Red Blooded

by Caitlin Sinead

  “Looks crowded,” Dylan says. We get inside and climb the smooth stairs with backlights behind fake, stylish plants and corporate art. As we enter the bustle, a couple of guys by the fridge point at me. They’ve ingested too much alcohol to be subtle with their loud, slurred “whispers.”

  “Wouldn’t it be awesome to plow the future Veep’s daughter?”

  It clinks against my eardrum, crystal clear. I chance a glance at Dylan, hoping we can share a laugh, make it a joke. He clenches his fists and stares at them.

  I stand on my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear. “Don’t get all overprotective on me.”

  His eyes get a little softer as he turns to me. “So we just let them get away with disrespecting you like that?”

  “Don’t worry, my honor is doing just dandy,” I say. “Let me have some fun tonight.”

  After he does this masculine shake, presumably to un-tense his muscles, he lets me push him along, into the pits of the party. A bare-chested guy with sparkly glitter all over his skin (sparkles and loose wardrobe protocol are both regular features at Tristan’s parties) jostles by me, pushing me into Dylan. He catches me, and I put my hand on his chest to steady myself. But even once I know my feet are properly under me, I don’t step back. He stares at me, lips parted.

  “Peyton, get over here.” Tristan grabs my hand, pulling me deep within the swarm of bodies. Dylan’s fingers slide along my arms, letting me go.

  “Welcome to my condominium,” Tristan says, leaning into me with a leer. “You know how condominium is spelled, right?”

  I raise my eyebrow and try to suppress a smile.

  “Condom in. I. You...mmm,” he says, enveloping me in a bear hug that comes complete with a little splash of his beer.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say.

  He pulls back, a more somber expression casts a shadow on his face. “Let’s get you a drink. I’m sure you need it.”

  He goes to the keg on the porch and shoos away a couple guys in line. “Peyton Arthur needs a drink, so you guys can step aside.”

  My jaw drops and my hands spring up. “No, no, please, I can wait in line.” I say it flustered and earnest, but the guys peel away anyway, allowing Tristan to pour me a cup. He hands it to me and pulls on my hand again.

  He draws me through the party so fast we lose Dylan. I look over my shoulder, scouring the mass of people for his tall, dark figure, but I got nothing. My eyes dart between dancers, making-outers, taking-shot-ers, and a few other bare-chested sparkly boys. Solo cups randomly spring up in impromptu cheers.

  But no Dylan.

  Wait, isn’t this a good thing? It’s the perfect time to talk to Tristan about what he thinks of all this paternity stuff. And, more important, what he remembers. “Tristan, is there somewhere we can talk?”

  His lips spread into a slim smile and his eyelashes fall over desirous eyes. He has no idea what I want.

  “I actually do want to talk, and in private,” I say.

  “Of course,” he says. “My bedroom is over here.”

  It takes us a while to get back through the crowd and, in that swarm and sea of people, Dylan appears. “Peyton.” His chest rises and falls faster than it should. “You can’t just run off.”

  Tristan raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, as though he’ll say something, but in the end he just smirks.

  “Sorry,” I say. Tristan’s still pulling me. “I’m just going to talk to Tristan for a little bit.”

  “Okay,” Dylan says, following. Shit, I can’t ask Tristan about my parents in front of Dylan. Maybe I have to play along at the whole romantic angle. As though on cue, Tristan plays his role perfectly. His hand swerves to the small of my back and he gently pushes me.

  But then another hand grabs my open one. Warm and strong. Dylan looks at me, eyes dark, then he looks at our hands, his palm in mine. He lets go. “I need to know where you are, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know. But look, I’ll just be in Tristan’s room for a second.”

  Tristan laughs. “Don’t have much faith in me, do you?”

  He’s so wiggly with his eyebrows. I turn back to Dylan. His eyes are still on me, but something in his shoulders has shrunk.

  “I’ll just be a second. I want to ask him something.”

  Dylan stiffens. Shit. That was not the right thing to say.

  “I mean...look, whatever we do in there isn’t your business,” I say, more forcefully than I intended, partly because I have to shout over the speakers, the banging music that all of a sudden hurts my ears.

  He frowns. “Okay.”

  As Tristan opens the door, ushering me in, Dylan doesn’t budge. He plants himself next to the poster outside Tristan’s room—the one showing cartoons in different sexual positions—like a soldier on guard. I put my hand on his shoulder. His muscles loosen slightly under my palm. “Look, go have fun. I’ll find you later, okay?”

  “I’m not here to have fun,” he says, cold, crisp. My heart shivers.

  I swallow and follow Tristan into his room. It has a navy blue comforter and a bowl with exotic, fluffy-looking fish. “I didn’t know you liked fish.”

  “It’s the only pet I trust myself with at college.” Tristan loves dogs, but he’s not so fond of responsibility.

  He sits down, waiting for me.

  “So...what did you want to talk about?” The teasing grin is gone and his voice buzzes with concern.

  Thank God.

  “It’s just...this dad stuff.”

  Tristan approaches me. He raises his hand to my cheek. I move back away, but he presses forward.

  “You okay, Peyton? I know this is a lot of attention, but it’s not getting to you, is it?” His eyes narrow, creases spraying out.

  “No, I’m okay, it’s just, do you remember your parents saying anything about...” I look to the ceiling as I cross my arms. How am I supposed to ask this? “Is there anything in your memory, anything at all, that would make you think my dad isn’t my dad?”

  Tristan shakes his head. “Don’t listen to those nuts. They’re just trying to win an election.”

  “Just play along, okay? Is there anything weird around me, or me being born, or anything?” My voice gets squeaky, but I don’t care.

  Tristan’s mouth opens and he looks away from me. He sits on the bed and stares at his folded hands. “Well...”

  “What?” I step toward him. “Tristan, tell me.”

  “Well, you know how my parents can get sort of miffed about things, and then hold on to their miffs for years.”

  “Your mom still remembers how I didn’t eat her lemon cake at your sixth birthday, when I was only four, by the way.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “And you know how you were born in Switzerland?”

  “Yeah,” I say, twirling my finger to encourage him to get to the facts that I don’t know.

  “Well, my parents visited a few times, but during the months before you were born, they wanted to visit and your mom said it would be a bad idea, even after my parents said they’d stay at a hotel. My parents took it as an affront. Who needs to restrict visitors for months on end, you know, even when they’re pregnant?”

  I pull my hair out of my face and tuck the strands behind my ears. “What does that mean?”

  Tristan shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  I nod and rub my lips.

  “Look,” he stands and puts his hand under my chin, drawing my face up. “Your dad was your dad. I don’t give a shit what a few crazy wing nuts say.”

  I smile at him. “Yeah.”

  His eyes grow more focused. “You’re keeping something from me?”

  “No,” I say, but I have to shut my eyes while I do it.

  “You are,” he says. “Tell me.”

  I shak
e my head, eyes still closed. “I can’t.”

  He sighs. “Well, fine, I’m just going to have to tickle it out of you.” He grabs me and tosses me on the bed. His fingers roam everywhere. Tickling under my armpits, tickling my stomach. He even pulls off my flats and tickles me on the soles of my feet. I’m breathing heavy, trying to suppress the laughs. “Stop, no, stop it. Get off me!”

  Something cracks. Like wood slamming against wood. And then Tristan is off me. It’s almost like he’s floating above me for a second, before he swirls away.

  It’s Dylan. He crushes Tristan against the wall.

  Chapter Twenty

  I have to sit up fast and pounce. Dylan’s forearm is pressed against Tristan’s collarbone.

  “Dylan, let him go.” I try to make eye contact with Dylan.

  When I pull on his arm, he relaxes and steps back. “Are you okay? What did he do to you?”

  Tristan wipes his face and tries to regain himself.

  “He wasn’t doing anything bad. He was just tickling me.”

  “Tickling?” Dylan asks. His eyes linger on me. My tank top dress is a twisted mess. I adjust the straps. His gaze bends slightly. He shakes his head. He steps back, his face a mush of confusion.

  I dart a look to Tristan, afraid he’d...I don’t know, punch Dylan or something. Instead, he takes a deep breath and rolls his neck. “You might want to investigate a little more before just up and attacking someone.” The always-cool Tristan adjusts his shirt.

  Dylan’s eyes narrow and he raises his fists above his hips.

  Tristan holds out his hand. “I understand. You were staying close so you could be there for her. You heard her say no, over and over, and you were trying to help. I get it. I’m not mad. Okay?”

  “She was telling you to stop, what was I supposed to think?” Dylan glares at Tristan.

  “It was nothing,” I say, anger running through me. “You didn’t have to storm in and hurt one of my best friends. Tristan could rightfully be pissed at you right now, and instead you’re the one pissed at him. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Dylan stops glaring at Tristan, which is good, but instead he looks at me. “He could have...I...” He shakes his head and presses his lips together.

  Tristan’s about to say something when one of the sparkly boys shoots his head in the room. “Hey, Tristan, we’re out of Solo cups.”

  “There’s some under the sink.”

  “We checked, man,” the sparkly guy says.

  “Okay, I’ll be right there.” Tristan looks at me. “You coming?”

  Dylan rakes his hand through his hair. “No, let me talk to Dylan,” I say.

  Tristan nods, looking skeptically at Dylan, before he walks out. I close the door behind him and lean against it, my hands behind my back on the doorknob.

  Dylan sighs. “I’m sorry for busting in, but if he hurt you...”

  “He didn’t. It’s not even like that. He was tickling me.”

  He breathes in, his mouth open. “Look,” I say. “I appreciate that it might not have sounded that way.” I walk slowly toward him because as I get closer his hands unclench. He looks less like he’s about to grab Tristan’s lava lamp and tear it apart. “But the truth is, Tristan would never hurt me.”

  Dylan bends his neck, keeping our eyes locked, as I get incrementally closer to him. He shakes and breathes heavily. “I thought he was...”

  “He wasn’t,” I say. “Why are you still upset?”

  “I got ramped up.”

  “Sit down.”

  He sits on the bed. I put my hands on his shoulders, satisfied that they loosen under my touch. “You have to calm down.”

  I run my hand slowly down his shirt, to his chest. His breathing picks up but everything else about him stays still. I look at my hands, over his chest, feeling the rapid palpitations that match my own.

  “Dylan, I...” What do I want to say?

  He reaches for me. His hands fall on my hips. Now it’s my breathing picking up as his grip strengthens.

  But then he closes his eyes and pushes me gently away. He stands up. “Mind if we call it a night?”

  I’m touching him while we’re alone in a bedroom and he can’t wait to jump up and get out of here.

  I swallow. “Yeah, sure, let’s go.”

  I wave to Tristan from across the party and point my thumb to the door. We walk down the stairs and out into the surprisingly chilly early September air. A shout emanates from the balcony. “Peyton, call me tomorrow, cool?”

  Dylan turns around, squinting up at the crowded balcony. Tristan puts a bag of Solo cups by the keg as he smiles.

  “Of course,” I shout. One of the sparkly guys puts his arm around Tristan and pulls him into a close, tongue-infused embrace that, even though it’s far away and dark, is kind of a turn on.

  I smile and turn around, but Dylan’s gaze stays fixed.

  “Careful. If you stare too long, they’ll invite you to join in,” I say.

  His gaze wraps me in his pity. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “What?”

  “Seeing him kissing other people?”

  I laugh. “Are you serious? Tristan’s almost always kissing someone else. I don’t like him like that, not anymore. “

  “But the other night, never have I ever wanted to be with someone who...the campaign...” He trails off. He looks to the side as he rubs his jaw. He gets it. As the realization falls over his face, my body pulsates in waves of hot and cold, chills and warmth run along my skin. I hold my breath.

  “You were talking about someone else,” Dylan says quietly.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Dylan blinks but his face stays the same. I’m not sure how to read it. I’m never sure how to read him. I rub my arms. The warmth is gone, now I’m just cold.

  He pulls off his sweater. His undershirt is neatly tucked into his jeans. He holds out the sweater and untucks his undershirt with his free hand.

  “I don’t need it.”

  He continues to push the sweater toward me. “You sure? The only modest thing about that dress is its amount of fabric.” He looks skeptically at my skimpy straps.

  “Thanks, dad,” I say dryly. It just came out, and then it feels all weird, because, well, it’s a weird joke but also there’s so much swirling around my dad right now.

  “Despite what Vulp News might try to tell America, I’m pretty sure I’m not your dad.” Dylan grins. I grin. And, somehow, it’s better.

  He pulls his sweater over me, patting my arms.

  “Come on, Squib. Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The words mild and manageable only somewhat blunt the word disorder when it comes to your kid.

  “So she has trouble hearing?” Jen asked the teacher, the line between her eyes deepening as she moved her wedding ring along her finger. I reached over and took her hand, rubbing her tense knuckles with my thumb.

  “Peyton can hear perfectly fine. There’s nothing wrong with the machinery, but she seems to have some difficulty processing auditory information.”

  The line between Jen’s eyes didn’t soften. I squeezed her hand.

  Peyton’s teacher continued. “It’s not a perfect analogy, but think of it as dyslexia in the ear. The sounds are there; they just get a little jumbled sometimes, especially when there’s a lot of other noise. As I said, in her case it’s mild. She’s very bright and we’ve caught this early, so there’s no reason to think it will hold her back. But she needs to learn how to adapt to the way she processes the world.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said.

  * * *

  I walk into the learning resources classroom, the one I volunteered in every week for the last five years. It smells l
ike plastic furniture, stringent cleaning fluids and smashed peanut butter and jelly.

  Today, like any other time I come, the kids’ cheeks burst into these eager smiles, as they bound up to me and tell me about how they made a goal in soccer, or caught a bug with nine legs, or killed 117 zombies in a video game.

  My answer to all of them, even the one about the freak bug: “How great!”

  They’re too busy at first to notice Dylan. But when they do, it goes about like you’d expect. “Who is he? Can he read to us too?” Janey, the one who caught the bug, asks.

  “Well, maybe,” I laugh, as I tighten Janey’s ponytail, which has the habit of going a little loose. Dylan’s looking at me with this goofy smile.

  “They’re cute, right?” I say.

  “Huh?” He seems shaken from something.

  “The kids,” I say. “They’re cute.”

  “Yeah...yeah, they are.” He lifts his tablet. “Uh, I’m going to catch up on some work. Lisa wants me to focus on a press release on insurance regulations.” He looks around for a good place to sit. Finally, he finds a child-sized chair and carefully tries to find the right angle for him to sit in it without being horribly uncomfortable. By his third try, I’m giggling along with the kids.

  His adorable, bashful smile makes my knees weak. “I’m just gonna sit on this table over here,” he says.

  “Sounds good.” I laugh as he leans on the table and gives me a thumbs-up.

  I ask the kids to pick out a book as I settle into a beanbag in the reading corner. Tom rushes at me with a picture book about a kid with a made-up disease. None of the other kids complain about the choice, which is good, because this is a democracy. Before we begin, Janey asks me to fix her hair tie again. This kid. As I loop it back into her near-black hair, she whispers, “Is that your boyfriend?” Because she’s eight and hasn’t learned to be subtle (though that skill really should be taught in school), the whisper isn’t so quiet. Dylan peers over his tablet.

  I emit an extremely awkward laugh and heat tingles in my cheeks. I just hope my blushing isn’t obvious. “No, no, he’s not my boyfriend.” I shake my head way more than I should. Seriously, I think a few brain cells may have departed in that jostling.