down the hall. It’s like a maze in here, but, finally, at last, I find the bathroom. Relief.

  As I walk back, I hear my mom’s voice coming from around the corner. It’s soft. She’s whispering. I edge closer, toe to heel on the soft carpet, gingerly rolling my feet to keep as quiet as possible.

  “I’ll tell her the truth at some point, but she’s dealing with so much right now, between the election and—”

  A man cuts her off. “Look, I won’t fucking tell you how to handle fucking family secrets.” Even if I didn’t recognize the voice, which I do, the liberal sprinkling of the word fuck gives Bain away. Oh, and handle. He likes that word. Maybe that’s why I hate it.

  But what was he saying about family secrets? I lean close to the wall, trying desperately to hear around the corner.

  “However,” Bain continues, “if she knew the truth, then she’d at least know enough to fucking play along, right? Her fucking curiosity would stop running wild.”

  “No,” my mom responds with sharp whispers. “She’s too genuine. She wouldn’t know how to keep that in. If she finds out Richard wasn’t her biological father, it will break her.”

  What? My lungs decide they can’t work anymore, and running my sweaty palms against my face does nothing to calm me down. I bend over, calming my trembling hands on my quaking knees and forcing the air in and out, like I just got hit in the stomach with a soccer ball. And that’s how I feel. Knocked out.

  “I can’t tell her that now,” my mom continues. “She’s not a good enough actress.”

  Bain sighs. “You’re probably right. But I don’t want her looking up information about genetics and telling people she thinks there’s something to this. That’s got to fucking stop.”

  But there is something to it. He just said so. My mom just said so. My dad isn’t my biological dad. My mom has been lying to me for my entire life. Was she lying to my dad too?

  And now my lungs work overtime. My body feels like one of those squirmy, slowly wiggling bridges you see in earthquake videos.

  “And it will stop,” my mom promises. No, she pleads.

  “Yeah, it will. I’m making sure of that. She isn’t going to like our plan, but tough fucking cookies.”

  The world gets a smidge spiny, so it takes me a second to realize the “tough fucking cookies” sounded different. Bain moved. He’s walking toward the corner. The increasingly loud clicking of my mom’s shoes are a clearer signal: they’re headed my way.

  I swirl around and dash. The voices come fast. Bain’s continued liberal sprinklings of fuck nip at my heels. There’s a clunk, like a pen dropping hard on the floor. The footsteps stop. Mine keep going, racing down the hall as quietly as I can. Thank god I wore ballet flats, not heels, and my section of the hallway has carpet.

  I make it down the hallway and run into the boardroom. I stand behind the table, trying to calm my breaths from my massive sprint. It takes me several seconds to get the world to focus right.

  My dad isn’t my dad.

  My dad isn’t my dad.

  It churns in my mind.

  Bain bursts in. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  It comes out of me the way sparks burst and flurry when you throw another log on the fire: “You can’t fucking talk to me like that.”

  As my blood boils, my mom walks in behind Bain with her hands out, palms to the floor. “Why don’t we all try to refrain from cursing and discuss this like adults?”

  I swallow. I want to talk about my dad, but what am I supposed to say? And what if my mom keeps lying to me? Could I handle it?

  Bain throws down his legendary legal pad and runs his hands over his short, clipped hair. “I thought I told you not to hang out with that f—...that Tristan kid.”

  “You can’t keep me from—”

  “Wait, Peyton,” my mom says, before staring at Bain with hard eyes. “You said what?”

  Bain tilts his head. “What are you talking about? I didn’t say fuck.”

  My mom sighs and folds her arms. “You told Peyton to stop hanging out with Tristan?”

  I want to jump in, but it’s better to let it unravel naturally. I cross my arms too.

  “Look, I’m not judging you for letting her hang out with someone like that. Fine, whatever. But the more she hangs out with him, the more likely some reporter looking for a fresh story is going to dig into Peyton’s and his past. And it won’t take them long to find out he’s a whor—” Bain pauses and looks at me. “That he’s up for doing whatever to almost anyone. And sometimes he gets paid for it. America isn’t going to understand.”

  “Peyton supports Tristan because he’s her friend. And there are reasonable arguments for legalizing prostitution. It’s not as radical as it once was. We could certainly defend my daughter being friends with someone who has those beliefs.” Her fingers curl neatly over the back of a chair, her focus never wavering. Bain huffs and looks to the ceiling. “Sure, we could. But why, when we don’t have to? It would be fucking distracting, and no matter how much you may want to get on
your proud, progressive pedestal, it’s going to sully Peyton, and it’s going to sully you. If she just stays the fuck away from him, we won’t need to waste resources on it.”

  Bain doesn’t exactly back down in front of my mom, but I can tell by the way he flips his pen in his hands he doesn’t love fighting her on this.

  “Tristan has been a good friend to Peyton, and she needs good friends now more than ever. I won’t have you telling her she has to cut off an important support system.”

  I want to jump over the boardroom table and hug my mom—but then I remember that she’s lying to me about my dad.

  One problem at a time. My heart and blood and the cells spinning in my brain can only handle one problem at a time.

  Bain’s lower jaw shifts around and finally he twists a little, like he’s kicking the dirt, except it’s not dirt. It’s corporate carpet. “Fine, but I’ll have someone put together some statements so we’re prepared if it does get out. And, if it does,” he points at me like he’s aiming for me. “You need to behave, okay? We’ve taken enough of a hit when you dropped the F-bomb.” He says it like he never, ever, in a zillion years would dare to drop the F-bomb. “If this Tristan shit gets out, you were just supporting a friend and you’re trying to get him to stop. That’s how we’ll spin it. Because America’s sweetheart does not support prostitution.”

  “I’m not America’s sw—”

  “Honey, in my fucking media world you are.” Bain puts both palms on the glass table as he stares me down. “It works for us. Don’t fight it. Especially seeing how right now you aren’t exactly an asset to this campaign.”

  Yeah, I’m not. My stomach hurts and I swallow. “I’m really sorry about last night.” I say it more to the table than to Bain. My smudge marks are still there.

  “Yeah, well, the good news is, it isn’t going to happen again.”

  “No, it won’t. I promise.” I also curl my fingers over the back of a chair, but somehow the move lacks the elegance my mom graces it with.

  “Yeah, it won’t,” Bain says. “Because Dylan’s going to be with you round the clock till after the election.”