Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

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 scent.
    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