I place my feet as carefully as possible along the floorboards. But it’s an old house—it cricks and bellows when I deign to step on it wrong.
As if responding in chorus, the mattress in Dylan’s room squeaks. Maybe I can get to the attic before he knows I’m the one making the groaning noises on the floor? I pad down the hall, more concerned with speed than my auditory presence, and swerve around the corner.
He doesn’t know how to get to the attic. He doesn’t know that the little door I used to pretend was the entryway to a faraway fairyland actually leads to dusty Christmas decorations and mothballs.
Once in the attic, I assure myself that he’s still tucked away with his iPad. I pull out my phone—flashlight app at the ready, because the gorgeous lunar light spraying across the wooden floor is more aesthetic than functional—and hunch through a bunch of St. Patrick’s Day mugs, a nativity scene and the little Rudolph mail carrier my grandma always puts in the front hall to collect their copious Christmas cards. They get so many she still has to go through them every day, but she will give a huff if you argue against the logic of using the Rudolph.
Finally, I find the rows of yearbooks, separated by child. Jen, my mom; Nate, my uncle; and finally Victoria. She was a freshman in college when it happened. Could there be some clue in the Yale yearbook? God, I hope the pictures are in color and not black and white. Sometimes it’s hard to detect a ginger in black and white. Okay, most of the time it is. Ask Lucille Ball.
I have to tug pretty hard to get the book out, it’s wedged in there like it wants to stay put. But I’m much more stubborn than some stupid object, and soon it’s on my lap as I sit crisscross applesauce on the dusty floor. I’m not sure what I’ll find, so I just flip through, scanning quickly for pictures of my aunt.
“Peyton.” A fierce whisper makes me lurch and spin.
“What the...”
Dylan, complete with his own cell-phone flashlight app, peeks his head above the top stair. “What are you doing?”
“Um...just...you know,” I say. “Flipping some pages around, reminiscing about my aunt’s Yale years...”
There is absolutely no way he’s going to buy that.
“I mean.” I try to save myself. “I was curious about Yale, since you told me about the supper clubs and Mory’s. I think she was a member of that supper club too, and I thought it might be fun to look at some old yearbooks.”
Better—well, by a nose. However, his eyes are definitely not smiling as he continues up the steps. He moves aside poor Rudolph and some fake plastic spiders so he can sit cross-legged next to me. His sweatpants brush my skin—they’re cozy and rough at the same time. The pants cling to his thighs more than they should, but in a rather splendid way. It almost detracts from how nicely his black waffle shirt spreads over his chest. Almost.
“Peyton,” he says, nudging me.
“What?”
“Were you even listening to what I just said?”
Whoops. No, I was thinking about waffle shirts.
“Sorry.” I divert my attention back to the yearbook. “What did you say?” I continue flipping and skimming and thinking of ways to get him to leave.
He shifts so he’s closer to me, his breath tickling a few stray hairs as he says, “I don’t believe you.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m telling the truth.”
Instead of relaxing, like he usually does when I touch him, he removes my hand. “No, you’re not. What’s going on?”
I stare at my thumbs. “I’ve told you too much already. What I know, well, it could ruin our chances of winning the election.”
His eyelids lower. “I think you might have forgotten who you’re talking to. I know the stakes. And I’m on your side.”
“Of course.” I rub my thumb along my lip and press the yearbook to my chest as I scoot away. It feels good to hold something, to hug something, even if it’s just a hard, dusty yearbook. “My mom told me the truth. Well, my mom and my aunt, or, really, my aunt and my mom.”
He stares at me, confused.
“My aunt is my biological mom. And my dad wasn’t my dad,” I say slowly, mostly for my benefit. The reality still feels strange in my mouth. I explain the whole thing to him, or what I know. “But they won’t tell me who my biological dad is. So, that’s why I want to look through these yearbooks.”
His lips descend into a frown, his eyes ice over. “I can’t trust you, can I?”
It pierces through my being. My insides are hollow, like a pumpkin that’s being scraped of its guts and seeds.
I curl my fingers around the yearbook. “I wanted to tell you.”
“But you’re always trying to do something behind my back. Can you blame me if I don’t trust you?” His eyes are focused, earnest.
“No,” I whisper back. “I can’t blame you for not trusting me, but they told me I couldn’t tell anyone.”
“Did they tell you to come down and investigate this? No. They told you to stay away from it. If someone is sniffing around, well, they might figure out even more now.” He runs his fingers through his hair.
“No reporter is going to find out, okay? No one saw us on the way down, we’re good.” My voice rises and energy pumps through me. I’m right.
“We still have to make it back.” His fists clench and he stretches his neck. I’m suddenly very interested in the floorboards. “You’re gambling a lot here.”
“I know,” I whisper, running my thumb along the edge of the yearbook. “I’m sorry, I do trust you. I want to tell you things. But you said yourself that the fewer people know, the better.”
“That’s true, unless those people are helping you,” he says. I still don’t look up, because he’s right. I should have told him. He brushes my cheek and lifts my chin so I have to face him. His touch reverberates down my spine. “Tell me everything, okay. I’ll do my best not to freak out and we can both figure out how to do it without jeopardizing your mom’s career. I’m on your side, Peyton. We need to trust each other. Please don’t lie to me again.”
All I want to do is cup his hand and hold it closer to my face. “I promise, I won’t.”
Unfortunately, he pulls his hand away. Fortunately, he takes the yearbook, spreading it open for both of us.
“So, what are we looking for? Something like a ‘Keep in touch! Especially about that unplanned kid we created’?”
I can’t help laughing, but I slam my palm over my giggles. I definitely can’t wake my grandparents up now. I elbow him in the ribs. He grins.
“No, I figure I’d just look for any pictures with her, especially if she’s near a guy with red hair. I know it’s a long shot, but...”
He nods and stands, crossing the room to the smattering of photo albums. He pulls one out. “It makes more sense to go through the personal photos,” he says as he looks at a few pages before replacing that album and pulling out another. He’s helping me? He’s helping me! “I think I made the Yale yearbook twice so far.” He looks up over his third photo album and smiles. “I think I got it.”
I hurry around him so I can look over his shoulder. He’s flipping through pictures of my aunt with her sorority sisters, my aunt at parties, my aunt at bars.
I shake my head. “She’s too old here. I need freshman pictures of her.”
He closes the book, replaces it, and pulls out two more. The one he passes to me is the winner. My aunt stands in front of a packed-up car in one picture and holds out her new-looking college ID for another. There are more images of her getting settled into a dorm.
“This is Bingham Hall, right?” I ask Dylan, pointing to a photo of my aunt and two girls on a grassy area in front of gorgeous, old buildings.
“Yeah,” he says, and I get a little flutter in my chest when I hear the excitement in his voice. He’s not just helping me, he�
��s invested in this too.
He leans toward me as I flip through more pages, mostly of her hanging out with friends, getting ready to go out, stuff like that. Then there are some parties and a few guys. She’s hugging an Indian guy in one, and she sits back to back with a black guy in another. But no redheads.
That is, until we flip the page. Then there are several photos of her with one guy. One guy with fiery, bright red hair. One guy who looks too familiar for comfort.
“Is that...?” I gasp. “He didn’t go to Yale, did he?”
I look up at Dylan, hoping he’ll say something about doppelgangers or confusion because I’m wrong about what I see.
He coughs. “Um, yeah, he did.”
I turn the page again, and there he is in a suit, next to my aunt in a dress, like they’re ready to go to a dance.
“No, it can’t be,” I say, choking on my own words.
Dylan puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling. “Well, that would explain why your mom and aunt don’t want you to know who he is.”
“They said it would be too complicated, but I didn’t think they meant this...”
It floods into my system. My aunt went to a dance with Representative Roberts. My aunt hung out with Representative Roberts. My aunt hugged Representative Roberts. And, from the looks of it, my aunt did a lot more than that with Representative Roberts.
And I’m the result.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until Dylan’s soft touch along my shoulder blades stirs me. He rubs my back, slowly, tentatively.
“What do you need?”
“My dad,” I say. “I miss my dad.”
Dylan hugs me again and rests his chin on my head. We stay like that for a long time.
* * *
After I sufficiently smear snot and blather and other unmentionables along his previously perfectly sexy waffle shirt, Dylan gets me back to my room. But I can’t stop the flow. He presses his finger to his lips as he backs out of the room. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers.
I don’t know what he means, but I’m still shaking a little from everything so I go to my bed and curl up under the covers.
Dylan comes back armed with a bottle of water, box of tissues and a bag of gummy bears.
I smile as he sets them on the night table. “You’re the best.”
He smiles, but waits.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I mean, we don’t even know if it’s true.”
I want him to say something about how it’s ridiculous. I want him to say that even though I have Roberts’s thin smile, that even though I may have his stubbornness, his temper, and other not-so-desirable attributes, that there’s no way. It’s impossible.
I want him to say there’s no way that the majority whip is my father. I mean, what kind of coincidence is that?
Except, considering the majority whip and my aunt were at Yale at the same time, it isn’t much of a coincidence at all. Is it? It’s just really, really weird.
I turn to the wall and stuff my face in a pillow. Dylan rubs my back, lightly at first but the pressure increases as he goes, and soon it turns into a massage. I never want him to stop touching me.
“Will you stay? I’m not sure I want to be alone.” I say it to the wall.
The bed squeaks with his weight. He takes my hand and squeezes it before pulling away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I roll over to face him and try to make my stupid mistake not such a stupid mistake. “Yeah, sure, sorry. I’m just feeling all discombobulated and...”
He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I would stay. I want to. If things were different...I would.” My heart beats faster. He rubs his face and turns toward the door, the wood groaning beneath his steps. Thank God my grandparents are on the other side of the house and have poor hearing. My grandpa especially would not be pro a boy in his granddaughter’s room.
“Dylan.” I thought he’d just turn at the door, but instead he walks back to me. His legs are almost at the bed as he looks down on me.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
I prop myself up with one elbow. A warm feeling infuses my chest as I smell his oaky smell. “Thank you.”
His eyes spark. “Of course. I’m here for you.”
I smile. He doesn’t leave.
“Peyton,” he says, his voice deep.
“Yeah?”
His mouth opens, but, licking his lips, he pivots.
“Never mind,” he says, his voice coming from some deep cavern in his chest I hadn’t realized he’d possessed.
Chapter Thirty
Peyton is so young. The world is wide open to her. I’ve tried to explain, in the least depressing way possible, that she should enjoy that openness. As you get older, the years move along like pegs in a zipper. All the possibilities between the two sets of fabric are laid out, but you tug along, year by year, clasp by clasp, closing them off, until you look back and the zipper is completely zipped. All the possibilities are closed off.
* * *
Somehow we’re able to get through Grandpa’s blueberry pancakes and Vermont syrup without him or Grandma stumbling on the real reason for my visit: to scour family pictures and yearbooks. If they suspected that Dylan had stayed with me, in my room, for longer than either of them would deem appropriate (which is a millisecond past zero time), neither of them let it affect their way-too-jovial-for-pre-noon smiles.
Dylan stands up as soon as it’s clear that my grandfather is done scraping up syrup on his fork to lick in-between his profound thoughts on affirmative action and the minimum wage. Dylan grips his plate and reaches for the empty serving dish. “Please, let me help you with those, Mr. Carmichael.”
My grandpa nods, like, “Well of course you’re going to help me with these, kid.” But when I stand up to help too, my grandma does something weird. Her gentle fingers surround my elbow as she whispers, “Stay. Let your grandpa get a fix on him so we can decide if he’s good enough for you.”
Fire splashes under the skin of my chest. “Oh, no, Grandma, it’s not like that. Not at all. He’s here to keep me in check. Don’t you know that they don’t trust me on my own?”
She shrugs. “You’ve messed up a few times in the spotlight. It happens to trained politicians. It happens to people much older than you. It’s happened to your grandfather. It’s happened to your mother.”
“Well, they don’t trust me especially. So Dylan follows me around to make sure I stay out of trouble.”
My grandma nods and winks. “Tough job.”
“Grandma, really. He wants to work on the campaign, and he wants to make a difference. He’s really annoyed, actually, that he has to babysit me instead of impacting the election.” Maybe my grandmother needs the absolute truth.
“Peyton,” she says. “I’ve had a lot of assignments in life. Some I enjoyed, others I didn’t. I can tell you, that boy enjoys his work.”
“Grandma—”
“Shush,” she says. “And Peyton, you can make a difference in this election, which means him helping you is making a difference in the country, and the world. He understands that. Do you?” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I know that’s a lot of pressure for a young lady, but, fair or unfair, it’s there. You can handle it.”
“I’m trying,” I say with a forced smile that feels limper than I intended.
She nods. “I know you are, and Dylan is trying to help you.” She looks back to the door. The sounds of clinking dishes and running water and the low hum of two men making what appears to be small chitchat when in reality it’s an assessment test. My smile grows bigger thinking of how Dylan will attempt to deftly outmaneuver my grandpa, who seems innocuous but shouldn’t be underestimated.
“I worry about them,” my grandma says, with another wi
nk.
“Dylan knows a lot about politics,” I say. “I’m sure he’s read up on Grandpa’s ways.”
We both laugh. “Well, your father thought he had a good bead on your grandpa too, but it still took a few rounds of Scotch before he won him over.”
I swallow what must be some sort of anti-truth bile. I want to ask. Does she mean Richard Arthur, the renowned writer, or Representative Roberts, the conservative darling? Does she know? She must. Were they both here at some point, trying to have a Scotch to win over the affections of my grandfather in order to solidify their interest in one of his daughters? Why didn’t I think of just asking them before?
Because they’ve never thought to just tell me before. Why would they tell me now? My mom and aunt didn’t fall far from the tree. Carmichaels are pretty good with secrets, apparently.
My grandmother completely mistakes my expression. “Peyton,” she says. “Jefferson needs a 3:00 a.m. feeding or he howls about the house.”
What is she talking about?
Oh, wait. So she was up at 3:00 am.
She winks. “I heard Dylan leave your room. It’s okay. Believe it or not, I was young once too.”
“It wasn’t like that, really, we didn’t do anything.” My voice squeaks way too much for a girl who is, in fact, telling the truth.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Really, Grandma,” I plead. “I was a little upset about something and he was helping me through it, that’s all.”
My grandma gets this smug look on her face as she nods. “Yes, I’m sure it’s in his job description to stay up with you and make you feel better when you’re a little upset about something.”
I have my finger pointed and mouth ready to come up with some brilliant retort just as the kitchen door flaps open. Dylan says, “We better get going. Lisa and Bain want you there two hours before the rally starts so they can go over a few things.”
And, moments later, we’re walking to the car, warm hugs and a warm house trailing behind us.
“I’ll drive,” he says, holding his hand out for the keys. I place them in his palm, trying not to pay too much attention to the brief jolt I get when my fingertips brush against his skin. That’s pathetic, right? We can’t be together, even if we want to be. He so much as said so last night. His career and this campaign are more important than me, as they should be.
Red Blooded Page 16