Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

was tantalizing. This girl scared the hell out of me.
    “What’s your favorite memory?”
    She sat back and thought, then a beautiful, huge smile came across her face.
    “Easy,” she said. “When I was ten, we were living in Moscow. And my father let me go for the first time to an official function. It was… glamorous. All the men and women were in ball gowns and tuxedos, and my mom took me out and got me fitted for my own gown. When the dancing started, my father took me out and danced with me.”
    “Moscow? Holy shit! What were you doing there?”
    “My dad was Foreign Service. And no fair, that’s an extra question.”
    Her dad was in the Foreign Service, she said casually. Holy shit. Way out of my league.
    “Oh, rats, sorry. Okay… you get two questions.”
    “All right… What scares you more than anything else in the world?”
    You do , I almost said.
    I took a deep breath, then I said, honestly, “Ending up like my dad. He was a drunk.”
    Her face took on a look of… sadness? Pity? I didn’t want pity. She changed the subject.
    “What’s the best thing you’ve ever done?” she asked.
    “The best thing? Hmm…” I had to think for a bit. I slowly mulled it over, then said, “I was homeless for a while. Dropped out of school. Anyway, sometimes I didn’t know where I was going to sleep, or get something to eat. One night I was riding on MARTA… that’s our subway… just back and forth, trying to get some sleep on the train before they shut down for the night. They shut down the train at 2 a.m., and I was stuck downtown, and I ran into a family. All of them were homeless, like me. Parents, two kids. The dad had lost his job. And I was working, and had a little bit of money. So I treated them to dinner at Waffle House. It wasn’t much… maybe twenty dollars. But you could tell the kids hadn’t been eating much at all. They were so… grateful.”
    I squeezed my eyes shut. Those kids were… overwhelming. Overwhelming in their need, and in their love for their parents, and… just overwhelming.
    Alex looked at me like I was from Mars. “You were homeless?” she asked, very quietly.
    “No, that was already two questions. My turn.” I thought, then blurted out, “Why do you smell like strawberries?”
    She blushed, a deep red. Oh. My. God. Why did I ask that? Idiot!
    Finally, she spoke, a shy smile on her face. “It’s um, my shampoo. I like strawberries. I wear strawberry lip gloss, too.”
    My turn to freak. Because the thought of her, and strawberry lip gloss, was too much to contemplate. Her lips were perfectly curved, the lower one slightly pouty. And, to be honest, every time I looked at her body it made me want to touch her. Anywhere. Everywhere.
    “My turn,” she said, turning toward me. She had a mischievous look on her face. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
    Alarm bells were screeching in my head. I said, “Um… not exactly. I’ve been seeing a girl, but not sure where it’s headed. If anywhere.”
    She smiled.
    I smiled.
    “What about you?” I asked. “Is there a boyfriend?”
    “Sort of,” she said. “I’m dating a guy named Mike. I don’t know if it’s serious or not, either.”
    I swallowed. She had a Mike back home. I had a Hailey back home. And this trip was only two months anyway. My brain was telling me, Stay the hell away, Dylan! But let’s be honest. I’ve never been that smart anyway.

    Crying: Not. Going. To. Happen. (Alex)
    Okay, look, I’m not exactly an emotional basket case or anything. Not a drama queen. But Dylan had been a big part of my life for a long time. And sitting there next to him in Doctor Forrester’s office was literally torture.
    When the appointment was over we got up, awkwardly. Forrester shook our hands. I turned and left, without a word, while Dylan was still trying to figure out how to get out of his chair and collect himself.
    I went straight to the Financial Aid office.
    The office was packed, of course. Beginning of the school year, and people were trying to sort out their financial aid. Every single person who had a problem just had to choose that moment right then to go to Financial Aid to get it sorted out. So when I asked to see Sandra Barnhart, I was told to take a seat. And I waited. And waited. And waited.
    She finally let me into her office. She was exhausted. Hair frazzled, her desk was stacked high with papers. When I entered the room she was fishing the last pills out of a bottle of Tylenol.
    Not a good