Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

  “Yeah,” I said. “Anyway, I think working with Doctor Forrester will be interesting, at least. I thought for sure my work-study would be slinging dishes or mopping floors or something.”

  “Yeah, this is a lot better,” she replied. “And just think, you get to see a real writer in action.” When she said the word ‘real’ she held her hands up and made little quotes. I laughed.

  “Okay, you’re probably right. Let’s see if he produces anything this year. At least we can make sure the research is all lined up.”

  She grinned. “We should make a little wager on it.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Feeling a little competitive?”

  “I say he produces absolutely nothing. Twenty dollars.”

  “Fair enough. What’s the threshold. Fifty pages? A hundred? Two?”

  “He has to finish at least a first draft.”

  “Deal.” I reached across to shake her hand. She took it, and though the action felt natural, it felt too natural. Taking her hand. I let go quickly, feeling as if I’d been burned. Touching her… it was just too intense.

  We were both silent again. Awkward. As. Hell.

  “I should get going,” I said, at the exact same time she said, “Well, I’ve got somewhere to…”

  We looked at each other and both of us burst out laughing.

  “Okay,” I said. “Yeah, this is awkward. Are we really going to be able to do this?”

  She shrugged, and gave a smile I knew was fake as a three-dollar bill. “Of course, Dylan. It can’t be that hard.”

  I started to gather my bags, then took three dollars out of my wallet. “For the coffee,” I said.

  “Keep it. You buy next time.”

  I paused, then put the money back in my wallet. Next time? Was this going to be a regular occurrence? Probably not a good idea. Not a good idea at all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Strawberries (Alex)

  When he finally got himself standing, he leaned close and said, “I think we need one more rule.”

  “Yeah?”

  He took a deep breath through his nose, and said, “Yeah. Um, yeah… you need to get different shampoo.”

  What. The. Hell?

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, suddenly very uncomfortable.

  “You still smell like strawberries, and it’s breaking my heart,” he said, his voice a low growl. With that, he turned, slung his bag over his impossibly broad shoulder, and began to walk away.

  He was twenty feet away before I could even think again. Without thought, without regard for consequences, I shouted as loud as I could, “You can’t do that! That’s breaking the first rule! Do you hear me, Dylan?”

  I was attracting stares. He waved over his shoulder and kept walking.

  Bastard.

  I gathered my bag and turned to go in the other direction, back to the dorm. Oh God, I was a mess. I was a mess because of his impossibly blue eyes, because of how his arms and chest had become… so developed. He smelled the same as always, and being around him was impossible. Sometimes when he was close to me I couldn’t even breathe. How in hell was I supposed to stay detached and professional when he set off every single nerve in my body?

  Why did he have to say that?

  I still remembered. I remembered him asking me on the plane a million years ago, during our questions and answers game, “Why do you smell like strawberries?”

  Damn it.

  It’s not like we even really knew each other. I was a different person in Israel. Free. At home, and here in college, I was … well, I was kind of a bitch. I focused, one hundred percent, on my studies, on success. I was driven. I didn’t have room for the crazy sensations and emotions I’d experienced during our trip.

  As I walked, I remembered. His smell. His touch.

  Three days after we arrived in Israel, we’d gone to our first set of host families, in Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv. Somehow, because of a stupid mixup, I ended up being the only female student assigned to a male host. Ariel was nothing but a giant ball of hormones and glands, a hyper-masculine dickhead who was absolutely certain he was going to sleep with me some time during my ten-day stay in his home. By the end of the second day I was exhausted from fending off his advances, and went to our advisor. She got me placed with a different family, thank God. That night, our host families held a party for all of us.

  I remember watching Dylan at the party. All of the kids were drinking. Some, like me, kept it to a minimum, but some, like Rami, the host of the party, were really packing it away.

  Everyone except Dylan. He spent the night nursing a coke and relaxing in a corner. At one point he took out his guitar and played some songs, and had several of the drunken students singing along with him. I watched, and smiled, thinking to myself how beautiful his eyes were. When he played the guitar, his face went through exaggerated facial expressions, his lips pursing sometimes, his eyes closing. He kept looking at me.

  Later that night, he approached me and asked, “Can we talk for a minute?”

  I shifted a little. Oh. God. What was this? Was he going to ask me out? I wanted him to. So badly. We went to Rami’s room in the back of the apartment and sat next to each other on the bed.

  “Listen,” he said. “I know we’re only here for a few weeks. And that’s it. Nothing could ever work between us. But… I’m really, really attracted to you. And I’d like to know if you feel the same.”

  I was drawing in low, shallow breaths. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Finally, I nodded, quickly. “Yes. I do,” I replied.

  “Maybe… maybe we can just see what happens then?”

  I smiled. “Okay,” I said.

  The last two years would have been a lot less painful if I’d just told him, then and there, to go to hell. But maybe I was a little book-smart and not enough life-smart, because I fell for him. I fell off a cliff. And I still haven’t recovered.

  Two hours after Dylan walked away from me oh-so-casually at the coffee shop, Kelly gasped when I told her what he’d said.

  “He said what?”

  I sighed. “He told me he wanted to change my shampoo. Because the smell of strawberries was breaking his heart.”

  She looked at me, her eyes wide, and said, “That’s so romantic.”

  “Oh God, Kelly, that’s no help at all!”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “I thought you hated him.”

  “Only because he hurt you. But it’s obvious you still have a huge thing for this guy. Maybe you should just jump his bones and get it out of your system.”

  “That is enough! The only thing I’m going to do with him is survive the year working for Forrester. He hurt me, Kelly. Worse than I could have imagined possible.”

  “I know,” she said, quietly. “But maybe there’s more to the story than you know. I mean… I’m just saying, it’s possible.”

  “No. It’s completely impossible. Me and Dylan? Never again.”

  She sighed, and leaned back in her bed.

  “What’s going on with Joel, anyway?” I said, trying to change the subject.

  She shrugged. “He’s still an asshole.”

  “There’s a shock,” I replied.

  “Was I too clingy? I don’t understand it.”

  “No,” I said. “There were times last year you couldn’t have separated you two with the Jaws of Life. Something else going on there.”

  “Oh, God. You don’t think he was cheating on me while we were dating, do you?”

  I shook my head. “I’d have given odds that couldn’t happen. Maybe he’s just … I don’t know. Scared?”

  Kelly frowned. “What does he have to be scared of?”

  I gave a sad, sort of bitter laugh. “Maybe he’s scared of getting his heart broken. It happens.”

  She looked me in the eyes. “Could be,” she said.

  Our job was to go out and draw fire (Dylan)

  Okay, so I shouldn’t have said what I said about the strawberry s
cent.

  Two days later, she showed up in Forrester’s office reeking of strawberries. She gave me a defiant look and sat down and started working.

  I didn’t know whether to fly into a rage or break down crying, so I did the next best thing. I laughed. Long and hard, until tears were nearly running down my face.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  That just set me off again, and she gave me a wry look. But finally, I settled down, started working, and began to feel optimistic. Maybe this could work after all.

  At this point we were falling into a routine. Occasionally we would stop to discuss a particular item: journal articles, personal accounts, newspaper articles, whatever, and discuss precisely how to categorize and cross-reference them. Sometimes, when she was busy poring over some obscure document, I’d casually… not so much… glance over and let my eyes rest on her.

  I knew it was stupid to do it. I knew it. But I couldn’t stop myself. Because she was just as beautiful as ever. She wore faded blue jeans and calf-high boots that emphasized the curve of her legs, a grey t-shirt with a band logo on it (I didn’t recognize the band, but a Google search later would fix that), a thin white sweater. The t-shirt hugged her upper body, emphasizing her breasts and waist in a way that grabbed my attention and held it. Her hair was down, falling lush on her shoulders and halfway down her back. I kept wanting to reach out and run my fingers through her hair. I found myself remembering: leaning in, kissing her neck, feeling her hair tent around me, and just breathing her scent.

  “What are you doing?”

  I shook my head, embarrassed. “Sorry,” I said.

  “You were looking at me.”

  Now I looked up at her eyes, then away. “Well, shoot me, then.”

  I turned back to the computer, keyed in the information on the latest piece, the priceless diary of a banker who had witnessed the beginning of the riots.

  I could hear her breathing as I typed in the information. The monitor of the computer just barely reflected her. She was staring at me now. Damn it. Back to business.

  “You know what I don’t hear?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t hear any typing from his office.”

  I snickered. “Maybe he only writes at night?”

  “Or on alternate decades?”

  “Smart-ass.”

  She giggled.

  “He might surprise us both,” I said.

  “Anything’s possible,” she said. “But I think he’s a fraud.”

  I exhaled suddenly, then said, “Maybe. But I was thinking about it last night. Imagine hitting the peak of your career at twenty-two years old. He was still a senior in college when he won the National Book Award. Twenty-two, and you’ve got a major bestseller, the top award in your field. Who wouldn’t be intimidated? How do you follow up something like that?”

  “Huh,” she said. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  I grinned. “I love hearing those words from you.”

  “What words?”

  “You’re right.”

  She gave me a grin, then threw a pencil at me. “Some things never change,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s hard to improve on near-perfection.”

  She shook her head. “It’s five o’clock. Let’s wrap it up.”

  “Okay,” I said. Then my stupid, stupid, stupid mouth ran ahead of my brain. “You want to grab a cup of coffee?”

  She gave me an odd look, eyes a little narrowed and head slightly tilted, and said, “Okay.”

  I carefully stood, hands at the edge of the desk, and grabbed my cane. A few steps to the door of Forrester’s office. I didn’t hear any sound inside at all. Jesus, I hoped he was alive. I quietly opened the office door and looked inside.

  Forrester was passed out at his desk, a little bit of drool pooling on the papers under his face.

  Guess we didn’t need to ask if we could go. I closed the door and turned back to him.

  “Is he writing?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She looked surprised. “Really?”

  “No. He’s passed out.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I shrugged.

  Depending on your point of view, experience, and attitude, we made our way to the coffee shop in either a companionable silence or an oppressive, awkward one. I’d prefer to think it was the former, but the pessimist in me says it was definitely the latter. About two thirds of the way there, she said, “You seem to be doing better today.” She nodded toward the cane.

  “Yeah,” I said. “New physical therapist.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He moonlights, I think, as a dom. Advertises on the back pages of the Village Voice.”

  She threw her head back and laughed out loud. “You’re crazy,” she said.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m dead serious. I think I caught sight of leather straps hanging out of his desk yesterday. I’m going to have to give you my emergency contact information, in case I ever disappear after one of my appointments.”

  “How often do you have to go?”

  “Twice a week. And I’m supposed to walk at least a mile every morning. I think he’s going to make me start running soon.”

  “What exactly happened?” she asked.

  By this time we were at the coffee shop, so I said, “Let me get our drinks, then I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  Five minutes later we were both seated out front, coffee in hand, and I said, “It happened back in late February. We were out on a patrol. Basically, our job was to go out and draw fire. Drive around until someone shoots at us, then the quick reaction force dives in and gets the bad guys. Or at least that’s the theory.”

  She nodded, encouraging me to go on. “Anyway, that particular day we’d been in a small village, about three miles from the FOB.”

  “The FOB?” she asked.

  “Sorry. Forward operating base. Remember Fort Apache? It’s basically where you take a small part of the army, plant them on a small target in the middle of hostile territory, and hang them out to dry.”

  She leaned back, looking shocked. Probably more at my bitter tone than the words I’d used.

  “Anyway, the village was about three miles away, and we went through there all the time. It was supposed to be friendly territory, but that’s all relative. Friendly means we didn’t get blown up there every day, just maybe once a week. The kids could get candy from us, and we were pretty sure they wouldn’t be killed for it, and that they wouldn’t be secretly holding grenades or whatever.”

  A sad expression passed across her face. Almost a pitying expression.

  I didn’t need her fucking pity. I leaned forward and said, “Listen, whatever you do, don’t ever give me pity. I don’t want to see that expression on your face, all right? I walked out of there alive. That makes me a fucking lottery winner, okay?”

  Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

  “Anyway… We got held up that day. One of the shopkeepers… okay, that’s a stretch. This guy ran what was basically a cart beside the road, selling stuff to us, or to truck drivers who came through. Probably made fifty cents a day. I think he realized he could make a lot more working for the Taliban, because he held us up that day, telling some bullshit story about insurgents leaving the area, and he knew where they were going to be moving to, and so on. We finally finished with him, which gave the bad guys enough time to set up an ambush along the road back to the FOB.”

  “So… what happened?”

  “I don’t remember much. We were about halfway back when my Humvee ran over the bomb. My friend Roberts was driving, and it hit mostly on his side. Everything went white, very suddenly. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, and then it was all gone. I woke up in Germany three days later, very lucky to be alive. Shrapnel had cut most of the way through my thigh and calf muscles. I got some permanent ringing in my ears, though the docs say that might g
o away in a few years. And… well, I spent a long time in the hospital. First in Germany, then after they stabilized me, they moved me to Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington.”

  “And your friends?”

  I grimaced. “I basically had two friends in the Army. Sherman was in the humvee behind us. Got out without a scratch. He’s still over there in the boonies. And… well, Roberts didn’t make it.”

  Her eyes dropped to the table, and she said, “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged, trying to look casual, knowing that it was a lie as I said the next words.

  “It happens, Alex. People die. Roberts wouldn’t want me to spend my life all screwed up over what happened, any more than I would if our positions were reversed. He’s up there somewhere right now urging me to go get drunk and get laid, probably.”

  She chuckled. “And are you following his advice?”

  “Not yet,” I said, “But there’s always tomorrow.”

  Not the smartest thing to say, I guess. Her gaze slipped away from me, out to the street. Finally, very slowly, she asked, “Why didn’t you contact me? After you were injured?”

  I didn’t like the expression on her face, which was full of … grief? Longing? Sadness?

  I couldn’t answer that question out loud. Because you ripped my heart out, I wanted to say. Because I couldn’t talk to you without hating you.

  Because I loved you too much to put you through my bitterness and rage. Because I didn’t deserve to have you.

  I shook my head, and said, in a light tone of voice, “It would be breaking the rules to answer that one, Alex.”

  No pepper spray in the bar (Alex)

  “I don’t know, Kelly. I’m not sure I’m up for it.”

  Kelly rolled her eyes at me while she was shimmying herself into a sheer halter that would take a can-opener to remove, then said, “Alex. It’s the first Friday back in school. We are going out. What’s gotten into you?”

  “What’s gotten into me is I need to study. I need to focus.”

  Kelly stopped what she was doing and walked straight at me. She put her hands on either side of my face, looked me in the eye, and said, “I call bullshit.”