Chapter 1

First chapter of the novel, Sitting Alone (working title).

Sitting alone, the lonely café isolated from the constant stream of passersby, he watched through the raindrops for the sight of the figure that ignited his senses like no other. They had shared time here before, this quaint café, talking work, life, love, even the tragic truth of bittersweet emotional revelation that spoke so smooth in the moment, but haunted the heart like an unwelcome restless spirit once time found them again in isolation. The rain continued to fall, its pace faster and more abrupt than it had been when he arrived. Silent at the window, his fingers caressing the condensation of the small, cylinder water glass, he waited in his stillness, his eyes fixated on the entrance of the building, his face frozen in hopeful anticipation. Through the blur and chaos of the street between the café and the apartment building, he could see clearly, the eyes of his soul able to pullout the figure he eagerly awaited amidst the hundreds of faceless bodies that moved between them. The seconds passed like decades as he watched and waited, his eyes dry from their lack of blinking, his throat parched from the tease of the water before him, where a single drop had yet to touch his lips.

     Then, like lightning tearing the shroud of the night sky, the figure appeared, the profile obvious, the stance and shape as familiar as the daily rise of the morning sun. Back behind the foggy window of the small café, he rose from his seat, his heart racing beneath the frail cage of his chest. He stood and bolted through the chime-littered glass door as if escaping a prison, carelessly striding across the street, blaring horns and profane gestures bouncing the shields of his ignorance, his feet slamming through the fresh puddles like asteroids assaulting the open sea, his eyes locked on the figure as its identity began to focus through the falling water and shadows of distance. Within seconds he was under the building’s large white canopy, the oversized crystal chandeliers from the marble white lobby dancing across the still growing puddles that aligned the crowded driveway. His heart racing, his eyes fixated, he scrambled the strength of his throat to exercise his vocal chords.

     “Shane” he blurted, his voice cracking like a prepubescent teenager’s under the weight of his nerves and the chilled air of the rain.

     “Van?” the figure responded, his face twisted in an equal cocktail of shock and confusion. “What are you doing here?”

     “You didn’t take my calls,” Van cracked, swallowing nervously, desperate to keep his voice from its sudden shiver. “I called you at least seven times, but you never answered. You never called me back.”

     The figure stared blankly back at him, the deep green of his eyes swirling the texture of brown that defined his gaze. 

     “Van,” he started, his voice now shaken by the sudden weight of nerves and uncertainty, “I can’t talk to you right now.”

     The usual welcome cooling of the summer rain suddenly rivaled the bone-chilling sting of a winter’s rage; the icy fingers of warmth-devoid intakes cracked into his lungs and through his being as if Death itself had entered his core. The chill of both words and air froze him solid, even the trance-like pounding of his heart seemed to fall silent under the blanket of sudden ice.

     “What do you…?”

     His voice trailed into the distance as the answer manifested into physical proof before him. Appearing beside Shane were three young children, their faces familiar, their clothing bright and telltale of their intentions on a beach-heavy South Florida vacation. Flashbacks of rare family photographs flickered across the screen of Van’s mind, the truth of who these children were suddenly became solid and clear. Then panic; swallowing his nervousness with a forceful gulp, Van lifted his eyes to meet the uncertain gaze of the face he had anticipated and feared for months, Shane’s wife. 

     “Van,” Shane peeped meekly before clearing his throat in a blatant attempt to regain control of his still shaken voice. “This is my family.”

     The faces swirled and blended together like glittering stars restless upon the ocean’s surface. For the first time in his life, Van felt as if he could faint, the reality of truth and circumstance overpowered his focus and self control with arrogance and ease. Closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to realign his mind and emotions, he searched his head for the vice of diluted hope and unfounded belief that had secured his ability to continue functioning so many times before. Opening his eyes, the scene became stable, the deafening pound of his heart again pulsated within his ears. He was alive to face the carefully watchful faces and sadly disillusioned to stand before the truth.

     “This is my wife Laura,” Shane began, placing his arm behind his wife’s back like a prizefighter gloating over his favorite trophy. “And these are my three kids.”

     Shane proceeded to introduce each of his children, detailing their names and ages, along with whatever attribute or ability he prided most as their doting father. Through their nearly eight month relationship as boss-employee and eventual friends, Van was certain of one unrivaled factoid regarding Shane’s personal life: he dearly loved his three children, and nothing or no one could ever take their place of adoration and rightful importance within his multifaceted heart.

     “It’s very nice meeting all of you,” Van confessed, his voice now stable, friendly, even warm. “Shane has told me so much about you.”

     Van connected to the genuine smiles plastered across each of the children’s faces, their features and mannerisms clearly reflecting that of their father’s, the minute details Van had come to cherish and love in Shane. The sincere smile faded when Van’s eyes met that of Shane’s wife Laura. Her gaze was cold and curious; the wet glaze that veiled across her vision reflected that of truth and question. Van’s heart began to race at the surreal encounter he was now involved in. He had imagined this meeting so many times before, but as with all things in life, the reality of the situation was quite different than that of his vision. 

     “I’ve heard much about you too Laura. Shane speaks very highly of you. You sound like a wonderful woman.”

     Van’s statement fell from his tongue as heavy and formulated as a piece of led. He knew his words revealed their contrived nature, but he relied on their quick and easy arrival to shade the lack of emotion and sincerity.

     With a surprising beam spreading across her expression, Laura gazed at her husband, then back at Van, securing his stare with the firm grip of her eyes.

     “I’d like to think so,” she replied in a singsong voice. “At least, he better say good things about me.”

     She concluded her statement with a playful jab into her husband’s side, his joyful reaction shrouding laughter over the picture-perfect family like an evening’s tide sudden grip upon the sun-dried shore. 

     An unexpected surge of anguish and jealousy flowed throughout Van’s veins; his heart’s pounding now polluting his being with the familiar darkness he spent his days trying to avoid. The unseen reality of Shane’s life was now at the forefront of Van’s existence, the names and faces he had always captured away in some blackened vile buried deep beneath the surface of his mind now lay unearthed and attentive before his eyes. There is no denying the truth when its rears before you like a serpent’s venom-saturated fangs just before its close into its victim’s vulnerable flesh.

     “Well Van,” Shane chipped in, breaking the shell of sadness that was quickly consuming the emotional state of his friend. “We are just on our way to dinner.”

     Van stood in silence, half in hope for an invite, yet terrified of the possible notion just the same. He only stared back at Shane, the unspoken truth that defined their connection now burning between them like angry flames devouring an ocean liner’s oil spill. The breaking of the gaze came only when Shane’s wife smashed the fragile fixation with an obvious interruption detailing her wisdom to what was certain yet painfully unseen.

     “Yes, we must get going Shane,” she blurted, keeping her eyes locked on Van’s heart-connected stare onto her husband. “Your friend could come, but the reservation was made for five.”

     She paused, allowing Van to realize her fixated stare, giving him the awkward moment he needed to again reel in his vulnerable heart as it lay on the ground in the small space between her and the father of her children.

     “Yes, we better get going. Sorry Van, maybe some other time we could all meet up for lunch or dinner.”

     Shane’s words echoed within Van’s head like an unexpected thunder clap violating a perfect, sun-filled summer day. Van watched as Shane’s company-owned SUV pulled into the driveway, the valet jumping from the vehicle, quick and eager for his tip like some circus dog performing its one and only trick. Shane dropped a few dollars into the young man’s hand, patted him on the shoulder, and then made his way towards the front of the vehicle. 

     “Van,” he began, his voice lowered below the intimidating hum of the SUVs oversized engine.

     “Don’t just show up here like this.”

     He turned his head to watch his wife filing the three obedient children into the back seat of the car.

     “You never know what I have going on.”

     He brought his eyes back to Van’s, his gaze now cold and serious.

     “You are just my friend, remember? If I don’t answer your phone calls, there may be a reason.”

     He looked to the ground, seemingly to summon the courage to continue his direct and honest command.

     “Don’t ever cross the line again Van.”

     With that, he turned towards the driver side door, snatched it open and quickly jumped inside. Through the curved glare of the windshield, Laura’s dark eyes could be seen beaming back at Van, her gloat of victory penetrating the glass and into Van’s heart like two lasers determined to destroy all emotional purity he held for her husband. Tossing the vehicle into gear, Shane glided his family down the driveway; Van’s stunned face reflected in the darkly tinted glass as the vehicle carefully rolled past him. Van watched as one of the children waved at him as the vehicle braked at the stop sign which marked the exit of the driveway and entrance onto the busy street. Waving back, his hand as fluid as some mechanical robot’s, Van stared in silent stillness as the SUV disappeared into the traffic and from his sight. Now alone, Van collected his heavy heart and shuffled his way back down the driveway and towards the street. He minded the fast-paced traffic as he made his way back towards the café, the emotional high that had carried him the first time now a distant memory just as the rainstorm that had now subsided, leaving only shallow puddles and water-soaked buildings.

     Reaching for his keys, Van stood before his water-draped silver sedan, carelessly gazing at the pathetic reflection of his expression that painfully stared back at him. Like a lost child, he unlocked the door, slowly pulled it open and then dropped himself into the driver’s seat. Summoning some hidden force of self-control, he started the car, threw it into gear, and then entered the constant parade of overzealous traffic. Making his way through the shady urban streets that resided just beyond the expensive line of apartment buildings and hotels, Van cruised onto the interstate and gave way to his sweltering emotions.

     Like an angry hurricane’s breaching of a time-weathered levee, his tears rushed from behind his eyes and flooded across his cheeks, invading his pores and dripping from his chin. His vision blurred, his breath now taken, he floored the gas and blindly weaved across the highway. Hellish tire squeals and deafening horn blasts filled Van’s ears as he dropped his hands from the steering wheel and into his lap.

     “Why God? Why?”

     His voice broke and crumbled under the weight of his full sorrow. The burning tears singed down his skin like molten lava, his eyes sealed shut, his lashes infused by the sudden rush of salt and water.

     The echoed roar of the irritated traffic filled the small space of the car like a poisonous gas. The flashing of headlights washed the color of the gray interior to white as the contents of the cluttered trunk and rear seat smashed and slammed from side to side. The tires spun, the vehicle turned, the shattering of glass harmonized the horrific wail of crumpling metal. Shards of glass tore across Van’s skin as if taunting his pain before it pressed and pierced carelessly into his body. Warm blood trickled from the fresh wounds, soaking his clothes and saturating his eyes. The driver’s seat lurched forward, Van’s head slammed into the steering wheel as the acid-like heated pressure of the airbag tossed back his neck, nearly snapping his upper spine in half. His legs twisted to his right as his arms numbly fell to his left. His chest cracked beneath the pounding weight of the dashboard as it charged across the front of the car and into the rear. The tearing and piercing of his flesh, the cracking and snapping of his bones, the crunch and shatter of the car body, it all flowed into one trance-like melody, a bittersweet symphony of mortal freedom and physical death. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the cluttered noise vanished, leaving an eerie stillness and a dreamlike silence. With a crumpled twist of metal encasing him like a tomb, a broken boy lay covered in a crimson dressing of his own blood, his pale skin blackened, and his expression locked and lifeless. Pinned between the shattered dash and crumpled driver’s seat, he is found once more, sitting alone.