Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

  If this is love, how do people stand it? And how do they manage to do it over and over again?

  I turn over and realize that Ezra is already gone.

  I can feel the chill of the morning air inside the tent, so I go outside and make another fire and some coffee. I have a banana and some almonds for breakfast.

  I look around for Ezra, but I can’t find him, so I walk down to the shore. The beach is completely deserted. My footprints are the only ones that mark the sand as far as I can see. I breathe in the sea air deeply. I take out my sketchbook and start drawing the gray ocean.

  A while later, Ezra plops down next to me.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Early hike.”

  “I would have come.”

  “I didn’t want to wake you.” He takes off his beanie and shakes out his hair. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

  I show him my drawing.

  “That’s great, man. I don’t know how you do that.”

  “Lots of practice.”

  “It’s not just about the practice. It’s the way you see things. You see what others don’t. I’m not sure you can practice that. It’s a gift.”

  I nudge him and he pushes me back, and soon we’re both on our feet, trying to take the other down.

  • • •

  Ezra is supposed to meet Daisy at a restaurant on State Street over in the heart of Santa Barbara. The bus lets us out on a street that’s like an open-air mall filled with all kinds of stores from furniture to clothing to antiques and jewelry.

  Small brick walkways curve around buildings. The place has an old Spanish feel to it. Trees in small patches of earth, protected by black wrought iron circles, are planted equidistantly along both sides of the street. It’s all very clean. No wrappers or plastic bags or cigarette butts on the ground. No graffiti climbing up walls. But there is a surprisingly large number of homeless men and women here that reminds me of the Santa Monica Pier.

  When we arrive at the intersection across from the restaurant, Ezra hesitates. Through the window, I see what looks like a group of people in the center. In the front corner, there’s a woman with dark hair sitting by herself. It’s got to be Daisy. Ezra looks over his shoulder like he’s thinking about turning back.

  “Want me to go with you?” I ask.

  “No.” Ezra stares straight ahead, but he doesn’t move forward. “We’ll meet up afterward? I’ll text you.”

  “No problem. Go do your thing.”

  Ezra pulls himself up straighter.

  “Good luck,” I say.

  “Thanks.” He crosses the street.

  I sit at one of the outdoor tables of another restaurant. It’s got large green bushes in wooden boxes to shield the ongoing traffic and pedestrians, but I can still see Daisy, or who I think is Daisy, from where I’m positioned.

  Ezra enters the restaurant just as a waiter brings me a menu and asks if I’d like anything to drink.

  “Thai iced tea,” I say.

  I check my phone for a message from Callie.

  Nothing. Only a text from Greyson wanting to know where I’m at.

  Across the way, I watch Daisy and Ezra like they’re in a silent movie. Daisy stands up as Ezra approaches her. She smiles and gives him a hug. They embrace. He’s all smiles. They sit down, look at a menu.

  What will they say after the hellos and the how-are-yous and the “hey, you look great after all these years”? Has her heart ached for him too?

  Daisy reaches across the table and places her hand on Ezra’s. She says something to him, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

  I order the green chili rice with chicken when the waiter returns. Then I open my sketchbook and begin drawing a pair of eyes the color of sand.

  WALKING AROUND

  Down by the ocean, the air is crisp and salty. Ezra and I face the crashing waves that roll and retreat along the shore. A couple walks by holding hands, nodding in our direction as they pass.

  Three gray birds peck at the sand in front of us and sprint along the shoreline every time the tide comes in.

  Ezra is silent, just as he’s been since I met him at the intersection after his lunch with Daisy. I want to ask him what happened, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  Finally he says, “She’s still so beautiful . . .”

  He stares ahead at the open sea.

  “But she’s different. I’m different. And it’s not just that we look a little older. Ten years is an eternity. Sitting across from her, I thought it’d be more like a time machine. Like we’d travel back to when we were kids, which is crazy, I know, man. But . . . you can never go back.” He turns and looks at me and the harsh midday light exposes the lines on his face.

  “But what’d she say?”

  “She said all the right things. That she was so happy to see me. That I looked good. But there was an uneasiness, a sadness in her eyes that was never there before.” Ezra digs the toe of his shoe into the sand. “It was stupid to look her up.”

  “Is she married or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Is she in a relationship?”

  “No.”

  “So she’s available, then.”

  “No,” he says.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Listen, Neruda, sometimes you miss your window. The feelings hang on like old ghosts, but they’re not real. Daisy and I ended the moment I made that stupid decision to rob someone’s house. The day I tried to save Rafa, I lost everything. I kind of knew that already, but seeing Daisy . . . it all became clear. I can’t keep living in the past.”

  “But . . .” I want to say that there are things worth fighting for. That love should be one of those things we hold on to and only let go of when life gives us no other choice. Instead, I say, “But she was the one.”

  Ezra shakes his head. “I don’t even know what that means, man. ‘The one.’ Maybe instead of looking for the one, we should just work on our own shit. Become our best self and then, you know, choose someone to love and be good to that person.”

  “Yeah, but . . . what if the person you choose doesn’t choose you back?” I ask, my voice as small as one of the birds pecking the sand.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But being here with nature all around, a good friend by my side . . . You can’t ask for much more than that.”

  This can’t be right. The day is not working out at all like I thought it would. The sky darkens and the ocean becomes a sad wet thing. I zip up my jacket.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I told her good-bye.”

  I kick at the sand.

  “You’re going to be okay, Neruda. Whatever happens with your parents, the girl, school, your art, even this punk kid Luis. You’re going to be okay. I want you to remember that.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Come on, say ‘I’m going to be okay.’” Ezra nudges me with his shoulder, but my feet slip a little into the sand.

  “I’m going to be okay,” I say, my voice flat like paper.

  “I’m going to be okay,” he repeats softly, and then again, like the pulsing tide, until the ocean itself is telling us so.

  • • •

  It takes us half the time to pack up our site as when we set it up. Ezra is quieter than usual, and I am too. Everything has changed.

  We walk back up to the small Goleta station and wait for our train.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” Ezra says. “Sorry if it’s been a downer.”

  “No, it was good,” I say, which isn’t true and he knows it.

  “We didn’t even talk about what’s going on with you.”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I say. Unfortunately this is all true. There is nothing going on between me and Callie.

  “I’m
sorry, man.” He gives me a look that says he understands. Then he says, “So, um, I need to tell you something, but you’re not going to like it.”

  I look at Ezra, worried about what that’s supposed to mean. But seeing him there with his huge pack, something clicks. I know what he’s going to tell me before he says it.

  “You’re not coming home,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I should have told you earlier, but . . .”

  “You wanted to see how it went with Daisy first?”

  “Kind of. Maybe, man. I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that I’ve been stuck in the same spot for years. I’ve got to get moving and keep moving.”

  I nod my head. “Where are you gonna go?”

  “I don’t know.” He laughs nervously. “Maybe just pick a random spot on a map or something. Am I crazy?”

  “No. No, I get it.”

  But there’s a tightness in my chest. I focus on the schedule that’s taped up on the wall because I don’t want to get too emotional.

  The train comes in. Ezra takes off his pack and pulls me in for a hug.

  “I’m going to miss you, bro,” he says. “Onward and upward, my man. Onward and upward.”

  He pats me on the back twice and lets me go. There are tears in both our eyes. I get on the train and take a window seat. Before the train pulls away, I look back to the platform.

  Ezra is sitting on a bench, pack next to him, his book already open, his head bent over, reading. He glances up at me when the train starts to pull away. He holds up his hand in a final good-bye, and I keep my eyes focused on the scenery until it all becomes a blur.

  TONIGHT I CAN WRITE THE SADDEST LINES

  On the ride home, I stare out the window as the meaning behind the empty seat across from me gradually sinks in. Ezra is gone; who knows when I’ll see him again. Maybe never.

  And maybe he’s right, that you can’t live in the past, but I still don’t understand. I don’t understand why he couldn’t have just chosen Daisy. Or why Dad had to cheat on Mom. Why Callie doesn’t want me.

  I look around at the train car. It’s full of people. But I am completely alone.

  I check my phone for a text like I’ve been doing for the past two days.

  Nothing.

  Maybe I could just reach out to Callie, act like it was no big deal. I start to type Hi, but I delete it. What’s there to say to her?

  I open the worn pages of Neruda’s Twenty Love Songs and turn right to “The Song of Despair.” I’ve read it many times. But now I understand the shipwreck of his soul and the debris and the cold, cold death of his love’s kisses. How she became dangerous and how he sank. How she sank him. She abandoned him and he was left drowning in sorrow. In the end, he’s just standing on the shore alone, deserted like an empty harbor.

  Is this how all love begins and ends? In the quiet torment of the soul? If this is what it’s like to love, I don’t ever want to love someone again.

  I close the book and put my earbuds in. I find the radio program Lovesongs on the Coast because as long as I’m miserable, I might as well excel at it. I listen to Jules, who says that she can’t imagine her life without Robbie. He’s everything to her and she wants him to know that she’s thinking of him tonight. She requests “I Will Always Love You,” the country version by Dolly Parton.

  I hate country music, but by the second verse my eyes are all watery. Again. I turn away from the other passengers so they won’t see me.

  It’s hard to hear other people talk about their supreme happiness, but there’s something cathartic about listening to the calls that come in about the loves people have lost. That pain matches my own and, at least for the moment, it’s like there’s someone out there who gets me.

  The more I listen, the more the love songs become a soundtrack, and I play a montage of scenes in my mind. When Callie and I were paired up and I first noticed her eyes. When she invited me over and touched my face. When I drew her on that perfect day at LACMA, and she blushed. When we sat together at the movies and then I carried her to my scooter. When she wrapped her arms around me on the back of my bike.

  The images and love songs are like salt in a wound, but I don’t care.

  I want to hurt.

  • • •

  When I get home, my parents are on the couch. The soundtrack of Man of La Mancha plays in the background. Mom breaks from Dad like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle and stands to greet me.

  “Welcome home!” she says. “How was camping?”

  “Fine,” I say. I drop my pack and sleeping bag. They hit the floor with a loud thud.

  “We missed you. Dad’s been torturing me with his old music.”

  “This is not torture. Listen, this is about true love. The passion for his amor.” He holds out his hand toward Mom and begins serenading her with “Dulcinea.” He gets up, saunters toward her, and pulls her into his arms for a dance. “Dulcinea . . . I see heaven when I see thee . . . Dulcinea.”

  “Carlos . . .”

  Dad ignores her pleas and spins her around the living room, still singing. Mom’s laughing. But something within me snaps, because it’s all a huge lie.

  It’s broken.

  Everything is broken.

  There is no true love, no such thing as soul mates. There’s only loving and leaving.

  I stop the music.

  “Dad, don’t you think there’s something you should tell Mom?”

  Dad’s wide grin freezes. Mom looks at him, at me, and then back at him. His eyes plead with me like a trapped animal. Mom must feel the change in the air, because she backs away from Dad.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks.

  “Nothing,” Dad says. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “He’s lying. Everything’s wrong,” I say.

  Mom looks from me to Dad again, and now there’s real worry on her face.

  Dad turns to me. “Neruda, let’s go for a walk.”

  “No, Dad. Mom should know.”

  “What should I know?”

  “Come on,” Dad says, and he grabs my arm hard and shoves me toward the door.

  “Tell her about Leslie,” I say loudly.

  Dad opens the door and pushes me out of it, but Mom is right behind, and all three of us stumble onto the front porch. Dad still hasn’t replaced the bulb, so we’re in the dark with only a little light spilling outside from the living room, creating menacing shadows along the wall of the house.

  “Carlos, what are you doing?”

  “Tell her,” I say louder.

  Dad’s eyes are wild now, panicked. He’s looking everywhere but at Mom’s face.

  “Ahuevonado,” Dad spits out, and turns to Mom. “It’s nothing, Janice. Nothing. Neruda’s blowing something way out of proportion.”

  “Tell her,” I say.

  Dad glances across the street as if he’s thinking about making a run for it. Instead, he faces Mom. “Janice, you know that I love you—”

  And that just sets me off.

  “He cheated, Mom. He cheated. With a girl named Leslie.”

  I can’t help it; the words just fall out of my mouth. But the second they’re out, I regret saying them.

  Mom reaches back for the wall to steady herself.

  My voice rises the more I speak. “And I found out, and he didn’t want me to tell you, but I can’t walk around here like I don’t know anymore. It’s all wrong. Everything is wrong.”

  “Neruda, calm down,” Dad says.

  “Mom doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this.”

  “Who’s Leslie?” Mom asks.

  “His TA. She’s like twenty-one or something.”

  “Oh, Carlos.” My mom’s voice is more of a groan. “When?”

  Dad doesn’t even try to deny it, just says, “Last year.” He stares at the ground.


  “When?”

  “I don’t know the dates—about a year ago.”

  “Well, when? Was it the summer, or over Christmas? I’d like to know when you decided your marriage didn’t matter and when you were off screwing some girl. Oh!” Her hand goes to her mouth. “You didn’t bring her here, did you? Did you?”

  “Janice,” Dad says.

  Mom bends her head and whispers, “Oh God.”

  “I ended it. It’s over and I haven’t even thought of her. It was—it was stupid. The second I realized just how dumb I was, I ended it. Te amo.”

  She holds up a hand like she does when she’s angry, but instead of speaking, she starts crying. This makes me afraid, because my mom never cries.

  Dad starts crying too.

  “No . . . you don’t get to do that,” she says to him.

  “I’m sorry, Janice. I’m so sorry.” He sits down on the front steps and puts his head in his hands.

  I stand there between them, more sad and scared than angry, because I don’t know what happens next.

  Mom stares at him and then goes inside, leaving Dad and me on the porch. Neither of us moves to follow her. Dad’s shoulders shake from the emotion, but I don’t have sympathy for him. He took something from Mom, and something from me too. He took something I thought was real and destroyed it.

  I go in the house, grab my bag, and head for my room. When I get there, I slam the door shut. Then I take The Poet’s book out of my back pocket and throw it against the wall. It falls to the ground like a wounded bird.

  I don’t have the heart for his words anymore.

  SAD SONG TO BORE EVERYONE

  In the morning, I pretend that I don’t notice the sheets and blankets folded on the corner of the living room couch. I also pretend I have something going on before school so that I can leave the house early and avoid my parents. Not that they’re trying to find me. Mom hasn’t left her room since last night, and Dad is already gone.