Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

morning and actually arrive still in the morning if you’re on a non-stop flight. Going east, across the United States, isn’t nearly as much fun. Going against the sun, a four-hour flight turns into an all-day ordeal: leave in the morning, don’t arrive until late at night.
    Actually, I’m lying, just trying to stay positive.
    The fact is, I hate flying. Being cooped up in a tin can with two hundred other people at nearly the speed of sound, thousands of feet above the surface of the earth? I get the shakes on takeoff and landing. The only tolerable flight I’ve ever had in my life was the one home from Tel Aviv to New York three years ago. I spent that entire flight in Dylan’s arms, and didn’t notice the fear. He held my hand on takeoff, and I was asleep when we landed.
    I was already regretting what I said to him. Even if it was the right thing to say, the right thing to do. I’d gambled, and it was a big one. But I’d also done what I needed to protect myself. I loved Dylan, but I wasn’t going to take him without conditions. I wasn’t going to take him without being able to trust that he’d be there tomorrow.
    So this flight I mostly spent crying. God, sometimes I’m pathetic. Is that a definition of strength? Doing what you have to do even when it’s horrible, when it tears your heart out, when it feels like a huge mistake? If so, I guess this counted. I felt strong. I felt self-affirmed, empowered. I felt miserable.
    To make things worse, I spent the entire ride going through my album. I was updating it, adding the very few pictures we’d taken in New York. Together. Every picture I saw of us together made me feel like crying just a little more.
    The flight attendant stopped by twice to ask if I was okay. The second time, I answered forcefully, “Do I look okay? Please, just leave me alone.”
    She did.
    Before the flight landed, I went back to the bathroom and carefully washed my face, then re-did my mascara and makeup. One thing I was not going to do was give any indication to my family that I’d been crying on this flight. This fell under the category of things my mother did not need to know.
    At the end of the flight, as I was packing away my carry-on bag, the poor guy who’d been sitting next to me during the flight said, “He’s a lucky guy, I guess, to have you love him so much.”
    I grinned. “Maybe. If he only knew it.”
    “Good luck,” he said.
    I guess I depend on the kindness of strangers. Because I’d put the rose in, as well. The rose given to me by the florist around the corner from the dorms, just two weeks ago.
    So, bag slung under my shoulder, a fake smile plastered on my face, I walked through the security gates and greeted my family.
    My dad wasn’t at the airport, of course. He’d be sitting at home, waiting to greet me in some formal way when I arrived in his domain. But my mom was, and the twins, Jessica and Sarah. Expecting the same sort of giant, chaotic family bear hug I’d been greeted with when I got home for the summer, I was a little surprised (and disappointed) when my mother hugged me first, then each sister separately. They’d arrayed themselves on either side of my mother, Jessica dressed in a white dress, Sarah in black jeans and a grey T-shirt.
    “Welcome home, darling,” my mother said.
    “Hey,” Jessica said.
    Sarah didn’t say a word.
    My mother leaned close and whispered, “The twins aren’t speaking with each other at the moment. Sorry about that, it’s made things terribly awkward.”
    She wasn’t kidding. I had to sit in the middle seat of the minivan with Jessica, because Sarah and Jessica, both sixteen, refused to sit in the middle row together, and the back row had been taken out, the space filled with boxes of God only knew what. Sarah sat up front, staring out the window, refusing to acknowledge anyone.
    Jessica looked at Sarah, then crossed her arms, pouted, and stared out the window.
    Oh, boy. This was going to be a fun vacation.
    “So, uh, Mom, what have you been up to?”
    “Oh, not much. Mostly worrying about you girls, and waiting hand and foot on your father while he writes his memoirs.”
    “He’s still working on them?”
    She met my eyes in the rearview mirror for just a second, then said, “Yes, he’s still working on them.” She didn’t sigh, or roll her eyes or anything else, but it seemed like she wanted to. “How is school? We hardly ever hear from you, Alexandra.”
    I shrugged. “I’ve been