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Back The Art of Breathing Save as PDF
Contents ( 42)
  1. The Art of Breathing
  2. Part One: How We Became Who We Are
  3. Prologue: Or, Where the Kid Hears the Word of the Day
  4. 1. Where Tyson Learns to Breathe
  5. 2. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
  6. 3. Where Tyson Graduates and Bear Freaks Out
  7. 4. Where Tyson Says Good-Bye
  8. 5. Where Tyson Gets the Mail
  9. Part Two: Coming Home
  10. 6. Where Tyson Comes Home
  11. 7. Where Tyson Gives a History Lesson
  12. 8. Where Tyson Attends the Most Awkward Party Ever
  13. 9. Where Tyson Plans Attends a Protest
  14. 10. Where Tyson Gets Arrested
  15. 11. Where Tyson Gets His Ass Handed to Him
  16. 12. Where Tyson Writes Bad Poetry and Gawks at Frat Boys
  17. 13. Where Tyson Decides to Man the Fuck Up
  18. 14. Where Tyson Asks Some Questions
  19. 15. Where Tyson Remembers Theresa Jean Paquinn
  20. 16. Where Tyson Learns the Benefit of Therapy
  21. 17. Where Tyson Meets the Man Who Becomes Helena Handbasket
  22. 18. Where Tyson Gets Screwed at His Own Birthday Party (And Not in a Good Way)
  23. Part Three: Just Breathe
  24. 19. Where Tyson Goes to Helena Handbasket’s Sex Dungeon
  25. 20. Where Tyson Beholds the Awesome Wonder That Is Paul Auster
  26. 21. Where Tyson Receives Advice from the Six Sages
  27. 22. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
  28. 23. Where Tyson Hears the Inevitable
  29. 24. Where Tyson Meets His Match
  30. 25. Where Tyson Says Hello, Where Tyson Says Good-bye
  31. 26. Where Tyson Touches upon the Inevitable
  32. 27. Where Tyson Faces the Music
  33. 28. Where Tyson Breathes
  34. 29. Tyson And Dominic
  35. 30. The Art Of Breathing
  36. Epilogue: Or, Bear’s Perspective, As It Were (Yeah, He’s Gonna Freak)
  37. Author’s Note
  38. Excerpt
  39. Prologue: Or, Where Bear Answers the Door
  40. More from TJ Klune
  41. Readers love the Bear, Otter, and the Kid Chronicles by TJ Klune
  42. By TJ Klune

Goddammit. I really need to find more supporters whose idea of a good time isn’t playing a guitar around a low fire, singing John Lennon or Britney Spears (trust me: you ain’t heard anything until you’ve heard a stoned hippie singing “I’m A Slave 4 U” with reworked lyrics that describe how it feels to drop acid and save Mother Earth from places like Walmart and McDonald’s—it’s life-changing. Kind of).

“Shit,” I mutter right into the microphone so those at home watching the live TV can be incensed by yet another thing on this magical day. Katie just stares at the window, her jaw dropped, her cameraman continuing to film everything. “This is so going to end up on YouTube.”

The door to the restaurant opens behind us, and I turn, expecting someone from BJ’s to come running out, screaming they’ve already called the police, that we were so dead, and who the fuck did we think we were? I’ve already opened my mouth to offer some kind of apology, to say anything to not get the cops called (already imagining the look on Bear’s face when he gets a call that I’ve been arrested again) when who should walk out but a cop.

The sun is in my eyes, but I can still see the Seafare Police Department uniform tightly wrapped around a massive hulking body. My stomach begins to tingle slightly as I raise my gaze up that body, the thighs like huge slabs of granite, the utility belt wrapped around a tight waist. My mouth goes dry as my eyes drift over the chest (Hello there, Officer, I think. Please arrest me. I’ve been very, very bad), to the arms (They have to be fake! No one has arms that big!). I shield my eyes from the sun so I can get a good look at this overgrown and overfed guy who is going to ruin my afternoon (and obviously provide at least a good six months of spank-bank deposits—don’t look at me that way. Trust me when I say I’m not a Kid anymore). He’s big, bigger than a man should have any right to be. He might be the biggest man in all the world, for all I know.

That chin, square and chiseled. Those rough cheeks, covered in a day’s worth of black scruff. Mouth in a thin line, the barest hint of teeth underneath. Black hair, clipped short. Mirror shades. He removes the sunglasses and those eyes… good Christ, those blue eyes. Those knowing eyes. They say more than any one person could with an infinite amount of words. Too bad I can’t understand any of it.

Oh, fuck, I think, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am in so much trouble. I barely notice when the hippies take off running.

For the first time in almost four years, I hear that voice, so filled with gravel. That voice that has never healed, broken for as long as I’ve known him. That voice that at one point meant everything to me. He says only a single word, but in that word is a lifetime of memories and the earthquake that hits is almost enough to tilt the ground beneath my feet.