To Love and Let Go

by Rachel Brathen

  love

  6

  * * *

  RECEIVE

  After being in Costa Rica for a year or so I finally got my own house. A proper house! Alright, it was more like a shack. The roof leaked, I didn’t have a fridge, a family of scorpions lived in the shower, and when the street flooded, muddy water poured through the front door. I didn’t have hot water, electricity was sporadic, and the whole place smelled of dirt and mold. Even so, I was happy there. I woke up every morning before sunrise to the sound of waves crashing on the shore; that’s how close I was to the ocean. My days always began with meditation; walk down the beach to one of the deserted lifeguard towers there. Climbing up the steps always filled me with an almost electrical sensation—those mornings were sacred and the life I had created for myself was so simple yet so beautiful that I almost couldn’t believe it was mine. I’d settle there, looking out at the ocean as the sun rose, and then close my eyes and sit in meditation for at least an hour. Meditating came as easy as breathing. All I had to do was close my eyes and anchor into my breath, and I’d find myself floating beyond time and space. Quila was always by my side. Sometimes after meditating I’d catch a few waves, or I’d go straight to the fruit stand for breakfast. I practiced yoga every day, too, but yoga asana, the poses, was secondary to meditation for me. Quieting my mind was my priority; moving my body came second. Throughout the day I’d have plenty of good conversation with the backpackers passing through town and found myself immersed in deep conversation everywhere I went. At the time I didn’t have a phone, or a computer, or a “real” job. I worked for John and his team, but they would travel for long stretches at a time and then I wouldn’t have much to do. I bartended here and there, and waitressed a few days a week, but that barely covered the rent. I was so poor that on some days I had to choose who would eat breakfast: Quila or me. The dog always won. I didn’t have much in the way of things, but I had friends and peace of mind, and sun-kissed skin and braids in my hair.

  One afternoon, I walked into the dive shop where my friend Laura worked, looking for a hammock and someone to talk to.

  “Some hippie girl is trying to steal your boyfriend!” she said before bothering to say hello.

  “What boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Diego!” she said.

  Diego was a Brazilian guy I’d been seeing. A calm, sweet twentysomething neighbor of mine who was living in Costa Rica for the same reason as every other dude with a surfboard—to look for the next perfect wave.

  “A girl with brown boots and long hair walked into the shop asking for him,” Laura said. “She said they had been dating for a while. She looked kind of like you, except she was shorter, with darker hair, and she didn’t wear as many bracelets. A Tica version of you. She seemed nice, but she is dating your boyfriend! Aren’t you upset?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said. I’d been dating Diego casually for a few months, the way I’d casually dated a few other guys since I settled in town. Laura looked at me skeptically. “Sure he’s not,” she said. “Fine!” I said. “I’ll ask him about her.”

  When I questioned Diego, he said he didn’t know what I was talking about and that he wasn’t seeing anybody else. I decided the girl was either making up a story or someone I needed to watch out for. Turns out, I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  A short time later, I was walking down Sesame Street, the small dirt road lined with houses occupied mostly by expats and long-term visitors, on my way to the beach, when I saw her. I was barefoot, with my puppy on my heels. The girl walking toward me was wearing a cropped top over a flowy purple skirt, and a magnificent pair of boots. Somehow I knew right away that this was the girl Laura had been talking about. Gearing up for confrontation, I was taken aback when she looked at me and smiled.

  “Hey! Isn’t this the nicest day?” she asked, her brown eyes twinkling.

  “Hi . . . um . . . yes . . . it is,” I said.

  “I’m Andrea. Nice to meet you! You’re Rachel, right?”

  “I am,” I said.

  We were quiet for a minute and I studied her face. She was incredibly beautiful. If this was the girl who was competing for Diego’s affection, I should have been threatened, but for some reason I wasn’t.

  “I love your dress,” Andrea said.

  “I like your boots,” I replied.

  “You can borrow them if you like. Are you going to the beach?” I nodded. “Want some company? I’m really good company. And I have snacks.”

  It took about five minutes for us to figure out that it was indeed true: we were seeing the same guy. It took even less time for both of us to decide to dump him. We also realized we were neighbors. Andrea had just moved into the house directly next to mine. She planned to stay for what she described as “an infinite amount of mind-blowing time.”

  Andrea spoke English like an American but laced with Colombian intonation and lots of Costa Rican slang. She said she was born in Colombia and grew up in Costa Rica but went to school in the States, and now she was exploring the country, trying to avoid going to university for as long as she could. She had long, messy chestnut hair, thick, dark eyelashes, and pale skin. She was thin, with curves in all the right places—she was a knockout—but she wasn’t preoccupied with her appearance. Her confidence made me think a lot about my perceptions of myself. I am tall, with broad shoulders and long legs, but, unlike Andrea, I was always insecure about my appearance. I never forgot the time that—when I was thirteen and on my way home from school—a construction worker whistled after me and cautioned: “Looking good! Just make sure you don’t get anymore meat on those bones!” I was confounded. How much meat was “too much” to have on your bones? When I got home, I went straight to my mom’s scale and began a habit of writing down my weight every day to make sure I wasn’t gaining. For most of my life, I had always been looking at myself from the outside, picking things apart. It seemed like Andrea had never had an insecure day in her life. If there was a body of water nearby, she was comfortable enough in her skin to throw off all of her clothes to swim butt-naked. After that first day we quickly became inseparable.

  She nicknamed me “Macha,” which, loosely translated, means “blond” or “Blondie.” One day, laying under one of the almond trees by the beach, I found myself thinking, So this is what real friendship is like? We’d spent the morning reading in the shade, barely speaking, pausing only to reach for another slice of pineapple or to read something out loud. We didn’t have to talk all the time; I didn’t have to fill the silence with platitudes or politeness. We could just . . . Be. It was strange, but from the day we met it felt as if we’d known each other for a long, long time. We finished each other’s sentences, wore each other’s clothes, shared jewelry, braided each other’s hair, and gravitated toward the same food, books, songs, and guys. I never had a friend who was so much like a sister; it felt like we were made from the same flesh and blood. Diego became so uncomfortable with our friendship that he ended up leaving town.

  After a while, Andrea moved in with me. We were spending all of our waking time together anyway; it didn’t make sense to pay for two houses. Within a few months we had a routine: meditating in the mornings, spending time on the beach, going to yoga, cooking, drinking wine, and messing around with the beach guys. She showed me how to build my first altar and how to work with angel cards. She introduced me to palo santo, and ecstatic dance, and the art of making crochet bracelets. She taught me how to follow the rivers to the best waterfalls and how to sing the old grandmother songs. Just like me, Andrea devoured spiritual books and was on a quest for meaning. I’d had many girlfriends in my life, but for some reason, this was the first time that I’d ever felt truly safe in a relationship, which brought a lot of realizations about my previous friendships. I knew it wasn’t about my old friends—it was about the old me. I always had a hard time letting people in—I didn’t trust easily—and often kept people away or created drama. I was reliving many of my challenging relationsh
ip patterns with my mother in my female relationships, always waiting for the other person to leave me. It wasn’t until I met Andrea that I realized what sisterhood could actually be. Our time together was sacred—my soul grew with her. The love I felt for her and the ease of our friendship was different from any relationship I’d ever experienced. Before Andrea, I never had a friend I felt I could completely trust. I often created problems in my friendships in order to give myself a reason to leave before someone left me. I didn’t know that friendship required intimacy and vulnerability, from both sides. Andrea wasn’t afraid to show affection or open herself up. She loved to cuddle—she was very touchy-feely and would always hold my hand or my arm or play with my hair. With time, those qualities I admired so much began to rub off on me. The more we got to know each other, the more we realized we had in common. For the year that followed, everyone in town knew that wherever I went, Andrea was close by, and wherever Andrea went, I was sure to be by her side. When some tourists at a bar told us, “Gosh, you look so much alike! Are you twins?” we started calling each other gemela, for twin. Actually, we looked nothing alike. I was tall and blond and she was short and brunette. But there was something there that was so similar, we got used to people asking us if we were sisters. In a way, we were. It was like we’d always been.

  I dated along the way: Luigi, a local guy from San José whose heart I ended up breaking but who later became one of my closest guy friends. And Brock, who’d come to Costa Rica from Portland, Oregon, in search of the perfect wave. I loved each of them but I was physically and emotionally incapable of committing and always moved on to someone else. My fear of commitment extended to every part of my life. For instance, I never fully gave up my apartment in Sweden. Two years into my stay in Costa Rica I had managed to save up enough money for a trip back to Europe. I boarded a plane and slipped back into my life in Uppsala for a few weeks while Andrea watched over Quila and our little place on the beach.

  While it was great to see family and old friends again, I couldn’t wait to get back to Dominical. Sweden hadn’t felt like home in a long time. After a Christmas celebration, my father invited me to join him and my little sister on a vacation to Aruba. It was on my way back to Costa Rica so I willingly said yes. I’d never even heard of Aruba before but I loved the island right away. It had the tropical vibe of Costa Rica, the gorgeous beaches, the warm water, the sunshine, and the laid-back lifestyle, but it was ordered and structured in a way that reminded me of Sweden. The roads were solid (unlike in Costa Rica, where the roads washed away every rainy season), the water was safe to drink, health care was good, and crime was virtually nonexistent.

  I spent the first two days in Aruba with my dad and sister lounging on the beach and playing in the sea. Andrea sent me a text. You’re just a short plane ride away now! She missed me. Looking out at the most turquoise sea I’d ever seen, I suddenly felt no rush to head back to Costa Rica. Aruba was gorgeous. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet a cute Caribbean guy and stay a little longer! I wrote back. I was joking—I was already in the middle of a challenging breakup and she knew all about it. Funny, she answered. Stop breaking hearts and hurry back home. She was right. I needed to be alone.

  One morning Dad and I decided to pop into a surf shop in town. I walked in and literally straight into a tall, blond, crazy-handsome guy.

  “Hey,” he said, towering over me.

  My face burned red and I could barely get words out. It took a long moment for me to realize he was reaching his hand out to greet me. I finally took it. “I’m Dennis. Are you okay?” I nodded. “Rachel,” I said. I don’t know what was happening to me, but I just couldn’t get the words to come out. Who was this guy? Dennis ended up talking to my dad, who at one point turned to me and asked, “Weren’t you looking for a surf instructor, Rachel?” To which Dennis responded by scribbling his number down on a piece of paper and handing it to me. “Call me if you want to go surfing. I’d love to take you.”

  “Th-thanks,” I said, mortified.

  Where was my normal, breezy self? I wondered. I couldn’t string two words together! I couldn’t wait to get away. Dennis smiled at me as I walked out, but I couldn’t even look at him. I was stricken. Dad was exasperated. “You have the worst taste in men,” he said once we got outside. “Just look at that guy in there! Humble, straightforward, good-looking. You could tell right away, that’s a great guy. And you didn’t even give him the time of day!”

  If only he knew.

  A week passed and every day I’d wake up thinking about the guy in the surf shop. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but I couldn’t get him out of my head. Just the thought of seeing him again was ridiculous—I was on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere that I’d never set foot on again! I focused my attention on my family and the beautiful ocean, but every morning I woke up thinking of him. When Dad left to take a short jaunt to Colombia, I finally mustered up the courage to go back to the store. What’s the harm? I thought. I’m just going to go say hi. No big deal. With my little sister, Emelie, in tow, I hailed a taxi and we headed for downtown. I felt like I was on the cusp of doing something big, and it terrified me. So I made a wager with the universe. If there is any reason why this is not meant to be, give me a sign and I’ll trust it.

  We arrived downtown and found that everything was closed. Apparently, Aruba shuts down on Sundays. Dejected, we took the taxi back to our hotel, but I couldn’t get that guy out of my head.

  That wasn’t a sign, I told myself. Everything just happened to be closed! I’ll try again tomorrow. The next day I convinced my sister to go with me again. And I wagered with the universe—again. If for some reason this isn’t meant to be, give me another sign and this time I’ll take it seriously. We got to the store and . . . Dennis wasn’t there. My heart sank. His coworkers were all present, however.

  “You never called Dennis!” one exclaimed. “He really thought you would call!”

  I thought I would die from embarrassment. They had clearly been talking about me during the week, and there I was, back in the shop with my nine-year-old sister, trying to act casual while five surf dudes stared at me.

  “He’s in the office upstairs,” one said. This is not a sign, I thought to myself. Not a sign. “Oh, that’s fine, we’re just shopping a little!” I said.

  I lingered for as long as I could, looking at things I wasn’t at all interested in, pretending to need all sorts of stuff I didn’t need. Finally, after what felt like forever, Dennis appeared.

  “You came back,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “I needed . . . board shorts.”

  “You so do not!” Emelie cried. “You already have board shorts! Like, a ton of them!”

  I shot her a look that I hoped said, “If you don’t shut the hell up, you’re not getting ice cream ever again.”

  “Alright, well, I’m here if you need me,” Dennis said, stepping behind the counter.

  That’s it? I wondered. He’s not going to talk to me? Or ask me out? Why was the universe making me work so hard to see this guy? I felt too embarrassed to ask him out in front of all of his friends, so I ended up paying for our things and we left.

  As I was walking across the open-air mall, I felt someone looking at me. I turned and saw Dennis, hanging on to the doorframe of the shop and leaning out, watching me walk away. I mustered the courage to flash him a huge smile (a pretty obvious one!) and kept walking. I’d promised my sister we’d get something to eat, so we sat down at a restaurant. Dennis suddenly appeared. Now he was the one who looked nervous.

  “Hey! I don’t know if you’re busy . . . maybe you are . . . but I’m off in twenty minutes and I was going to go check out the waves. Want to come?” he asked.

  “Surf? Me? Yes! Sure! Definitely!” I said, a little too excitedly.

  “Unless you’re just sitting down to eat?” he said.

  “Eat? Us? No, noooo . . . not at all. We’re not eating! Let’s go surf,” I said.

  “What do you mean we’r
e not eating?” my sister cried, waving her menu at me. “You said we were going to eat here! I’m starving!”

  Oh God. Emelie. Just. Be. Quiet. “I’ll take you to the hotel,” I said in Swedish. “Dad will be back by now. I’ll get you ice cream and you can watch a movie in the room. Please just be cool!”

  “Oh . . . you like this guy! Now I get it!” she said in Swedish. “Okay, fine. But don’t forget about my ice cream.”

  We dropped Emelie off with Dad, and Dennis and I drove to the beach. The surf was too big for me and the break was crowded with local surfers fighting for the best waves.

  “Are you okay to chill here?” Dennis asked.

  “Yes, sure,” I said.

  With that, my new acquaintance jumped out of the car and started taking off his clothes. Like, all of his clothes. We’d only just met and here he was, stark naked, changing right in front of me? What is he doing? I wondered. I’d never known someone so comfortable in his own skin, and for a moment I thought about Andrea and her ability to get naked at the drop of a dime. They would really get along, I thought. A vision of the three of us walking down a beach flashed in front of my eyes. I shook it off—where was my mind going? I’d known this guy for five minutes! A second later Dennis was in his board shorts and headed for the water.

  I sat on the shore and watched him until the sun set. As he paddled back in, I felt butterflies in my stomach. Why was I feeling so nervous? It wasn’t like he was the first cute surfer guy I’d ever hung out with. He was just one guy in a string of many whom I’d flirted with that year—it had definitely been the most exciting year of my life in the boy department. Most of them had been surfers, just like him. Why was I feeling so . . . awkward?