Where Sea Meets Sky (11 page)

But, all that aside, being around her felt . . . right. It felt natural. I felt like I had worried for nothing, and from the signals she was giving—the way she locked eyes with me, the toss of her hair, the nervous shake to her hands—I assumed she felt the same.

Obviously I am a total
munter
when it comes to reading women, because she does not feel the same. She has a boyfriend. His name is Nick. He’s a total roid-monkey douchebag. His smile reminds me of a donkey that’s used teeth whitener. He looked at me as if I were beneath him. In fact, he said something about me looking like a drug addict, and it took all I had at the time not to punch him in the face, let alone pretend that it didn’t bother me.

Never in a million years did I think that Gemma was with someone. Obviously I never would have come to New Zealand if I had known that. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have slept with her either, since I know what it’s like to be cheated on (though there’s still a chance I would have—I’m still a human with a penis).

And now, well, now I’m going on a road trip with her, her cousin I don’t know, and her fuck-face boyfriend. And why? Because I’m stubborn? Because I didn’t want to lose face in front of the turdburger?

Or because in some deep, terribly hopeful part of me, I feel like I still have a chance. Like I can win her over. Like it’s not over. I mean, I’m here aren’t I? That’s still something.

As if reading my mind, Tibald suddenly says, “Maybe she’ll change her mind.” The waitress comes over with our drinks and he stops her before she can leave. “Excuse me, miss?”

She gives us a tense smile. She has a million tables to wait on, the bar is full of backpackers and other riffraff, and she looks all kinds of exhausted. She can barely humor us.

“Yes?”

Tibald nods at me and I groan inwardly. “See this man here. He’s a good-looking guy, right?”

The waitress looks at me and smiles. It’s genuine. At least
she
thinks I’m mildly fuckable. “Mmmhmm.”

“Well,” Tibald goes on, “he’s come all the way to New Zealand for a girl. He meets with her and then she invites him on a road trip to the South Island. He agrees, naturally, and then she adds that her boyfriend, whom he did not know about, will be coming with them. Now, in your wonderful opinion, does he still have a chance with her?”

She frowns in thought and taps her tray against her thigh. “I don’t know,” she muses. She looks at me. “Were you always good friends?”

I clear my throat. “We had a one-night stand, just before she came back here.”

Her eyes widen and she looks a little less tired. “Oh. You came all the way here after a one-night stand? She must have been a good shag.”

I’m not amused but Tibald takes the reins. “So,” he quickly says, “do you think he has a shot with her? I mean, you wouldn’t invite a guy you shagged along on vacation with you and your boyfriend unless there was a chance that you’d hook up again.”

She sighs and notices a table waving her over. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe she just wants to have her cake and eat it, too.” Then she leaves, scurrying off into the crowd.

“Great help,” I tell Tibald.

“Why would you have cake and not eat it?” Schnell asks, seeming seriously puzzled.

As I drain my new beer, the rest of the conversation goes to their bike trip, which starts tomorrow, a day before I go off with Gemma and her crew. I don’t know our route at all, but I already made tentative plans to meet up with the Germans, if possible. We’ll at least stay in touch by text and e-mail.

I’m going to miss these weirdos, that’s for sure. Ever since I saw Gemma, I’d been spending the days with them, taking in all of Auckland’s sights. We went hiking on Rangitoto, went up the Sky Tower, took a ferry to Devonport, got thrown out of a strip club, and visited the Auckland War Museum. They kept me busy and my mind off of her. I think they thought at some point I’d give up on the whole trip and just join their bike tour.

But not only would I be unable to bike more than thirty kilometers a day without dying, the truth was I just didn’t want to back down. So what if Gemma had a boyfriend—we
had
only been a one-night stand. She didn’t owe me anything and I didn’t owe her anything. I liked her company, plain and simple, and I could push past this. Perhaps Nick the Dick was right and I’d hit it off with her cousin. For whatever reason, I just didn’t want to miss any more opportunities in life.

When Wednesday morning at eight thirty a.m. rolls around, I’m standing outside of the backpackers and waiting for Gemma to arrive. My backpack is even heavier now, thanks to the extra summer clothes I’d bought, and I’m zonked from lack of sleep. I was tossing and turning all night, worried my alarm wouldn’t go off, and my new roommates, a bunch of Israeli guys, were bigger party animals than the Germans were.

It’s a workday, so the streets are busy with people heading to their jobs. The sun is just slicing over the tops of the buildings and the air is sea-fresh. I like Auckland—it feels like home. But just like home, I’m ready to leave. I want to leave the concrete jungle behind and step into the unknown again.

Suddenly my ears ring with the deep rumble of an old engine, and the unknown pulls to a stop in front of me. It’s a bright orange, vintage VW bus, and the driver is smiling at me.

It’s the most beautiful sight.

Gemma jumps out of the driver’s seat and for a moment I think she’s going to come over to hug me but she slides open the side door and gestures to it. “You ready?”

I nod and come over to her, taking my bag off my shoulders. She’s wearing white shorts that show off her toned legs, flip-flops, and a black tank top. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She looks excruciatingly wholesome. This is going to be harder than I thought.

“Definitely ready,” I tell her as I swing the backpack onto the floor of the van and step inside. Gemma slides the door shut behind me and I see Nick in the passenger seat, giving me the head nod but nothing else. I nod back and then, hunched over, walk down to the bench at the back. A petite, curvy girl with a mess of blond curls and a pretty, angelic face is strapped into the bright blue seat and I ease my frame down beside her.

“Hey, I’m Josh,” I tell her, holding out my hand.

She gives me a shy smile, her eyes making contact with mine for only a second as she shakes. “Amber.” Her voice is soft and her American accent sounds strange after being around Kiwis and Germans for days.

I’m about to tell Amber something like “nice name” but Gemma struggles with the clutch as she pulls away from the curb and the van jerks forward. I quickly slip on my seat belt while Nick turns to her. “God, Gemma, ease up.”

“Sorry,” she snaps at him. “I’m not used to driving this old thing.” She gets used to it fast though, and we’re zipping through the city as quick as the van can go, which isn’t saying much.

It’s an old thing, but it’s pretty fucking cool. Her uncle must have taken really good care of it. There’s a sink, a fridge, a counter than runs the length of the back, seats behind the drivers, passenger seats that flip up, a table that pulls out in the middle, loads of cupboards, and colorful curtains at the windows. The bright blue seat Amber and I are on folds down into a bed, and above us you can see where the top pops out into a bunk. It’s surprisingly spacious considering there are four of us in here, and there’s a lot of distance between where I’m sitting and where Gemma is.

When we finally make our way out of the inner city, I lean forward on my knees. “Got any tunes?” I ask loudly, trying to see if they have an MP3 outlet for my iPhone.

Nick laughs. “The radio in this shit-heap is broken and we only have a cassette player. Total dodge.”

“But,” Gemma says, flashing me a quick smile in the rearview mirror, “my uncle left us all his cassette tapes. I hope you like Pink Floyd because he only has
The Wall, Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here
,
and
Meddle.
”

I do like Pink Floyd, though I can tell the music will color the trip a little differently. But driving round New Zealand in an old VW van seems like the perfect time to listen to them.

After we pull over for “petrol” and get a few coffees to go with strange names like “flat white” and “long black,” we’re on the motorway heading south. Gemma slips in one of the cassettes and the sound of whistling wind comes over the scratchy speakers before the overly dramatic bassline of “One of These Days” kicks in. It certainly sets the mood, making the start of our trip even more epic.

“Nice,” I yell at her and she gives me the thumbs-up in the mirror.

I lean back in my seat and see Amber is staring out the window, lost in thought. She’s not one for small talk, which I don’t mind at this stage of the morning. I sip my coffee and am lost in the passing scenery and the psychedelic sounds. Despite the potential awkwardness of the four of us in this van, I’m curiously content. A bit anxious, a bit nervous, but I’m also happy. I try not to question it. I just relax and let the morning sun wash over us, coloring the passing fields a million shades of green.

Though Gemma and Nick occasionally chat up front, we’re all silent for the most part. By the time we pull into the city of Hamilton to grab a few egg “sammies” and quiche from a bakery, plus more coffee, Amber perks up and becomes more talkative. She tells me a bit about herself, how she’s been living at home with her parents in San Jose, California, since graduating from one of the state universities with a degree in English.

“Pointless degree,” she says quietly, shaking her head. “I really thought there would be jobs for me. I thought my work experience and my education would be good enough, I mean, I’m smart, I have a lot to offer, but it took me all summer to find a stupid office job. It barely paid and they let me go two months ago so they could hire fucking interns for free instead.”

She sounds bitter. I don’t blame her.

“Well, you’re definitely not alone in this,” I tell her, trying to make her feel better.

She sighs and sips her coffee. “I know. That almost makes it worse. I’m out there competing with a million other hungry grads. You know, they could have warned us in high school. Instead they told us we were all fucking special snowflakes and the world was at our feet. Such bullshit.”

She swears an awful lot for being such a quiet little thing. She looks at me with big green eyes and seems abashed for a moment, as if she’s aware that she doesn’t know me very well. I smile back and she relaxes. “Anyway,” she goes on, brushing her curly hair behind her ear, “I decided to take all my savings and say, ‘Fuck you America, fuck you economy. I’m taking my money and I’m spending that shit somewhere else.’ So here I am.”

“Is New Zealand your first stop?” I ask her.

She nods. “Yup. After this I’m onto Australia, then Thailand, then Europe. My dream is to find a small village somewhere on the Mediterranean and teach English.” A wistful look passes over her eyes. “It could happen.”

“I’m a big believer in anything is possible if you want it bad enough,” I tell her, and my eyes briefly fly to the front where Gemma is concentrating on driving shift and eating at the same time. Nick is listening his own music with headphones so he doesn’t have to put up with Pink Floyd—or us, I suppose.

“So what brought you here?” she asks me, and I have to watch my words. I can’t exactly say Gemma with Nick sitting up there with her.

“Curiosity,” I tell her. “That, and Flight of the Conchords.”

“Good choice,” she says appreciatively. She really is quite pretty. Maybe a little too innocent looking for my appetite, but she balances it out with a style that reminds me of Stevie Nicks.

She’s not Gemma though. She doesn’t have the mischievous eyes I keep trying to get a glimpse of in the rearview mirror.

“So, Gemma tells me this trip is pretty much all for you,” I say. “Which would definitely put her in the running for cousin of the year, wouldn’t you say?”

“She’s pretty awesome,” Amber admits.

“My ears are burning!” Gemma shouts from the front and flashes us a cheeky grin over her shoulder.

“I’m only saying good things,” Amber protests. She looks at me. “I said I would be happy going wherever Gemma wanted me to go, but she’s thrust all the responsibility on me. Now you’re here though, so you can choose.”

I shrug and lean back in the seat. “Honestly, I have no idea. Everything I’ve read about sounds amazing. I’m happy with pretty much everything, too.”

“Great,” Gemma says, “the plans are in the hands of the most indecisive people in the world. I thought you North Americans were all about enforcing your choices on people.”

“Well, I’m just being polite,” I say. “All the blame goes to Amber for being the American.”

Amber playfully punches me on the shoulder and giggles. “Hey, I resent that.”

I grin at her and sense Gemma watching us. I glance up and see her eyeing me briefly before looking away. For that one moment, she looks kind of bothered.

Gemma clears her throat. “All right, kids, since you both can’t make your own decisions, I’ll let you know what we’re doing. We’re heading down to the Waitomo Caves for two nights. I haven’t booked any of the tours yet, but the one I want to do is tomorrow morning so just give me the okay and I’ll call them. The cheapest one is ninety-nine dollars so I don’t know if that’s out of your budget.”