Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

No more talk about the past. From this point forward, we only talk about now. You’re absolutely right. Any more rules?”
    “I don’t know.”
    I frowned, then said, “Fine. What do you think of Doctor Forrester, anyway?”
    She shook her head. “He’s a giant fake.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”
    “Well, yeah. Just look at him. Tweed jacket! He wrote one novel fifteen years ago, won a National Book Award, and he’s been coasting on that ever since.”
    I grinned. “That is one hell of a case of … um….”
    Oh shit, not now. I couldn’t think. Sometimes this happens to me now. I forget words, phrases. I closed my eyes, trying to center, let my mind come at it from a different direction. I pictured a typewriter, an old manual one, and it popped in. “Writer’s block.”
    She giggled. Still upset, but the change of subject helped. It was nice to see a little color on her cheeks. “Do you still write?” she asked.
    I nodded. “Of course.”
    “What about?”
    I shrugged. “The war right now. It’s all … stream of consciousness, I guess. Not organized in any way. Just trying to get my thoughts down. My therapist down in Atlanta said it might help.”
    She turned and looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time, I think, since we’d run into each other three days before.
    “Your therapist?”
    I shrugged. “Along with the gimp leg, I’m technically diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And traumatic brain injury. Got my brainpan rattled when the bomb went off, you know? It’s all labels, anyway.”
    “What do you mean?”
    I frowned. “I’m just… I’m not exactly the guy you knew, Alex. Sometimes things here… they don’t seem as… as real. As it was over there. Maybe I’ve become an adrenaline junkie. Reality just isn’t colorful enough for me.”
    She sighed. “I felt that way for the longest time after we got back from Israel.”
    “You’re breaking your rules again.”
    “Oh, right.”
    She paused, then spoke again. “But I really did. It was so intense, and interesting and colorful. Then all of the sudden things were mundane, and grey, and it was get up and go to school and do homework and none of it seemed to matter as much.”
    “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,