Read Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters) for Free Online Page B

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 the edge of the desk, and grabbed my cane. A few steps to the door of Forrester’s office. I didn’t hear any sound inside at all. Jesus, I hoped he was alive. I quietly opened the office door and looked inside.
    Forrester was passed out at his desk, a little bit of drool pooling on the papers under his face.
    Guess we didn’t need to ask if we could go. I closed the door and turned back to him.
    “Is he writing?” she asked.
    “Yeah,” I said.
    She looked surprised. “Really?”
    “No. He’s passed out.”
    “Oh. My. God.”
    I shrugged.
    Depending on your point of view, experience, and attitude, we made our way to the coffee shop in either a companionable silence or an oppressive, awkward one. I’d prefer to think it was the former, but the pessimist in me says it was definitely the latter. About two thirds of the way there, she said, “You seem to be doing better today.” She nodded toward the cane.
    “Yeah,” I said. “New physical