Page 172 of The Art of Breathing (The Seafare Chronicles 3)
“Constantly. It’s sort of my thing.”
She stops and looks over at me, cocking her head. “You’re weird,” she finally says. “You’re lucky I like weird.” She hands me a fork and points to a drawer near the sink.
“Very lucky.”
“I’ve never had a brother before,” she says.
“You have two of them.”
“How’s Bear?”
“In general or right at this specific moment?”
She makes a face. “What’s he like?”
I think hard on this. “Like a verbal hurricane,” I finally say. “But in the best way possible.”
“I don’t think hurricanes are considered good things, much less verbal ones.”
“This one is. I don’t know how else to describe him. He’s the greatest thing in the world.”
“That’s quite a lofty proclamation.”
“And it’s not made lightly,” I tell her. “What grade are you in?”
“Sixth.”
“You speak very well for a sixth grader.”
“That didn’t sound condescending at all.”
I roll my eyes. “I was giving you a compliment.”
She shrugs it off. “I like to read,” she mutters. She pops a bubble in the soap.
“What do you like to read?”
“Books,” she deadpans.
“It was just a question.”
“From a strange man who happens to be my brother, who until fifteen minutes ago I hadn’t ever met before.”
“My favorite is Brave New World.”
She laughs. “How pretentious. You don’t have to try and impress me.”
“I’m not.” She’s got a bit of a chip on her shoulder. Reminds me of me at her age. Unfortunately.
“Wuthering Heights,” she says. “That’s mine.”
I snort. “Talk about pretentious.”
“It’s romantic!”
“It’s not romantic. It’s about two fucked-up people who love each other so much they want to destroy one another.”
“Romantic,” she sighs. “And it sounds like you’re just projecting.”
