The Art of Breathing (The Seafare Chronicles 3)

“Oh, please,” Paul scoffs. “Vince’s mom just died last year. His dad, the bastard mayor of Tucson, is also Darren’s dad, who hates gays. Our illustrious mayor cheated on Vince’s mom with Darren’s mom. Sandy’s parents died when we were sixteen. Kori was raised in foster care. It’s not that hard to have shitty parents.”

And Dom’s mother was murdered in front of him by his father. “What about your parents?” I ask Paul.

“Me? I’ve got the worst ones of all.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice hushed, sure that Paul was probably some kind of crack baby (which would really explain a lot) and was sold into a Afghani slave ring and only recently found his freedom and love in the arms of a supermodel.

“Oh hush,” Charlie says. “Paul’s parents are just about the most wonderful people to exist.”

“They’re too accepting!” Paul exclaims. “They still think Vince is my Master and I’m his sex pony! And they love it.”

I laugh. It feels good.

“Okay, what else you got, kid?” Charlie asks me.

“I’m a certified genius diagnosed with panic disorder who got addicted to the meds that were supposed to help me and practically flunked out of Dartmouth while there on a full scholarship.”

Paul waves his hand at me. “That’s nothing. Once I thought I was confused about my sexuality, and I got drunk and went down on a girl from my English class and was able to tell what she’d had for dinner the day before.”

“Oh dear Lord in heaven,” I manage to say.

“That was gross,” Charlie says. “Even for you.”

Paul shrugs. “My point is that people’s problems are all relative once you put them in perspective. This addiction thing. You done with that?”

“Well, they say once an addict, always an addict.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “Are you done with it?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“And you’re super smart.”

“So they tell me.”

He arches an eyebrow at me.

I sigh. “Yes. I am.”

“And this flunking thing, can it be fixed?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe. I just need to find direction.”

“I work in insurance in a cubicle that kills me a little more each day,” Paul says. “Trust me when I say you’ve got time. Figure it out.”

“Okay.”

“And that leaves the panic-disorder thing.”

“You freak out?” Charlie asks.

“Sometimes. Not for a while.”

“Like, panic attacks?”

“Yeah. Feels like earthquakes. Had them since I was a kid. My brother….”

“Your brother?” Paul asks.