Just Remember to Breathe

A Thompson Sisters Novel by

Charles Sheehan-Miles

The Thompson Sisters

Just Remember to Breathe

A Song for Julia

The Last Hour

Fiction

Nocturne (with Andrea Randall)
Coming September 2013

Republic: A Novel of America's Future

Insurgent: Book 2 of America's Future

Prayer at Rumayla: A Novel of the Gulf War

Nonfiction

Saving the World On $30 A Day: An Activists Guide to Starting, Organizing and Running a Non-Profit Organization

Acknowledgements

I'd like to thank my editor Shakirah Dawud for catching my errors in the final version. 

Thanks to my awesome, wonderful beta readers: Patrick "Deuce the Two Cats" Patriarca, Barrie Suddery, Bryan James and Jackie Trippier Holt.

Finally, I want to personally thank Adriane Boyd, Tiffany King, Leslie Fear, Stephenie Thomas and all the gals at the Indie Bookshelf. Because of your willingness to go out on a limb and read the book and urge others to read it, 
Just Remember to Breathe
 has been far more successful than any other book I've written in the past. That couldn't have happened without such wonderful people telling their friends. I owe all of you, big time.

Broken Hearts and Coffee Mugs (Alex)

From the moment I put my mom’s car in drive, my coffee mug still on the roof, I could tell it was going to be a rough day. The mug, which had been a cute gift from Dylan, went flying off the car and smashed into a million pieces. I gasped as I saw it spinning in the rearview mirror, falling in what seemed like slow motion until it hit the street, splattering my coffee and tiny pieces of porcelain across the road.

My eyes pricked into painful tears. Even though it had been more than six months since we’d spoken, even though he’d broken my heart, even though he’d refused all contact and ignored my letters, it still hurt.
 

I pulled to the side and took a deep breath. Dylan bought the mug from a vendor in Jerusalem, who had printed it right on the spot from a digital photo: the two of us together, holding each other as we stood waist deep in the Mediterranean Sea. In the photo, I had an astonishingly vacant expression on my face as we gazed into each other’s eyes. In retrospect, I looked, and felt, as if I was on drugs.

Of course, Kelly had been telling me for six months it was time to get rid of the mug. Time to move on. Time to forget about Dylan.

I took a deep breath. Kelly was right. Yes, we’d had some problems. Yes, I’d gotten drunk, and said some things I regretted. But nothing unforgivable. Nothing that warranted his disappearing off the face of the planet.

I looked in the mirror and quickly repaired the damage from my involuntary tears, then put the car into drive. In two days, I was flying back to New York and my second year in college, and I’d damned well get a new coffee mug. I would just add that to the lengthy, overly detailed to-do list my mother had oh-so-helpfully provided, which was now sitting on the passenger seat of the car. New coffee mug. One that didn’t have my past stamped all over it. Kelly would be proud.
 

I started to put the car into drive, but my phone chose that instant to ring, and I’m not very good at ignoring it, so I left mom’s car in park and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Alexandra Thompson?”

“Yes, this is Alex,” I said.
 

“Hello. This is Sandra Barnhardt from the financial aid office.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly tense. Some people you don’t want calls from the day before school starts, and the financial aid office was way up at the head of that list.
 

“Um… what can I do for you?”

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Professor Allan is going on leave of absence, so your work study assignment has been cancelled.”

Indefinite leave of absence? My guess was Professor Allan was going into rehab. I was pretty sure she was a cokehead my first day working for her. Whatever.

“So, um… what exactly does that mean?”

“Well… the good news is, we’ve got you a new assignment.”

I couldn’t wait to hear this. No doubt I’d be scrubbing pots in one of the dining halls. I waited, and then waited some more. “Um… maybe you could tell me what the assignment is?”

Sandra Barnhardt from the financial office coughed, possibly a little embarrassed.

“This is all last minute, you understand. But our author-in-residence this year has requested two research assistants. You’ll be working for him.”

“Oh… I see. Well, at least that sounds interesting.”

“I hope so,” she said. “Are you already back on campus?”

“No, I’m in San Francisco; I fly back day after tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well, then. Stop by when you get back, and I’ll get you the information about the assignment.”

“Great,” I said. “See you in a couple days.”

Okay. I’ll admit. It really did sound interesting. Author-in-residence. What exactly did that mean, anyway? Whatever it was, it had to be more interesting than doing Professor Allan’s filing.

Whatever. I’d better get moving,
I thought, or the cops would be along to move me along. I’d been sitting in front of someone’s driveway for nearly ten minutes.
 

I pulled the car out to finish my errands. Time to get supplied for the new year. Starting with a new coffee mug.

***

“
Alex!
”

Kelly’s cry was somewhere around 125 decibels and somewhere in the upper reaches of pitch possible to the human voice. That was compounded by the fact that she was bouncing up and down, as if she had tiny pogo sticks, or possibly jackhammers, attached to her feet.

She bounced over to me and grabbed me in a huge hug.
 

“Oh. My.
God!
” she shouted. “The summer was so boring with you gone. We are going out for drink. Right. Now.”

I blinked, then said, “Um… can I get my bags inside first?”
 

I’d gotten up at 5 a.m. to catch the first flight out of San Francisco. Going east meant I’d basically lost an entire day: the flight landed at 4 p.m. at JFK. Then the long wait to get my bags, wait for a taxi, and fight the ridiculous traffic. I’d let myself into the dorm at 7 p.m.
 

“Well, of course!” she said. “But we can’t lose any time!”

“Kelly...”

“I so have to tell you what happened with Joel. Yesterday he showed up here with no shirt on, and—”

“Kelly.”

“—he’s got a new tattoo. Which would be fine, except…”

“
Kelly!
” I finally shouted.

She stopped, as if I’d stuffed a plug in her mouth.

“Please,” I said. “I’ve been up and traveling since five this morning.”

“You don’t have to yell at me,” she said.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… can we go out tomorrow? Or at least let me get a nap first? I’m seriously exhausted, and I need a shower.”

She grinned. “Gotcha, of course. Nap. Sure. But then we are
so
going out. You need to meet Bryan.”

What?

“Who is Bryan?”

“Good God, Alex, weren’t you listening to anything I said?”

She continued as I dragged my bags inside. I loved Kelly. And she would have fit in great with my tribe of sisters back home. But God, couldn’t she just shut up for
one second
?
 

I finally dumped my bags on the floor, then navigated around her. My bed, stripped since I’d flown home at the beginning of summer, looked inviting. I collapsed, feeling the weight of my body sink in. Kelly kept talking, but I was having trouble making sense of her words. I tried to nod at the appropriate times, but the world slowly faded to black. The last thought I remember before losing consciousness was my regret that I’d lost that damned mug.

***

Kelly woke me up an hour later and hustled me into the shower.
 

“I refuse to take no for an answer,” she shouted. “It’s time we cured you of your asshole ex-boyfriend!”

God, it was like she had the volume stuck on max.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression of Kelly. Yes, she talks way too much. She’s a girly-girl, in ways I’ve never been. Her side of the room is disgustingly pink, decorated with
Twilight
and
Hunger Games
posters, and she acts as if she’s had more experience with guys than one of the girls posing on the back pages of the
Village Voice
.

My side of the room is mostly stacked in books. The truth is, I’m sort of a geek, and proud of it.
 

Kelly, though, she’s shy as hell, and overcompensates by being super gregarious. She charges into the center of parties, dances like a wild woman, and does everything she can to drag me out of my shell.

Problem is, sometimes I don’t really want to come out.
 

Once I got out of the shower and changed into a pair of black skinny jeans and a long-sleeved tee, she led me out. There was a party somewhere, she said, and we were going to go find it.

A Bad Idea (Dylan)

Coming here was a bad idea.

If I could go back up the chain of “if-only’s” back to the source, I suppose the reason I was starting as a student at Columbia University is because one day when I was twelve Billy Naughton gave me a beer. Billy was a year older than me, and might have been a bad influence if my parents hadn’t been somewhat worse. As it was, the effects of alcohol held little mystery for me, at least as viewed from the outside.

Viewed from the inside, though… that was another thing.
 

One thing led to another, and one drink led to another, and on my sixteenth birthday I dropped out of high school. Of course, by that time, Dad had left, and Mom had cleaned up her act. She laid down the law. If I wasn’t going to school, I could just get out. She wasn’t going to have her child turn out like her husband.

I went couch surfing. I slept in the park a couple times. I got a job, lost it, got another one, lost that one, too. And the damnedest thing was, Mom was right. I went back and registered for school. Then I showed up on her doorstep, showed her my registration and schedule, and she wept and let me back in the apartment.

A lot of other things happened since, of course, including me getting blown up by some hajis in Afghanistan. But I don’t talk about that stuff so much. If you want to know, just read the papers.

Screw that. The papers never covered it right anyway. If you really want to know what it was like, walk into your kitchen right now. Grab a handful of sand. Close your eyes, stick your hand in the garbage disposal, and turn it on. That should give you a pretty good idea of what Afghanistan is like.

Anyway, long story short, Columbia apparently has a soft spot for reformed dropouts and combat veterans. So here I was, and it was the first day of classes, and I was pent up, tense as all hell, because the one person in the world I didn’t want to see, the one person I wanted to see the most, all at the same time, well, she was here.
 

Thankfully, University Housing got me in with a couple of graduate engineering students. I don’t think I could have stood living in the dorms with a bunch of eighteen-year-old freshmen right out of high school. I was only two years older, but two years was a world of difference. Especially when I’d seen my best friend killed right before my eyes.
Especially
when it was my fault.