Red Blooded

by Caitlin Sinead

  Dylan’s friends share a house off campus. There’s something a little damp in the air and the floors of the house tilt slightly. But, I still love it.

  “Hey, man,” a guy with shaggy hair and a huge grin comes over to us and wraps his arm around Dylan’s neck, pulling him into a tight, one-armed hug.

  “Hey, Paul.” Dylan smiles and pats the guy on his back a couple times before they let go.

  Paul holds his hand out to me. “Peyton, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  I shake his hand and Dylan laughs. “You don’t have to be that formal with her.”

  “Well, it’s Peyton Arthur,” Paul says, his face reddening as he scruffs up his hair. He shakes it off and moves back into the small living room, the video game he was playing on pause. “Zain and Caroline are getting Sally’s Pizza, should be back in just—”

  The door squeals open as a tall blonde and an even taller Middle Eastern guy spill into the room talking about how he is not dumb for having to stare at an analog clock for a bit before he knows the time. “Telling time is no longer a useful skill, so my brain hasn’t wasted time learning it.”

  I giggle as Dylan interrupts them. “Hey.”

  Caroline’s smile seems to erupt as she takes me in. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to meet you!” she says with a lot more jubilation than I had expected.

  “Whoa, girl,” Zain says, as though she’s an excited puppy. She shoots him a glare before bouncing over to me.

  “Seriously, I have so much to ask you.”

  “Caroline.” Dylan steps forward, seriousness awash on his face. “We’re trying to take a break from the campaign. Peyton has to deal with a lot as it is. And, anyway, you can read the news, right?”

  Caroline frowns. “I wasn’t—”

  “It’s cool,” I say, waving Dylan off. “I don’t mind talking about the campaign.”

  She puts her hand on her hip. “I don’t want to talk about the campaign. I can, in fact, read the news. What I want to ask you about is how you finally got Dylan to pay attention to something other than a campaign.”

  Dylan looks to the wall with a tight face as Caroline laughs and grabs my hands and pulls me to the couch all in one quick motion. “You don’t even understand. I’ve tried to set him up with so many of my friends—beautiful, smart, nice girls—and he just blows them off.”

  Dylan crosses his arms. “I didn’t blow any of them off.”

  “What about Cherise?”

  “Who?” he asks.

  Caroline sighs. “The math major, who had this gorgeous long hair and also sings with The New Blue.”

  Dylan laughs so hard he exposes his neck. “I didn’t blow her off. I tried to get her to talk about polling numbers, because that’s math related, right? And anyway. She had no sense of humor.” Dylan pulls at his collar in a really adorable way.

  “And Olivia. She called you three times after you went to that rally?” Caroline says.

  “I made a joke about the budget deficit and she said that she hated political jokes. I don’t know why she kept calling.”

  “You didn’t call her back?” I look up at him with the most worried look I can manage. I can have fun with him too.

  His mouth drops and his hands spurt out. “No, I did, I did.” He looks to Caroline. “I did call her back.”

  Caroline frowns at me. “He politely explained to her that he was too busy for a relationship. Then, because she’s Olivia...” Caroline says with a glint in her eye. I get what she means even though I don’t know Olivia. “...she said she’d be fine with just a fuck-buddy status for a month, like a trial period.”

  “She used the term trial period?” I crack up as Dylan shakes his head and walks toward the fireplace. He rests both forearms on the mantel and face-plants his head into the wood. His shirt tightens along his back muscles. It would be great to see an unobstructed view of those muscles.

  “Anyway,” Caroline shakes her head, but she can’t shake her smile. “What about Megan? She practically runs the Young Democrats. She was perfect for you.”

  He lifts his head, but maintains his position, talking to the wall. “She just wasn’t my type, okay?”

  “You also told her you were too busy to date.”

  “I was,” he says, turning and crossing his arms.

  “I guess, since you’re dating Peyton, your workload must have lightened up considerably. Not much going on, right?” She shrugs. Dylan closes his eyes and pinches the top of his nose.

  Caroline turns to me. “See what I’ve been dealing with? And then you come along and—”

  “I changed my mind,” Dylan says. “I think you two should talk about the campaign. Caroline, aren’t you curious about how Peyton preps for speeches or—”

  “Zain,” Caroline yells.

  “Yeah, hon?” he calls from the kitchen.

  “Aren’t you and Paul desperate to catch up with Dylan?”

  “Yeah, of course,” he yells back.

  Caroline flips her hand at Dylan. Her bracelets clang together in a little “go away” song.

  He looks at me.

  “I’m good,” I say, but only between laughs.

  “Of course she is,” Caroline says.

  Dylan’s chest expands in what can only be an attempt at a cleansing breath, before he walks to the kitchen.

  Caroline’s voice slips into a softer, gentler mode. “Seriously, I’m really happy to see him finally find a girl he likes.”

  I smile and try to ignore the crushing guilt on my chest. But he can’t trust that girl. “Yeah.”

  “He’s a great guy, he’s just a little preoccupied with politics.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I say.

  She leans back, observing me as though I’m a painting.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  I look up and my heart yammers in my chest.

  “Now, that,” she says, leaning forward and pointing at my expression. “Something is going on.”

  I swallow and pull at my fingers. “Caroline, I’m sorry but there are some things I can’t talk about...”

  She nods and her curious eyes turn sympathetic. “Just, be careful with him.”

  Now it’s my turn for the serious eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s never fallen for someone before. He stays away from that kind of stuff if he can help it. It’s clear he couldn’t help it with you, and I’m guessing that’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know how to handle it. So...be careful.”

  I rub my face. “I haven’t been...but I will be.”

  The guys barrel back into the room, all armed with Yuenglings. Dylan hands me a pizza on a paper plate and squeezes in next to me.

  Paul clicks around on the TV and brings up Roadhouse.

  I turn to Dylan.

  “I told them it was a great movie,” he says. “A horrible, great movie that they have to see.”

  Right about the time Patrick Swayze is starting to get the rowdy bar in shape, I head to the kitchen to get everyone another round. Dylan follows me and pulls me aside. He whispers in my ear. “Sorry I left you alone with Caroline.”

  “I like her,” I say.

  He smiles.

  “And she talked some sense into me.”

  “Oh?” his eyes glint.

  “Yeah.” I lean against the counter. “I realize now that I’ve been selfish. I don’t want you to jeopardize your career for me. I don’t need to go to the reading tomorrow.” There’s a pit in my stomach as I look down and swallow back some stupid tears.

  “Hey, hey,” he says, lifting my chin up. “Just tell me this—why now? Why not in three weeks?”

  “Because I don’t know if I’ll be around in three weeks. None of us do. Important things should be d
one as soon as possible.” There were too many things my dad and I waited to do. Too many things we saved for “later.” Warm tears glide down my cheeks.

  “Then we’re going.” Dylan says, before pulling me into a hug.

  With his chin over my head and his hand rubbing my back, I whisper, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Students swarm and chitter-chatter echoes off the walls in the atrium. I’ve got a hipster hat on—it’s large and knit and purple and it covers every strand of my fiery hair. If that isn’t enough, I also have on secretary glasses.

  Visiting Yale to see my boyfriend’s friends is one thing. Attending a book reading by a prominent politician on the other side of the aisle would only cause the campaign a headache. Sure, maybe I’m open-minded. It could be swung the right way. Everything could be swung the right way. But that would take resources and effort and there’d still be bobbing talking heads who would wonder. “Is Peyton really a Republican?” Or, worse: “Is it a coincidence that Representative Roberts has red hair?” And then maybe it wouldn’t be so long before it got out that he and my aunt attended a formal together.

  Would that be so bad? Wouldn’t it clear everything up?

  But it affects too many people for me to make that kind of decision on my own.

  Dylan wears glasses too. This makes the entire situation exponentially worse—he looks adorable in glasses.

  When we step in, someone jostles me hard, and I almost fall. I grab for my hat as Dylan’s hand curves around my wrist and soon his fingers dance along my neck. Okay, he’s just shoving pieces of my hair back under my cap, but the sensation, especially against the soft spot of my ear, makes me tingle. I push away, but he holds on.

  “This way.” He points to a few opens seats in the back.

  We settle in and wait through a long spiel by a guy in a bowtie about how important it was for him to join the Yale College Republicans, who organized this reading.

  Yawn.

  Finally, he introduces Representative Roberts, who stands up. He makes a quip about a dining club that I don’t get, but Dylan stifles a laugh. Roberts pulls out some glasses of his own before looking at his text, ready to read.

  I know, I know, debate is good for society. I remind myself of that (or at least try) when I get upset about what some politicians espouse. But this is my biological father. Sure, I realize the point of this book is to raise his profile and get his policy ideas out there. But, how can he be talking about how he accepts gay citizens but thinks gay marriage is unnatural? How can he say that we should lower taxes on the rich to reward their success? How can he say that we need to implement a massive system for deporting undocumented immigrants, even those who came into the country as kids?

  I fold my arms in my seat and try to tame my breathing. He’s nothing like my real dad.

  I will myself to keep it together. Dylan brings his arm around me and pulls my face into his chest. He smells like detergent. Boy detergent.

  I look up and whisper, “I wish I knew what he thought of me.”

  Dylan stares at me, his eyes deep and warm.

  At the end, Representative Roberts opens the floor to questions. A few eager young libertarians ask him about unions and abortion, and one cocky liberal demands to know why he voted against a bill on equal pay. Finally, it’s time for everyone to shuffle into a line to get their books signed.

  As we get up, Dylan says, “This is risky.”

  I get in line. “Some things are worth the risk.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat as he stands behind me. “You’re right.”

  Our hesitation means we’re pretty much last in line. Only a few additional stragglers form behind us. With each step forward, I dig my fingernails harder into my palms.

  When it’s our turn, Representative Roberts takes our book and, without looking up, he asks, “Who do you want me to make this out to, and is there anything in particular you’d like me to write?”

  My heart beats against my insides as I do my best to look inconspicuous. “I was just curious,” I say. “While you were at Yale, did you do anything that you thought was a mistake, or, you know, it could have been perceived as a mistake, but it wasn’t?”

  Representative Roberts, with his head bent over the book, looks like a mannequin. He’s so frozen that if I pushed him, he’d probably fall in one solid block. Timber.

  My heart yammers as our matching amber eyes make contact. He stares for a long time before looking back down and tapping his pen against the book. I grasp onto the edges of my skirt and feel like I am about to drown in his nonresponse.

  Finally, he says, “No, I don’t make mistakes.”

  He scribbles in the book and hands it to me.

  “Next,” Roberts says, looking past us.

  Chapter Forty

  We rushed to the hospital the day Peyton was born, despite the torrential weather. Much of it is a blur, but I remember clearly the first time someone handed her to me. Her tiny little head fit perfectly in the crook of my elbow. Her small lips twitched and her eyes flickered with brand new life.

  “We belong to each other now,” I told her. “No matter what happens, that will always be true.”

  * * *

  My nose runs and I don’t have tissues, so I have to use my jacket. Yeah, it’s gross, but it’s better than having goo all over my upper lip, right? I try to tame my jaw, but it jiggles and wiggles anyway. Dylan frowns, then he pulls me into him with one arm, his chin on my hair, his hands on me, soothing.

  “He’s a jerk. We knew that. Plus, we still don’t even know if he actually is your dad. Hopefully he isn’t, hopefully your aunt did it with some guy who just had the recessive gene or something or...”

  “Please stop talking,” I whisper into his chest. I’m sure some more snot gets on his sweater. It’s a nice sweater too, unlike the glorious but pajama-appropriate waffle shirt I cried all over at my grandparents’ house. Whoops. Either he doesn’t notice or he’s an even better guy than I thought.

  Fuck.

  I turn around, wiping my face and trying to see if I left a water mark on his sweater. No. Good. We walk toward the exit. “Want me to just throw this away?” He holds up the book.

  “Yeah,” I mumble.

  He tosses it into the garbage next to a partially consumed, browning apple and a couple of drained Coke bottles.

  The book belongs there. The book is trash, right? But something in me quakes.

  I walk back to it, slowly.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan asks.

  “I wonder what he wrote.”

  Dylan’s shoulders loosen. “Okay, but I don’t want you to be disappointed if he just signed his name or something.”

  “Well, I will be.” I reach into the bin and pull out the book. “But that’s okay.”

  I run my hand along the binding, before pulling it back.

  Room 355

  My mouth hangs open as my breathing picks up. Dylan rushes to me and reads over my shoulder, his hand on my back.

  “Well, shit,” he says.

  We walk through the crowded atrium. There’s no line for books anymore. Roberts is gone. We keep our faces to the ground, just in case anyone recognizes us, and find a stairwell. We walk up the three flights. At the door, I lean against the cold, gray wall. Dylan leans against the railing as I stare at my hands. “What am I supposed to say to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Dylan says.

  My thoughts bubble over with excitement and nervousness until Dylan rubs my shoulder. We walk down an unglamorous hallway, until we get to room 355. A man stands in front with crossed arms. When he sees us, he nods. “Let me see if he’s ready for you.”

  Something flips and squirms in my stomach. Representative Roberts must have wrapped up the book si
gning quickly after our turn. The man knocks, and the door opens. But it’s some other guy. He gives me a strange look as Roberts’s unmistakable voice emanates from the room. “Jerry, you know those fuckers won’t get anywhere with that.”

  The man who opened the door frowns at me. He raises his eyebrow at the other guy. “This is not a good idea,” he says as he opens the door wider and steps back for me to enter. I walk. Dylan is close behind, but the man presses against Dylan’s shoulder. “Just Peyton.”

  Dylan opens his mouth, about to protest, but I put my hand up. “It’s okay. I can handle this.”

  Dylan nods. “I’ll be right here.” He points to the spot outside the door.

  “Okay, but unless you hear me scream bloody murder, maybe don’t break down the door and come to my rescue?”

  His cheek twitches, but it’s not exactly a smile.

  I walk in the room, which is an elegant office with ornate furnishings and a large, mahogany desk. A couch and a few chairs exist as islands in the center. Representative Roberts catches my gaze and his eyes widen.

  “Look, Jerry,” he says into his cell, “I’ve got to go.” He darts his gaze to me and then back to the floor as he listens. “You figure it out, okay?”

  He hangs up the phone and slips it in his pocket. As I walk closer to him, he clears his throat. His shoulders fold in. He stands behind a big chair, like he’s hiding behind it. His fingers race back and forth on the fabric.

  I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say. Even if I felt bold enough to launch into the whole father thing, which the sour feeling behind my throat suggests is not the case, it wouldn’t be smart. He’s not only not on our side; he’s on the other side. If I burst out with it, and I’m wrong, he’ll have something to hang us with. And it’ll be all my fault that my mom lost her chance, that the country won’t have her as the valuable leader that she could be.

  All my fault.

  Shit, what was I doing? I twist my lips and look at the floor.

  He clears his throat. Again.

  Finally, he moves out from behind the chair, taking two steps hesitantly toward me before he stops. He runs his hands through his hair. “I’m not sure how to start this conversation.”