She hands it to me and I detect just a bit of redness in her usually perfectly polished, perfectly porcelain cheeks. I open it and a brilliant emerald stone along a silver chain announces its presence.
“It’s your birthstone,” she says as my eyes get a tad misty “Here, let me put it on.” She unclasps it. As I turn around, she flips my hair away so it falls along my shoulder. The elusive movements of her manicured nails tickle the back of my neck. I turn to the mirror. The necklace shines brilliantly.
“Thank you,” I say, holding the stone between my fingers.
She puts her hands on my shoulders and stands behind me. We look at the mirror together. I see my nose, I see my chin, I see my light skin all reflected back to me. Not in my face, but in my mother’s.
“Mom.” I hold her gaze in the mirror. “If you cheated on dad, I’d forgive you.”
She looks down, snapping the reflected sightline.
“I appreciate that, Peyton, but I loved your father very much. I would never have done anything like that.”
I look at the sink’s interconnected tiles, jutting and inserting in an intricate pattern.
“Mom, I—”
“Peyton, I said I wouldn’t have done anything like that. You need to trust me. Come on.” She taps my back. “Let’s go. It’s time to say goodbye.”
Chapter Fifteen
“He put tampons in my locker, Dad. Like, open ones. He drew faces and put paper clothes on them. He said my locker was Tamponville.”
I covered my mouth with my napkin to hide my grin.
Jen hit my shoulder and frowned, but I could see a smile behind her lips as she sipped her wine.
“Tristan’s always liked teasing you. You’re like a little sister to him,” I say.
“Or, he’s teasing you because he likes you,” Jen said.
“Tamponville, Mom. Tamponville,” Peyton said, clutching her armrests.
“Well,” I said, as I tried to be serious. “Do you want me to talk to Mr. McCoy, see if Tristan can’t—”
She sighed. “No, don’t worry, I already handled it.”
“Oh really?” Jen’s right eyebrow glided up.
“Yeah, I made a Padtown in his locker. Barbie clothes fit really well over panty liners.”
I laughed. Jen shot me a look. “That’s not how you handle things, Peyton,” I said, puffs of laughter still slipping out.
Peyton raised a finger. “I know, Dad. Like you said, you’ve got to one-up them. I did. His gym locker is now, officially, Condomburg.”
* * *
I’m not surprised when Lisa drops me off at my dorm and Dylan stands ready to pick up where she leaves off. It’s a handoff.
“Is there more stuff to unpack?” he asks. “I can help if you—”
“I got it,” I say, thinking mostly of those infinity boxes.
I’m not sure if I want him to leave, though. Annie’s with her boyfriend, Jason, tonight. I can’t blame her, even if it does make me a little lonely. I shuffle through items and pull a few things out, stuffing them all into the last empty drawer.
“All that stuff goes in that drawer?” he asks, arms crossed and eyebrows very high considering he’s just asking about a drawer.
“It’s my ‘anything goes’ drawer,” I say.
He grins. “You mean like a junk drawer.”
I move a bottle of hand sanitizer and a small purse into the drawer. “No, because it’s not junk.”
“It’s just ‘anything goes,’” he sings and shakes his hands on either side of his head.
“Did you just do jazz hands?” I pause, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
“Yeah, like the song, isn’t that what you’re referencing?”
“What song?” My laughs continue to hurt, but in a good way. His grin is bashful as he shakes his head.
“It’s a song, I swear, ‘anything goes,’” he sings again, this time with more enthused jazz hands.
“Is the song about drawers?”
“No.” He grins and shakes his head. “No, I’m pretty sure the Broadway song is not about drawers.”
We laugh awhile longer, until I’m biting my lip as we just stand there, staring at each other awkwardly. His smile slips away, and he looks around the room.
“Um, do you want me to make your bed?” he asks.
“Make my bed?” My voice croaks.
“Well, you don’t want me to help you unpack, but I could make your bed.”
“Okay, fine.” I dig through a box and toss him some yellow sheets.
I should be concentrating on placing pens and shit around my desk, but instead I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His shirt sleeves taper off about an inch above his elbow, and as he splashes the sheets over the bed, his arms tense. He’s tall enough that he hardly needs to bend over to each corner in order to firmly put things in place. Whereas I have to move around the bed, flopping over the sheets and trying the indelicate move of pulling them over their designated corner while my body is still on them.
His way works much better. The view is really nice when he bends over. But, more importantly, of course, the sheets are smooth, flat.
“I think I could flip a quarter off of that,” I say, as he runs his hand along the fabric and gives it a pat.
He smiles at me, proud. “I’m pretty good at quarters.”
“Oh really?” I reach for my purse and pull one out. I toss it to him and he has to snap his arm out in order to catch it.
He grins. He takes my Learning Disorders Association mug and steadies himself, his hands stretching over the corner of my desk.
He aims.
He shoots.
He misses.
“I’ll show you how it’s done,” I say. Most of the kids at Annie’s public school actually preferred quarters to beer pong. Not sure why. But I’ve gone to enough T.C. Williams parties to be good at the game.
He steps back, puts his hands on his hips, and stares down at me. His smile is too much, the kind of smile that clinks against my insides. He motions for me to go. “Anytime now, Squib.”
I shake my head and focus.
“Don’t let me distract you,” he says playfully.
“Oh, I won’t.” I hold the quarter carefully between my pointer finger and thumb and think about the cup, a lot. I zone out the rap music wafting in from down the hall and the delightful, soft sound Dylan’s shirt makes as he crosses his arms. I click the quarter on the desk and it deliciously clinks and clanks against the sides of the mug.
I step back, triumphant.
“Beginner’s luck,” he says.
“No, it’s not beginner’s luck. I’ve played—”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve played quarters before? What, with water?”
Even his grin is stern. It’s annoying. He’s not much older than me. He’d be a senior at Yale if he hadn’t taken two semesters off to work on the campaign.
I bite my lip. “Yeah, beginner’s luck.”
He takes the coin and gives it back to me, pressing it into my palm with one hand and holding the back of my hand with the other. The skin on my neck feels light, funny.
“Okay, beginner, try again.”
I smile and bend down, feeling the quarter. “I’m better at this when I’ve had a lot of...water.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
I laugh and concentrate on the rim.
“Peyton!” someone booms from the hallway.
I clasp the coin in my hand and hold it behind my back, as though I’m hiding something. But what would I be hiding?
And, anyway, it’s Tristan. He strides toward me and gives me a hug because he’s very huggy. I wrap my arms around his neck as his arms come around the rest of me. He smack
s a moist kiss on my cheek and I pull back, but we’re still holding each other.
“Wow, Peyton Arthur, a college girl. Call the authorities ’cause it’s hot in here,” he says, his evil, wonderful grin on full display.
I finally let go of him. “Oh, hush.”
Now that the hug is over, he can concentrate on other interesting, sparkly things. He turns to Dylan. “And who is this?” Tristan’s eyes are wide. It almost makes me laugh. Almost.
Dylan crosses his arms. All his muscles are tense, ready to spring.
“Tristan, this is Dylan. He’s going to make sure I don’t screw anything up before the election,” I say. The elephant in the room is that me kissing Tristan had been a screwup. So, yes, in some ways, Dylan is here to ensure I don’t kiss Tristan. “Dylan, this is Tristan McCoy, he’s—”
“I know who you are,” Dylan says.
Of course he does.
Tristan nods, and a more somber look than I thought he was capable of meanders across his face. But the expression is merely making a pit stop—it doesn’t linger. “Yeah, well, it’s nice to meet you. My parents mentioned they worked with you on the big fundraiser they’re hosting for the campaign at the end of October. They were really impressed with your work.”
“Thanks,” Dylan says. “But I’m not working on that fundraiser anymore.”
“I know, you’ve moved on to much more important things.” Tristan winks at me and plops down on the bed, crumpling the perfectly pristine, quarter-bouncing sheets. As if to add insult to injury, Tristan reclines on my mound of pillows and swings his feet onto the bedspread. A little moss and a shiny star sticker, along with other bits of dust, fall off his shoes, sullying the clean surface.
“Well, anyway,” Tristan says. “I thought I could take you out. I know a few parties we could hit up so you can lose your college-party virginity.”
“Sure, give me a half hour to get ready?”
Dylan coughs.
“Or...twenty minutes?” I say, eyeing Dylan.
He looks to the ceiling, as though the dorm room gods can supply him with the patience it takes to deal with me. “Peyton, there are still a half-dozen reporters out there. They’re just waiting for you to go out so they can have something juicy to write about.”
I take a couple steps to the window, move aside the blinds and peek out. Cameramen lean against bike racks and a reporter sits in a news van. Dammit. I know there are about a zillion more interesting things going on in the world right now than me going to a college party. Tristan comes up behind me, resting his hand on my shoulder as he looks out too. “Yeah, I saw them when I came in, but I figured we could get around them.”
I close my eyes, blocking out the reporters as Dylan grumbles something about it not being worth the risk.
I turn around. As I do, Tristan’s hand falls from my shoulder. Dylan watches as it falls.
I wait till Dylan looks me in the eye. “So I’m not allowed to go out until after the election?” The fun college memories I imagined myself building drip and swirl down a drain.
Dylan’s mouth opens as Tristan’s voice peals forth. “That’s shit, man. You can’t let these reporters rule her life.”
“She needs to wait a few days for things to calm down.” Dylan’s fists clench.
Tristan leans toward Dylan, but he holds his ground. Tristan sighs and shrugs. “Well, Peyton, you want to just hang out here, then?”
He brushes some of my hair behind my ear. I take his hand and squeeze it. “No, you go out. Have fun. I need to unpack anyway.” I let go and turn back to Dylan, who is probably right about this whole staying in plan.
“I can help you unpack,” Tristan says. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it.
“No,” I say. “No, please go out. If I can’t go out I at least need to live vicariously through you.”
Tristan frowns. “You sure?”
“I’m absolutely positive. I want you to go out,” I say.
He pulls me into another hug and rubs my back before squeezing my hand and smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”
His footsteps, and any college fun I might have had tonight, drift down the hallway. I turn back to Dylan.
“That’s Tristan?” Dylan says.
“That’s Tristan,” I say.
Chapter Sixteen
“Do you think I should try to go to Yale, like Mom and Victoria did?” Peyton asked me the other day.
“You should go where you want to go.”
She nodded. “The thing is, I don’t know where that is.”
“When you get a little older, you’ll visit colleges and you’ll find one you like,” I said.
She approached the bed and chipped at the wood on the post before wrapping both hands around it. “I want you to take me places.”
I rubbed the comforter. Even the task of getting up and going to the bathroom sounded tiring. I wasn’t in any position to take her on a cross-country college-hopping tour. “Peyton...”
“I know you can’t go far,” she rushed on. “But maybe, some day, when you’re having a good day, we could go to Georgetown.”
I swallowed. “Okay, I can do that.”
* * *
When Dylan finishes putting my last book on the top shelf above my desk, and I finish pretending not to look at the glorious dents in his abs that reveal themselves each and every time he reaches up, we have an awkward moment.
“Well, I guess you’re all unpacked.”
“Guess I am.” I look at the floor. “Do you want to hang out, or something?”
“Well...”
“It’s just,” I say as I roll my left shoulder to the window. “From here I can only see what it might be like to actually go to a college party. I get it, you know.” I do this little woe-is-me twirl into my bed. I hold my wrist to my forehead. I might as well play it up. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t go out, and I don’t want to keep my friends from going out, and I have nothing to do here either. I’m stuck.”
Dylan walks over and looks down at me. “I could think of things we could do.” My face bursts on fire and I use my faux dramatic wrist to hide how absolutely brilliant red my skin must be. He makes a weird noise in his throat and runs both hands through his hair. “What I mean is we could work on some talking points or discuss policy issues or...”
My embarrassment is replaced by annoyance. Despite my frown, he keeps rambling. “...we could practice that pizzeria smile Lisa wants you to use or go over some possible pitfalls or...”
I karate chop the air. “Enough.”
“What?” he asks. “I thought you wanted to work on being a better asset to the campaign.”
“I do,” I say. “But some nights don’t you just want to give your brain a break? Do you even know how to do that?” I raise my hands in the air in exasperation and leave them there because the stretch feels good. I’m a horizontal zombie.
“When I’m not responsible for making sure some 18-year-old girl stays in line, yeah, I can be fun.” He crosses his arms and frowns.
“Sorry,” I mumble to the ceiling.
He grabs my hand, his fingers warm, and pulls me up. “We can do anything you want, as long as we stay in here,” he says, pointing to the floor. “So, what do you want to do?”
Anything I want? That’s not quite true, but I still get an idea. “You’re 21, right?”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Yes.”
“Why don’t you go get yourself—only yourself, of course—some beer and bring it back? We can play a drinking game. I’ll have water, obviously,” I say.
“Obviously.” He smiles. But he doesn’t move.
“Come on, Dylan, what did you do your first night at Yale?” I put my hand on my hip.
“I went t
o bed at 8:00 p.m. so I could be fresh for classes, after kissing a picture of my mom, saying three Hail Marys and donating to a cute puppy charity, of course.”
I stare at him until his dimple cracks and he grabs his wallet. “What kind?”
“Port City, if they have it?”
“You know, no reporters are going to know your beer preference. You don’t have to pick the only brewery in Alexandria.”
“I like it, okay?” I smile as he closes the door. That was a lot easier than I thought.
* * *
When he gets back, we sit across from each other on the floor as he reaches into his bag and uncaps a beer. He hands it to me and gets another for himself. “So, what game do you want to play?”
“Kings.” I spread the cards in a circle before he can decide maybe he doesn’t want to play kings.
In a two-person game of kings, things can get a little boring, as a few cards mean only one of us will drink. But finally we get to a good one. A Jack. The “never have I ever” card. I rub my finger along the card as I think. When I play with my friends, we usually start with something we did. Pretty much all the salacious things I’ve done are tied to Tristan, though, which doesn’t feel right to bring up. So, I keep it tame. “Never have I ever waited to be picked up in the departure area of an airport because I thought, well I’m departing the airport.”
We stare at each other. He doesn’t move.
“Really, just me?” I shrug and drink as he laughs. “Okay, I got a good one for you.”
“Bring it,” he says.
“Never have I ever resented a girl named Peyton for ruining my career.”
He shakes his bottle. “I’m getting thirsty over here.”
I smile. Sure, that was blatant fishing, but I needed to know it. He doesn’t resent me, or at least he won’t admit it. Maybe I’ll try another round of blatant fishing for my finale.
“Never have I ever wanted to be with someone, but couldn’t because it would be bad for a campaign.” I bring my beer up to my lips slowly, feeling the glass touch my lips as Dylan raises his bottle. We drink together, with locked eyes.
Red Blooded Page 9
