I pull back and try to tame the venomous bile urging up my vocal chords. He’s right.
Bain is right.
I look at Dylan, my eyes misty, my mind desperate. His lips part.
Bain smiles. “But if, on the other hand, you really are in love, or at least getting there, then that’ll be romantic and sweet. Is that what’s happening?”
Dylan looks at me, but I can’t read him. Will he say yes? Does he feel what I do?
We both stay silent. Neither of us wants to bare our souls to Bain.
“Fuck, guys,” Bain says, shaking his head and crossing his arms. “Fine. Whatever. It doesn’t matter what’s actually happening, whatever the fuck that is. But as far as the media and public are concerned, until November 8, you two are madly in love.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Whoa,” I told Peyton as she climbed on top of my lap with a Popsicle—an extra treat for the kids at the wedding. “Let’s get a napkin. We don’t want to mess with this suit.”
“Why not?” she asked. She was in that three-year-old phase where she questioned everything, from why we put wood around pictures and hung them on the wall to why rocks have dents in them.
“I married Mom in this suit,” I said as I took a wet napkin and pulled it along each and every one of her sticky fingers. She looked up with her mouth in a wide “O.”
“That’s magical,” she said.
“It is.”
* * *
Lisa comes in, oblivious to the tension, or perhaps used to it. Every time she walks in on an interaction with Bain and someone else it’s probably broiling at the edges with angst and anger. She taps my shoulder. “Makeup, now.”
I look at Dylan. “I’m sorry,” I say, before realizing Lisa had meant makeup, not make up.
I swivel and don’t glance back. I don’t do anything. I stare at Lisa’s tight black curls as I follow her down the corridors. I nod along as she tells me how the rally will go. My mom isn’t here. She’s at a fundraiser in San Francisco. So, in a way, I’m representing her. “Governor Ruiz will probably call you up so he can say a few things about your mom and try to humanize her.”
“Okay,” I say. The way they talk about humanizing my mom, you’d think she walked around with her arms at perpetual right angles and her neck unable to move while she talked in a monotone voice: “I assure you I am not a robot. I am a real life human, just like you. Please vote for me. End of transmission.”
Whatever. If my mom needs humanizing and I can humanize her, then okay, I’m down. But it’s hard to pay attention to much else because my stomach is still swirling from the thought of walking around campus holding Dylan’s hand. Kissing Dylan. Doing much more fun things with Dylan. I figured out a way for us to be together, just like that. We can be together and help the campaign.
I force those happy thoughts out of my mind as I climb the stairs to the stage. I give a big, full-arm wave along with a glowing smile. The crowd cheers and stands and hurrahs. It feels great.
“Thank you so much for coming out today and supporting us,” I say, reading the teleprompter as instructed. “I know you all care deeply about this country, just like my mom and Governor Ruiz. Together, we can get things back on track. We can help our nation be prosperous while also being responsible international stewards. We can help the lowest among us when they’re down, while also creating conditions that allow everyone a chance to strive and succeed. It doesn’t have to be either-or.”
The crowd thumps and cries, and if I couldn’t see all their big smiling faces, I might have been more nervous. But no, it’s all positive energy. Which is good, because that’s exactly why I’m here.
“Please help me welcome the next president of the United States of America, Tom Ruiz.”
As Governor Ruiz enters, the crowd roars. Say what you will about the guy, he knows how to endear himself to the masses. He strides to the podium as I back away from it, finding the place that Lisa had pointed out to me before. But Governor Ruiz touches my shoulder and won’t let go.
“Thanks, Peyton,” he says. “Now, I know some of you might think you already know Peyton, and that you know how close she was to her father, Richard Arthur, but you may not realize what a wonderful mom Jen can be. Let me share a story with you.”
Governor Ruiz pushes me forward. My heart beats faster and resists my attempts to calm it down.
“Peyton often wears a hidden pin fastened to her clothing.”
Shit buckets. How would he know that? My mom wouldn’t...
Dylan.
“Peyton, do you have that pin now?”
What? Can I lie? Can I shrink into a sliver of a girl and fall between the cracks of the stage? Can I shove the Democratic Party’s presidential candidate without getting shot at by the secret service? Can I run off stage and throttle Dylan?
My options are so very paltry.
“Yes,” I say, so soft that he tilts the microphone to me.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, again. Redundant.
“Would you mind sharing that pin with us today?”
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Not redundant. I need eight yes’s in my head in order to move forward with the verbal necessity.
“No, of course not.” My fingers brush along the edge of my dress and undo the pin, my shaking hands nicking my thumb slightly. I place it in Governor Ruiz’s hand. He is mercifully gentle. He examines it like it’s a fine jewel he just found in a cave in the rainforest. He holds it up as though it represents victory itself.
“When Peyton lost her father, Jen Arthur made her this. It’s a pin with a strand of fabric from Richard Arthur’s wedding suit, a strand of fabric from Jen’s wedding dress, and a strand of fabric from Peyton’s baby blanket, all woven together into an infinity symbol.”
His eyes focus and, for a moment, it’s as though he’s alone in the room with just that pin, and maybe me, but not the thousands of people who now sit hushed, staring at the jumbo screens zeroed in on three shreds of fabric.
“Peyton, how did you feel when your mom gave this to you?”
“I felt...” I wipe my hands on my dress and stare out into the crowd without taking anyone in. It pounds in on me, how important it is to humanize my mom, how important it is that we win this election. How unimportant my feelings, my thoughts, my memories are in the entire process.
It’s not fair. But it is what it is.
Like a good girl, I must play along.
“I felt better. Stronger. I keep it with me so when I’m nervous, for example, just, you know, hypothetically speaking...” I hold my palms out, “...if I’m in front of thousands of people.” The audience laughs and my chest feels a little less tight. “I know I can touch it, or feel it under my cardigan, or dress, or in my pocket, and I know that in some way my dad will always be with me. And I know that my mom’s love can also sustain me. We both miss my dad, and always will. But we have each other.”
And, on cue, I cry. Small tears that might not have been noticeable if the pesky cameramen hadn’t caught them and drilled in on them. But as I stare at the jumbo screen and my way-too-big nostrils, the image swipes away. Now the screen displays a woman and a girl in the audience. They hug and wipe away tears. Then an older gay couple, one of whom is in a wheelchair. They clutch each other’s hands and smile through firm, weathered faces. A young woman cries as a man stands behind her, squeezing her shoulders and whispering things in her ear that make her smile.
I look to the audience. They feel me. I feel them.
Governor Ruiz’s hand falls on my back. “Thank you, Peyton, for sharing that with us.” He puts the pin back in my palm and closes my fist around it, giving it a subtle squeeze, before he turns back to the audience.
I walk numbly to my spot as Go
vernor Ruiz continues on about my mom’s warm character and how, just like she’s always there for me, she will always be there supporting him, supporting the nation.
Finally out of the spotlight, or at least to the side of it, I’m able to process what I had to push away before. I look to the side of the stage, scanning faces. Bain’s hard frown as he looks at his phone, Lisa’s contemplating creases as she nods to someone and Dylan’s pleading eyes as he stares at me.
His forehead crinkles and he teeters a little, like he’s about to sprint to me. He mouths, “I’m sorry.”
My jaw tightens to the point of pain. My chest constricts. I turn back to the audience.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“What do you think of my hair?” Jen asked, patting her freshly cut locks.
“Perfect,” I said, pecking her on the cheek.
Peyton crossed her arms. “It’s too short.”
I looked down at Peyton with a scowl, but Jen just smiled.
“Peyton, why would you say something like that? You could hurt your mom’s feelings.”
Peyton’s tiny, little-kid forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry, but she asked. I can’t lie.”
Jen knelt down. “No, you can’t,” she says. “But sometimes you need to be savvy with the truth.”
Her eyes flitted to me and I returned a weak smile. I put my hand on Peyton’s shoulder. “Your mom’s wrong.” Jen raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes lying is the right thing to do.”
* * *
As soon as the rally is over, I skirt past Bain, who raises an eyebrow as I rush by. Out of the corner of my eye I see Dylan following me, but I don’t give a shit.
I sprint down the hall, past the security guards who stiffen and stretch their hands over their holsters as they see me walking quickly, and relax when they recognize my face.
“Peyton,” Dylan calls down the hall. But I keep walking. I pretend not to hear him. I don’t do a good job of this, but I don’t know how to respond. I finally scoot my way into a bathroom and click the bathroom stall closed. I lean against the tiles, feeling the grout under the tips of my fingers as I stare up into the bathroom lights, all filled with dead bugs of various sizes. The tears release softly, slowly. Gliding down my hot temples as I close my eyes and bare my teeth to the bathroom ceiling gods.
The door squeals open.
“Peyton,” Dylan whispers.
Shit.
“Go away,” I say.
His footsteps stop, but they don’t retreat.
I swallow and wipe my eyes and rub the dampness from my face with some tissue. I emerge.
“That was crap,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Peyton. I told Mr. Ruiz about it. The numbers are close, and most independent voters are saying they’re hesitant to vote for Ruiz because of your mom. They think she’s cold and calculating. We need to show them her softer side as much as possible.”
“But it’s my pin, it’s my story, to tell or not tell.” I hold my hand over my chest and try to calm down. But the hurt and anger suffocate me.
Dylan slumps his shoulders. “I meant to tell you. I didn’t know he was going to use it today.”
“But you knew he was going to use it.” I step toward him. I’m clenching my jaw so hard it hurts.
He looks down at me. “Yeah, Peyton. We had to use it. 67 percent of independents don’t think your mom is a caring person. 59 percent of independents think she has a cold demeanor. We’re pulling for anything to show she’s not like that. We didn’t have a choice.”
I close my eyes. “You had a choice, Dylan. You did. You didn’t have to say anything.”
“I want to win. I thought you wanted that too.”
“Fuck you,” I yell, my fingers digging into my palms. “You know I want that. If you had to sit me down and tell me all this before and convince me to use the pin, fine. That would have showed respect. But you didn’t, you just went ahead and moved forward.”
“Would that have worked?” Dylan says, anger flashing across his face. “I try to tell you things, I try to advise you, and you don’t listen. Hell, you don’t even tell me what you’re up to most of the time.”
“And apparently neither do you!” My whole body is hot.
“You’re angry now, but later, you’ll realize this was the right move.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me,” I say. “You don’t know what this is like, and you don’t know how important it was to me. Yeah, it’s just a bunch of cloth, but it means something to me. And I told you that.”
My tears are fast and furious now, and I can barely see him move toward me.
He tries to touch me, but I flinch. “I’m sorry, but I needed to do it,” he says. “Can we just move past this? I hate it when you cry.”
“Because we have to play at being a couple now?” Hotness is everywhere. Burning in my chest and my eyes and on the surface of my skin.
“What?”
“You need to try to make this right because you need me to play the part of the nice girlfriend? Right? We need to—”
“You were the one who kissed me, okay? Don’t forget that.”
“I thought it would work.” I hold his gaze as my breathing picks up.
He leans in even closer. “It did work. It worked so well that now everyone is excited about us being together. They want us to be together, so we are together.”
I push my hair behind my ears. I’m still angry, but that doesn’t keep other emotions from swooping in. “Do you really think we can pull this off? I’m not very good at faking things.”
He steps back and his shoulders loosen. “Maybe you don’t have to fake it.”
I swallow about five times. He knows how I feel about him. Something twinges in my chest. Or used to feel about him. I rub the pin, which is now securely fastened back inside my cardigan. “I thought I wouldn’t have to fake it. I thought there was more to you. But there isn’t. It’s just elections and politics, politics and elections. All you’re capable of is spouting off political facts and studying campaign strategy.”
His eyes narrow and his face tenses. “That’s what you think of me?”
I fold my arms and stare at the ground.
“Whatever. You don’t like me? Fine. But that’s not a good reason to ruin a presidential election.” His voice is so low.
“I’m not going to ruin—”
“Neither am I.”
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine,” he says.
Everything is fine.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I’d read the Washington Post on the porch and try not to listen to Annie and Peyton playing with their Barbies in the grass. They’d swirl them around and create little Barbie villages out of branches and twigs and leaves. And, inevitably, Barbie and Ken would kiss. They’d push the dolls’ faces against each other and then twist the dolls’ bodies as they held on to the doll legs.
Yes, that’s pretty much how kissing works.
* * *
When we get back from the rally, we tell Annie how excited we are to be together. She smiles, knowingly, and says she knew the two of us had chemistry. I have to plaster on a smile for one of my best friends. Dylan rubs my back and says he couldn’t imagine fitting as well with anyone else. When Tristan gives Dylan a faux lecture on how he usurped my virginal image, Dylan shrugs and says he’s only a man. He couldn’t help himself.
But when Tristan and Annie leave, the room’s a vacuum. Dylan’s light is snuffed. He ignores me. I broil. I should be the one bitterly ignoring him. He’s the one who fucked up.
Why can’t he get over our tiff and help me figure out if Representative Roberts is just some guy my aunt knew, or if he’s responsible for my very existence. I search for Representative Roberts online every day. I read
his sound bites and his interviews. Would contacting him be so bad? Yes. I can’t just meander over to his office in Capitol Hill or shoot him an email. Finally, I read that he’ll be kicking off his book tour at Yale in late October. His book, which covers his recent races and his vision for America’s future, isn’t high on my reading list, but this event might just be my chance. My mind spins with ideas. I told Dylan he could trust me, but what’s the point in telling him about this? He barely acknowledges me when it’s just the two of us.
For two weeks, I try to keep my anger at a simmer, but instead I’m just hurt over and over again at his vacillating demeanor. When we’re in my room, he reads his tablet as though there’s nothing else on the planet but that glowing light. When we’re in a car on the way to an event, he focuses on the buildings passing by. He doesn’t talk to me. When we go over talking points, his voice is stilted and curt. There’s no praise. There’s no commentary at all. It’s just business.
But when we’re in public, he transforms into a jovial, caring boyfriend. He should have been a spy or a movie star. He’s a natural at faking our relationship, whereas I jitter and make flailing attempts to recover.
When Dylan and I walk around campus, his fingers slip into mine. He holds on to me, hard. As our hands sway between us and my palms sweat and my heart races, I resist the urge to pull away. I resist the urge to lean closer. Because when he touches me, I remember that kiss. And I want it again. And, maybe a second or third or millionth time after that, too.
I want it every time he touches me. And he’s always touching me. When I have trouble reaching a book in the library, he puts his hand on my back as he reaches up to get it for me. When I tell him at dinner that he can only have a quarter of my cupcake, okay, fine, two-eighths, he pulls me to him and laughs in my hair. When I get an A on my first anthropology essay, he hugs me in the hall after class and tells me I’m brilliant.
Red Blooded Page 18
