Red Blooded (5 page)

Chapter Seven

There will come a point
,
probably multiple points
,
where Peyton’s mature mind will see a different world than she does now.
It will be a world I no longer inhabit.
She will have questions.
She will wonder about things.
I
hope
,
above all else
,
that this book serves as a resource for her.

* * *

I squint at the clock next to my bed. Yes, that’s a six and then a colon and then a zero and then an eight.

6:08.

So why the fuck is Lisa calling me?

I click to answer it and mumble some sort of greeting into the phone.

“We moved up your flight,” Lisa says. There’s a bite to her words that jabs at my insides. “A car is coming for you in twenty minutes, so you need to get going. Now.”

I sit up, sleep still duking it out with nervous adrenaline. I must have misheard her. Sometimes I can’t hear so well on the phone thanks to my auditory processing disorder. Apparently, I’ve learned to compensate for my slightly funny ears by subconsciously paying attention to verbal cues. In fact, I hardly feel like anything is different about me at all, except when I’m on the phone or I need to listen to anything complex or I’m in the midst of a big crowd. Though I have my tricks to get around those things.

When I’m on the phone, I just spend more time than the usual person asking people to repeat themselves.

Like now.

“What?”

“A car is coming for you,” she says with even more oomph than before.

“Why? What’s wrong with just flying out tomorrow?”

“We need to talk with you as soon as possible. Until you get here, don’t say a word to anyone. Not the driver. Not the person at the ticket counter. Not anyone.”

“What, how am I—”

“Dylan will meet you at the airport. Fortunately, he’s already in DC, meeting with a few reporters. But, given the situation, we pulled him off that. Let him do any talking. To reporters, to fans, to whoever.”

“Okay, but, I don’t understand, you sound...mad.”

“Of course I’m mad,” she says.

“Why?” The phone feels slippery in my hand.

Lisa sighs. “You haven’t seen it?”

“Seen what?” My blood pulses so fast all the sleep is pushed out. What could cause this kind of fire drill?

“Turn on the TV. But don’t watch for too long. Remember: car. Twenty minutes.”

The phone clicks off. I leap out of bed and turn on my TV, which was already set to CNN. Sure enough, the talking heads are saying Peyton, Peyton, Peyton.

I have to hold a hand to my stomach and wait till I’m breathing regularly before I can even focus enough to hear the conversation. When I do, Julia Panuski, a reporter from the
New York Times
, defends me. “She wasn’t saying this to a reporter, or at least she didn’t think she was, and she was just saying that, yeah, it made her curious. She’s a smart, inquisitive girl. Just because she’s curious doesn’t mean that she really thinks it’s true, despite what she said.”

What? What did I say? My mind gallops through the recent memories of cameras and reporters and interviews.

“I don’t know.” A bombastic man in a navy blue suit weighs in. “If someone told me my father wasn’t my father, I’d laugh because it’s obvious he is. But Peyton thought to look it up. She probably knows her mother better than anyone, and if she even thinks it’s a remote possibility that there could be something to this, that’s saying a lot.”

As I reach for my phone to try to figure out what exactly the fuck they’re talking about, the host says, “For those just tuning in, last night an anonymous blogger uploaded a video of Peyton Arthur at a party saying that even
she
thought there might be something to the rumors that her late father, Richard Arthur, may not be her biological father. She got so upset about it she yelled at the accuser.”

No I didn’t. I didn’t say that. I didn’t yell at... “I would have done the same thing if some guy was hounding me and he called my dad a cuckold,” Julia says.

Oh shit. A video splashes on the TV. My image shakes on the screen, due to poor hidden camera work, but it matches my currently shaking body. I clutch at the remote so both my hands have something to hold on to. Pool light reflects on my face and Annie’s. I’m wearing the red top I wore last night. This was last night.

An infomercial for gold earrings pops up on the screen.

Shit.

I’d been holding the remote so tight I accidentally changed the channel. My clumsy thumb finds the right button and I’m back in time to see myself say: “Just because I looked it up, doesn’t mean... I didn’t think... It’s just... Of course I was curious...”

My body and face are tense on the screen as verbal vomit pours out of my mouth. They loop it around again, because the first time wasn’t enough. I cringe at “I looked it up!” I throw the remote at the ground when they show me getting all red-faced and have to bleep out my curse word.

Throwing the remote at the carpet has the benefit of muting the TV. This is good until the screen displays another video of me. Tristan and me. Actually, Tristan’s almost completely obscured by an oak tree. While his identity is anonymous, his gender is not. He’s a guy, giving me a rather intimate hug.

Oh no, the kiss! Maybe they won’t care. They shouldn’t care. It’s not a story. I fall to the floor to get the remote. Unmute! The excited voices flood back into my room.

“Of course people online are also reacting to this part of the video,” the host says.

It is a story.

In the video, I stand on tiptoes and Tristan leans in, face mostly obscured still, and the kiss ensues. I look so happy. I was. Because Tristan is wonderful and his warmth and touch always make me feel happy. He even made me laugh during our breakup. After realizing we were never going to want the same thing, I cried as he held me on the couch. I would have cried all night if he hadn’t launched into a series of jokes about improper uses for lampshades.

But last night, it was basically a peck.

Tristan pulls back and the phone recording gets jostled.

“Seems like Peyton has herself a mystery man.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Peyton’s a teenager. She’s going to do teenage things. This part of the video has no business on a news show.” That was Julia. “She can make out with whoever she wants.”

But I didn’t make out with whoever I wanted to. It was a peck.

“You’re right, of course, but that doesn’t stop people from being curious. She’s a celebrity and people are curious about celebrity relationships.” What the fuck? I never asked to be a celebrity. And shouldn’t they be reporting on things that are important instead of some stupid kiss?

Julia folds her arms. “This isn’t E!, it’s CNN, and we shouldn’t be talking about an 18-year-old girl kissing a guy. That’s not news.”

I rub my face. I’ll have to remember to thank Julia next time I see her. She’s one of the good ones.

The host nods. “You’re right, the real story here is why Peyton Arthur gives credence to these rumors. If she doesn’t trust her mom, how can we?”

Great flying shit buckets.

All I did was search Google for some stuff on red hair. Sure, Lisa and Dylan and Bain said not to even address the issue, not to get defensive, just to say there’s nothing to it and move on. But they meant to do all that if a reporter talked to me about it. They didn’t mean when I was chitchatting at a high school party.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, which has become the epicenter of a raging headache. Jim and his questions. Jim continuing to look over at a girl a few feet away who looked like she was on her phone. The angles work. She wasn’t on her phone. She was recording.

Anyone can record me anywhere. Anything I say can hurt the election.

Maybe Dylan’s right that we can both help win the election. Maybe he’s wrong.

But one thing is for sure—I can sure as hell help lose it.

Chapter Eight

I call Tristan on the way to the airport.

“Yeah, I saw it,” he says as soon as he picks up.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks. “That stupid fuck Jim is the one who’s sorry. At least after I talked to him. Don’t worry, he’s not going to do anything else like this to you again.”

“What about you?” I say. “Sure, you can’t see who you are from the footage, but I’m sure people at the party can guess. And Jim has to know it’s you.”

“Like I said, I talked to him. And no one else at the party would say anything. They like me too much.” His grin comes across even over the phone.

I wipe my face and stare at the brick townhouses streaming by my window. “I hope so. But don’t worry, I’m going to be a lot more careful until this is over.”

“Don’t be too careful, Peyton. This is still your life, last time I checked. I’d hate to see you all tied up in a confining box. Well, I mean, without a safe word.”

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...”

His 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.”