Our First Love

Dear Reader:

When I first reviewed the synopsis of
Our First Love,
my interest was piqued by the bond of two brothers, one of whom suffers from agoraphobia, an anxiety disorder that includes the fear of public places. Nigel, a college professor, and his younger brother, Caleb, share the same house following a tragic accident that left both parents deceased.

The unusual twist is that Caleb also has amnesia and remains in their home while he lives vicariously through Nigel's world. Then the plot thickens when he even falls in love with the same woman, Karen.

Sit back and relax as you enter the lifestyle of these siblings and observe how this heartfelt drama unfolds. You are sure to enjoy the bittersweet journey.

As always, thanks for supporting the authors of Strebor Books. We always try to bring you groundbreaking, innovative stories that will entertain and enlighten. All of us truly appreciate your support. If you would like to contact me, I can be located at
www.facebook.com/AuthorZane
or reached via email at
[email protected]
.

Blessings,

Publisher

Strebor Books

www.simonandschuster.com

The longest, most enduring relationships of my life have been with my brothers. They were my first loves
.

For My First Loves

My Brothers

Ken, Tony & Lester

Always

Every thirteen years in the Southern states, the adult periodical cicada, a subterranean insect, emerges for the first time since taking residency underground, spreads its large amber wings, and begins its frenzied search for a mate. Soon after mating, the cicada falls to the earth and dies. Upon hatching, the orphaned nymphs conceived during these spirited months burrow into the ground and remain there—living a veiled existence—until their own insatiable hunger for love drives them to the surface. To the skies. Into eternity. Thirteen years later.

T
he truth was, I would have loved her anyway. Even if I had known what I know today—that she would abscise us and send our world spiraling out of orbit—I would have still walked that contorted line, fought in vain to hold on to her, and lived again.

Loving her did more than change our lives. Her love changed everything. Time was no longer merely an obdurate reminder of our existence. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Time didn't exist. So, the tragedy of loving her was not all the conversions she brought to our lives. The real heartbreak was that even in the absence of time, there was an ending: a denouement that left us with no tomorrows.

I didn't know who I had become, but I was certainly not the man I was before I met her. On the rare occasion when I was able to summon enough courage to look in the mirror, I barely recognized the anguished reflection staring back. His pain felt like mine. And his tears stung the same. So, he and I must have been…me.

The sun leered like a Peeping Tom through my window this morning. My T-shirt and boxers were saturated with the anesthetizing sweat of a hangover brought on by way too many cocktails of darkness and excavated memories. And I was tired…so tired that it hurt to simply be. But my heart—against my will—beat the same. Seventy-three. Seventy-four. Seventy-five beats per minute. Meaning, I was still here. Still here. Still here.

CHAPTER 1
NIGEL

A
week ago today, the front page of the
Capitol Sentinel
blared,
Aman Tops Polls in Governor's Race.
And, I was predicting the next day's front page would howl,
Aman Commits Suicide,
while the sidebar wailed,
Reporter Tried to Stop Shooting.

My left eye twitched as I stood in the doorway staring at the dispirited body slumped over in a wicker chair facing the window. The corpse was dressed in Barney's trademark navy blue suit, white shirt, and garish red tie, but the forty-two-year-old dynamo that inspired swarms of complacent adults into social and political activism was not there. I didn't expect Barney to be home when I rushed inside his voguish chateau on a cul-de-sac in Northwood Plantation. Barney was taking off as soon as the phone went dead.

I wasn't at my desk when Barney called; my editor, Lillian Faulk, answered the phone. I was sitting in the lounge watching
Oprah
and eating a late lunch when Lillian summoned me over the intercom. “Nigel. Nine-one-one at your desk. Now!” I sensed the panic in her voice.

Lillian was frantic, waving the phone when I sprinted into the newsroom. She covered the mouthpiece and yelled, “Hurry, Nigel! Hurry!”

“Is it Caleb? Is something wrong?”

“No! No,” she quickly answered. “It's Barney Aman. He's really upset.”

Bobby Leno, the newspaper's managing editor, and Russell Lane,
city editor, stood behind Lillian. It was Russell's idea for Bobby to temporarily pull me away from features to write personality profiles of Florida's gubernatorial candidates. I wasn't overly thrilled about the assignment, but as usual, I agreed without complaining.

Lillian shoved the phone at me and whispered, “Something's wrong. I'm talking big-time wrong!”

I grabbed the receiver.

“Barney?”

He didn't respond, but somehow I could hear him contemplating what to say.

“Barney, this is Nigel. Is something…?”

“The masquerade is over,” Barney blurted out. Like a waxing tidal wave, he divulged, “There's nowhere for me to hide anymore, Nigel.”

“What's happened?”

“It won't end with you, Nigel,” he cried. “You can't stop it.”

I leaned closer to my desk and tried to whisper. “Listen, Barney. I haven't told anyone so you're okay for now.”

“What haven't you told?” Russell turned my chair around until I was facing him. “Answer me! What didn't you tell?”

Barney's two lives collided yesterday, but I couldn't tell Russell or Bobby or even Lillian about the manila envelope that had landed liked a missile on my desk. They'd never understand why I didn't say anything about the document inside the envelope or why I'd stopped by Barney's house after work and given him the envelope and its contents. Bobby would've fired me on the spot if he knew that I'd turned my back on the biggest political news story to hit Florida's capital city since Governor Charlie Crist announced his candidacy for the United States Senate instead of seeking another term as Governor.

After the 2008 presidential election, the public called for change, and Barney answered the call. The son of a former congressman,
Barney made his first foray into the world of politics. Even though he was a newcomer, the last-minute announcement of his bid for Governor was met with enthusiasm and hype. Four weeks later, several statewide polls indicated the former star collegiate linebacker was his party's top candidate and, of the seven party candidates, the only one strong enough to win the gubernatorial race. It was apparent, even after his unremarkable two-year stint in the National Football League, that Barney had the makings of a leader. Charisma, good looks, and candor were inherent attributes that made Barney a beacon for voter adoration, media attention, and territorial backlash.

A framed photo of Barney and his parents was on the corpse's lap. Part of Mrs. Aman's face and some of the gold rose petals adorning the frame were covered in her son's blood. The gun, a black pistol with a silver handle, was on the floor beside his feet. Barney's shoes? Barney wasn't wearing any shoes. Where were his shoes? A man like Barney would not go to his death half-dressed. Then, I remembered Barney had two lives, and maybe the Barney I didn't know was more relaxed and blasé.

Lillian tried not to look at the corpse as she stealthily canvassed the room, but I couldn't help staring at it and answering the questions Caleb would ask when I replayed our day for him.

Where did the bullet enter?
Below the right eye.

Did it exit?
Yes.

Was there a note?
A note. A note?

Lillian was already two steps ahead of me. She stood by the desk looking down at Barney's handwritten suicide note. I read the expression on her face. The note left her with more questions than answers.

“We need both of you to leave.” A sheriff's deputy walked in Barney's library. “This is a crime scene.”

The deputy ushered us out the house and into
Sentinel
photographer Marc Dunwoody's front-page snapshot.

“Thank you, Nigel, for understanding,” Lillian blurted out as soon as we got in the car. “That's all he wrote.” Lillian backed out of the driveway. “So, are you ready to fill me in?”

Russell and Bobby felt that I had become part of the story, so I was no longer the reporter. Now, Lillian was the reporter, and I was expected to be her exclusive informant.

“You know more than you're saying,” Lillian said as she effortlessly steered the car into the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Thomasville Road. “Especially, since you haven't said a word.”

I couldn't get the image of Barney's bare feet out of my head. He was always impeccably dressed, even when he appeared at casual events like last week's Juneteenth festivities at Tom Brown Park. Barney and a slew of parading candidates and aloof dignitaries were there to welcome the overflowing crowd to the city's annual freedom celebration. It was ninety-eight degrees by noon, so everyone dressed in shorts, T-shirts and sundresses. Barney was the exception. Wearing stiff khakis and a long-sleeved white oxford, he was…

“What did you understand?” Lillian yelled to get my attention.

“Sorry, Lil. What did you say?”

“ ‘Thank you, Nigel, for understanding.'
That's all Barney wrote in his suicide note. And I'm guessing that means you knew what he was hiding. So, talk to me.”

“I can't…”

“Why not?” Lillian's sympathetic repose was a camouflage. “I'm listening.”