The Art of Breathing (The Seafare Chronicles 3)

I can hear them through the window: Ben and Dominic. Dominic is laughing about something, and Ben is saying something back. I can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but that’s okay. I’ll find out soon enough. His voice. How my heart beats. How my fingers tremble. I wonder if it will always be this way. I think it might be.

Bear was right, though. Saying good-bye is the hardest part.

But I guess it’s time. For now.

They’re knocking at the door. Can’t keep them waiting. Them and whatever else awaits.

One more thing. I scribbled this down on a bit of paper I found. I don’t remember when. I was going to give it to Bear, but I chickened out. I don’t know why. Probably because it’s so damn cheesy and blah, blah, blah. I’ll just leave it here with you, okay? Don’t make fun of me too bad for it. It just seems fitting to end this with a bit of bad poetry. Feels like tradition, I guess. Like Bear before me, I give this to you.

I’ll see you later. Okay?

Brother

You are my protector.

Holder of the secrets that we shared.

You chased away my dark monsters,

and allowed my heart and soul to be spared.

The life we’ve lived. The times we’ve had.

You’ve picked up the tatters, put the cloth to mend.

There is no one stronger than who you’ve become,

and we are brothers until the very end.

Epilogue: Or, Bear’s Perspective, As It Were (Yeah, He’s Gonna Freak)

ADMIT IT. You missed me.

Well, if you must know, I’m perfectly straight edge now. Normal as normal can be. Just a typical half of a normal married couple from the suburbs. Nothing to see here. Nothing’s going to happen. Move along, move along.

Yeah, I don’t believe me, either.

Today’s a big day, if you must know.

Why?

Tyson (no longer really the Kid, is he? God, that hurts to say) is coming home today. He and Dominic and Ben have been traveling back across the country together. They rented a big RV and have been stopping at all these random places like The Biggest Ball of Twine In the History of Ever and following decrepit billboards in backwoods America proclaiming You’ll Never Be the Same After You’ve Seen THE THING!!!! JUST TWO EXITS AWAY!!!!! (Which, Tyson reported back to me, turned out to be nothing more than a pile of what looked like animal bones glued together to make a weird-looking fetal alien mummy. Très disappointing.)

And (go me!), I didn’t even have any of my normal freak-outs when he announced they were coming back cross-country, off the beaten track. Well, not a complete freak-out, anyway. I didn’t let it get as far as them getting raped by hillbillies in West Virginia and then strung up on trees and sacrificed to some mountain wood god. I do have some restraint these days. I guess that’s what happens when you get older. You tend to focus less on the unnecessary and more on the practical. I mean, it’s more likely they would get RV-jacked and left on the side of the road and then get raped by hillbillies.

Yeah, I know, I know. My students think that Mr. Thompson is a spaz. A good spaz, but a spaz, nonetheless. Some things never change.

But other things do. In the strangest possible ways.

I’m standing in the doorway of Ty’s old room. And what’ll be his room again, when he comes home to the Green Monstrosity. To be honest, I don’t know how much use this room is actually going to get, what with him and Dom. Ty says he doesn’t think they’re ready to move in together (“What if he finds out that I have the worst morning breath in the world? He’ll leave me for sure!”), but I don’t think he’s going to last as long as he thinks he will. Not if Dom has anything to say about it. Dom’s already confided in Otter and me that he plans on taking one thing out of Ty’s room a day until all of his things are in Dom’s house. Smooth, that guy. Of course, I had to threaten him that if he ever hurt my little brother in any way, there wouldn’t be enough of him left for his family to identify. Otter then pointed out that we’re his family, and then Dom pointed out that it’s hard to take a threat seriously when the person threatening is on the verge of tears. I called them both bastards, threw a couch pillow at Otter’s head, and fled the room before my emotions could get the better of me.

And I should leave Ty’s room right now if I don’t want the same thing to happen again. I can’t seem to find the strength to do so, however. There’s so much here. So much about this place, this room, that causes me to stop and think. There were some nights after Ty went back to Dartmouth on his own that I couldn’t sleep, and I’d find myself sitting in this room. His room. I’d touch the books that still lined the shelves, thinking I should probably get around to reading Brave New World, seeing as how most of my students have. I’d look at the photos that line his desk. The walls. They tell his story. And mine too.

There’s Ty (always the Kid) and me when he was seven years old. I’m looking at him, and he’s looking at the camera. Anna took the picture, I think. He’s smiling wide and there’s a tooth missing. I’ve never told anyone, not even Otter, that when he first started losing his teeth, I panicked, sure he was going to swallow one in the middle of the night and choke to death. There were a few sleepless nights whenever he had a loose tooth, as I’d camp outside his door, waiting to hear any choking sounds.

There’s the Kid and Otter on our beach.

The Kid and Mrs. Paquinn.