The Art of Breathing (The Seafare Chronicles 3)

Bear sighs. “That you do.”

“He showed me how to breathe.”

“That he did.”

“He also asked me if I’d ever had any inappropriate thoughts about Otter.”

Bear groans. “That man, I swear to God.”

“I’ll talk,” I say. “And then we’ll figure out what to do. Where to go from here.”

“And if you need to go,” Bear says, “somewhere far away from here, and you need me there, too, you know I’ll follow you. Right? It doesn’t matter when or where. I’ll follow you, Ty.”

My voice is a little rough when I say, “Yeah, Papa Bear. I know.”

“Otter will too. It’s not about just us. It’s about you, too. We’ve stuck together this long. What’s the rest of our lives?”

“You’re going to make a good dad, you know? I’m sorry if I didn’t say that. You know. Before.” That was eloquent.

He grins, obviously pleased. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah.”

“Me and babies, huh?”

I grimace at the thought. “Brave new world.

You’re going to be covered in so many different bodily fluids.”

“That’s… disgusting.”

“It’s being a father.”

“Maybe Otter can do the… sticky things. I can… make lunches or something. Apple slices and juice boxes. Maybe laundry.”

“You’re going to make a great soccer mom,” I tell him.

“Out your ass, Kid,” he says.

We laugh and listen to the wind. The birds. The waves and the grass. At least for a little while, it’s just me and him, me and my big brother. It’s like I’m a little guy again, sitting at his side, his hand in mine while I play with his fingers. It’s how it started, this life. Our life. For the longest time, it was only Bear and me. Against all odds. Against the world. He stopped the earthquakes because that’s what brothers do. He was my home. He will always be my home.

Of course, she was too.

“I miss her,” I say.

He knows who I mean. “I do too. Every day. She’d be proud of you, I think.”

“Maybe. I think she’d tell me it’s time to move my ass, though.”

“Yeah. That sounds like her.”

And it does. Our Mrs. Paquinn. How much like her it sounds. Sometimes I like to pretend I can hear her voice. To hear what she’d say to me. To hear her laugh again, not just for the first time or the last time, but for all time. I like that. Even if it’s just pretend.

“Otter’s probably pacing at the front door, huh?” I ask finally.

Bear chuckles. “Wearing a groove as we speak.”

“He’s pretty great, huh?”