Contents ( 42)
- The Art of Breathing
- Part One: How We Became Who We Are
- Prologue: Or, Where the Kid Hears the Word of the Day
- 1. Where Tyson Learns to Breathe
- 2. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
- 3. Where Tyson Graduates and Bear Freaks Out
- 4. Where Tyson Says Good-Bye
- 5. Where Tyson Gets the Mail
- Part Two: Coming Home
- 6. Where Tyson Comes Home
- 7. Where Tyson Gives a History Lesson
- 8. Where Tyson Attends the Most Awkward Party Ever
- 9. Where Tyson Plans Attends a Protest
- 10. Where Tyson Gets Arrested
- 11. Where Tyson Gets His Ass Handed to Him
- 12. Where Tyson Writes Bad Poetry and Gawks at Frat Boys
- 13. Where Tyson Decides to Man the Fuck Up
- 14. Where Tyson Asks Some Questions
- 15. Where Tyson Remembers Theresa Jean Paquinn
- 16. Where Tyson Learns the Benefit of Therapy
- 17. Where Tyson Meets the Man Who Becomes Helena Handbasket
- 18. Where Tyson Gets Screwed at His Own Birthday Party (And Not in a Good Way)
- Part Three: Just Breathe
- 19. Where Tyson Goes to Helena Handbasket’s Sex Dungeon
- 20. Where Tyson Beholds the Awesome Wonder That Is Paul Auster
- 21. Where Tyson Receives Advice from the Six Sages
- 22. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
- 23. Where Tyson Hears the Inevitable
- 24. Where Tyson Meets His Match
- 25. Where Tyson Says Hello, Where Tyson Says Good-bye
- 26. Where Tyson Touches upon the Inevitable
- 27. Where Tyson Faces the Music
- 28. Where Tyson Breathes
- 29. Tyson And Dominic
- 30. The Art Of Breathing
- Epilogue: Or, Bear’s Perspective, As It Were (Yeah, He’s Gonna Freak)
- Author’s Note
- Excerpt
- Prologue: Or, Where Bear Answers the Door
- More from TJ Klune
- Readers love the Bear, Otter, and the Kid Chronicles by TJ Klune
- By TJ Klune
I wave her off. “Same thing.”
“She was promoted after Janet Napolitano left. She was reelected after that.”
“They did the same thing with Stalin,” I say. “Look how well that turned out.”
“I didn’t say they were smart people,” she says. “You’re in a red state now with your tiny blue self. Think of yourself as a Smurf standing on the sun.”
“That is surprisingly visual and so very, very sad. You guys have a lot of dirt here.”
“It’s called a desert.”
“It’s dirt.”
“You know, there’s a hugely varied ecosystem here that survives—”
“Nice try,” I tell her. “You almost had me there appealing to my scientific side, but then my phone just buzzed with an extreme heat warning.”
“What, 110? That’s nothing. It’s a dry heat. Remember the humidity in New Hampshire? That was excruciating.”
“Where are we?” Dom asks from the backseat, his voice rough with sleep and extraordinarily hot. Damn fucking feelings and hormones.
“Almost there,” Kori says. I can’t tell if she sounds happy about it or not. “Another ten minutes and we’ll be at Sandy’s. He should be off work now, so we should be good to go directly to his house.”
“You excited to be home?” I ask her. I don’t know what sort of answer I’m expecting. Hopefully a reasonably honest one. I know Corey and Kori. I know Kori comes out when Corey’s nervous or scared or worried. Kori is comfort. Kori is safe and warm. Kori is who Corey turns to when things get hard. I don’t think it’s him hiding behind her, more him putting on a different face against the world. Kori may be quiet and may look frail, but she’s got steel in her bones. I’m worried that she’s made an appearance now. I don’t know how coming home to Tucson might be for her. I can imagine, though, especially if it’s anything like coming back to Seafare was.
Something flashes across her eyes, but I can’t quite catch it. It almost looks like anger. Or fear. But it’s gone too fast. “Sure,” she says. “Should be great.”
I don’t believe her in the slightest.
SANDY LIVES in an adobe house in a quiet neighborhood. There’re some potted plants hanging outside (probably gasping their final breaths as they’re baked in the fiery sunlight) and a birdbath in the front yard, but so far nothing that says the best drag queen in the history of the world, as Kori touted. Granted, I suppose that because a person is a drag queen doesn’t mean the outside of their house has to look like a drag queen too. After all, I don’t look anything like the Green Monstrosity. At least I hope I don’t.
There’s a sensible electric car (I approve) in the carport, and the license plate says QWN4LFE (which I approve of immensely—why can’t Bear have a license plate that proclaims him a queen for life? It would certainly make sense). As we get out of the SUV, the front door opens and I almost expect there to be an explosion of glitter and feathers from a pink boa. Instead, a slight man walks out, thin and tall. I could say he’s blandly handsome, with his short blond hair and brown eyes, but the smile on his face has a wicked curve to it, and I can see the glint in his eyes.