Where Sea Meets Sky (19 page)

He raises his brows at us but keeps walking, disappearing into the café with everyone else.

Amber quickly removes her hand and I zip up my pants before anyone else has a chance to see. Holy shit. This isn’t good.

“Whoops,” Amber says, her cheeks turning red. “That was unexpected.”

I’m not sure if she means the intermission or the fact that her hand was wrapped firmly around my erection. Unexpected, indeed.

Luckily, I don’t see Gemma get up and Amber soon excuses herself to go to the washroom. She comes back a short while later with two still-warm chocolate chip cookies. She gives one to me as she settles back down in her spot. This time, however, my dick ain’t playing.

“I guess this is their
thing
,” she says with a mouthful of cookie. “Intermission and cookies.” She shakes the near-empty bottle of wine at me. “More wine?”

“No thanks,” I say, quickly adding, “I’m not really feeling too well.”

It’s a total lie but suddenly she’s feeling bad for me and isn’t touchy-feely like she was before. The movie starts again and I’m able to relax and watch the rest of it in peace.

The only thing I keep thinking is that I hope Nick didn’t tell Gemma what he saw. But when the movie ends and we meet up with them outside the theater, she isn’t acting any differently around us, and Nick even gives me the wink as if he’s saying,
Your secret is safe with me, dawg.
Even in my imagination, I still want to punch him.

The next morning is gray and calm. The rain has stopped, so I go for a quick walk along the lake, just to get some breathing room before we head to Queenstown. I’m on my way back when I see Amber heading toward me, looking freshly showered and ready to go.

“Is everyone waiting?” I ask when she reaches me.

She shakes her head. “No I think they’re doing push-ups or some shit. Listen,” she begins, then looks away. She briefly chews on a strand of hair. “Can we talk about last night?”

“Cool theater, eh?”

“Yeah. But I meant more like the touching of the penis and all that.”

“Right, that.”

“It wasn’t so cool, was it?”

I really don’t know what to say to that. My face has awkward written all over it. “Well, I mean, I don’t know any guy who would complain about a girl like you touching his dick.”

“But you’re not interested in me.” The funny thing is, she doesn’t seem that hurt or rejected by the possibility. Still, I have to be real careful.

I try and give her a reassuring smile. “It’s not that I’m not interested . . .”

“But that you’re interested in someone else.”

I eye her suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

She laughs to herself, throwing an arm to Mr. Orange far in the background. “You’re in love with Gemma.”

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

No
.

“I am not in love with Gemma!” I nearly yell it.

She crosses her arms, looking amused. “Fine. Maybe you’re not in love with her, but you’re going to be. It’s the same thing.”

I frown and mouth, “The same thing?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” she says. “You have it bad. It’ll only get worse. That’s how love starts, you know. Like a fungus.”

I want to protest but there’s no use. I run my hands over my face and groan. “Is it that obvious?”

She smiles softly. “Well, I’ve noticed. I’m pretty sure Nick doesn’t appreciate the little connection you two have. And Gemma definitely knows, that’s why she’s been so nuts.”

“Nuts?”

“I don’t know my cousin
that
well, but she was a lot different before she started this trip. Now she’s, like, manic or something. I blame you.” She pauses. “I blame you in a nice way, though. I can’t say I blame her. You drive me nuts, too.”

I scrunch up my face, feeling all awkward again. “Thanks. What did you mean about Nick not appreciating our connection?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just think it’s obvious you guys are both drawn to each other like crackheads to a pipe. She smiles more when she’s with you, way more than she does with Nick, or even me. She likes you, you know.”

I ignore the rise of hope in my gut. “But if she likes me, why doesn’t she just leave Nick?” I realize I sound like some pitiful shit on the playground, pining after his childhood crush, but fuck it.

She breathes out through her nose and looks at the lake, which is slowly turning from slate to navy as the clouds roll away and the blue sky shows through. The sun pokes its head around a tussock-dusted mountain and shoots a slant of pale light on the lake. It’s all so surreal—the scenery and this conversation.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to make things awkward for us,” she muses. “Though you know what I think? I don’t think Nick is the problem. I think he’s, like, the result of another problem.”

I give her a quizzical glance. “What problem is that?”

She shrugs again, throwing up her hands. “Who knows? Like I said, I don’t know her that well. I think I only know her as much as you do. You guys have talked a lot more during this trip than I have. It’s just what I feel. My father is a shrink, if you can’t tell. I can psychoanalyze the moon.”

In the distance, I can hear the sound of Mr. Orange’s engine. We both turn to see Gemma by the bus, waving us over. “Guess we better go,” I say. “Hey, I’m sorry if last night gave you the wrong idea.”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly. “I wanted to see for myself. You’re a good kisser but I can tell the difference between hormones and passion.”

“And I’ve got hormones.”

“You’re a young dude. I’d be offended if you didn’t,” she says. “Come on, let’s head back. Your not-so-secret secret is safe with me.”

Queenstown is a bit of a clusterfuck. It’s remarkably paint-worthy—the mountains that line the depths of Lake Wakatipu are called The Remarkables—but it’s packed to the gills with tourists. It seems like every adrenaline junkie in the world has descended on this place the same time we have. The restaurants are full, the bars are full, the hostels are full. It’s lucky that we even have a spot for Mr. Orange.

We’re only in Queenstown for one night before we tackle the famed Routeburn Track, a hike that Gemma says she’s been dreaming about for years. I’m not sure what to expect. I’m normally in great shape, and the last few weeks have really got my cardio up, but four days of hiking up and down these mountains have me a bit worried.

But Amber doesn’t seem nervous—at least she isn’t once Gemma assures her there are no predators in New Zealand and we have a zero percent chance of being mauled by a bear—so I man up for the journey.

We wake up early, quickly filling our thermoses with hot water and instant coffee. It’s colder here in the mornings than anywhere else we’ve been, and we’re shivering as Mr. Orange heats up. With Gemma behind the wheel, her brows knitting together in keen determination, her lips wriggling with excitement, we make our way along the long lake toward the settlement of Glenorchy, where one end of the track starts.

I’m living in a postcard. Every day I wake up and I’m part of a scene that steals my breath and brings tears to my eyes. If it’s not Gemma, it’s this goddamned scenery. The sun is just barely rising over the sharp, bare peaks of The Remarkables, bathing the surrounding mountains in shades of gold. The lake is turning from silver to blue. Snow seems to have fallen at night at the upper elevations, making the mountain ranges looked like they were dipped in whipped cream.

Even though I easily get car sick, I bring out my sketchbook and try and capture the moment as quickly as I can. When I’m done, my drawing nowhere near as beautiful as the landscape that unfolds before us, I catch Gemma’s eyes in the mirror. She couldn’t look more melancholy if she tried, and once again it breaks me.

Why don’t you just try?
I want to say.
Forget about your hand, find another way
. I would do anything to fill that loss in her heart. I just want to bring her peace.

She looks back to the road, which is good considering its growing more narrow by the second and we’re high above a rugged, green drop to the lake. Soon the lake disappears behind us, the mountains come closer, and the road turns to rough gravel.

Mr. Orange slowly, carefully, makes his way along the rocks and dust before we finally come to the end of the road. There are a bunch of cars in the car park and a modern-looking shelter composed of wood and glass where a few people are picnicking and studying displays on the walls.

The signs around the car park warn us that it’s unpatrolled and not to leave any valuables in our car, but since we can only carry our backpacks, camping gear, and tents, we have no choice but to leave the majority of our stuff inside Mr. Orange. We’ll be back in four days and apparently there’s a tour that will pick us up from the other side of the track and take us to see the infamous Milford Sound before dropping us off back here.

Gemma locks the doors and pets the spare wheel on the grill. “You stay strong, Mr. Orange,” she says and the sincere look in her eyes as she speaks to the bus is so fucking adorable.

“I thought we were changing his name to Shaggin’ Wagon,” I say as I sling on my backpack.

She glares at me. “Don’t you dare. My uncle is a good man.”

“The best men I know like to jerk it to porn,” Nick says, and for once I find myself laughing with him, not at him.

The trail starts out easy enough and I find myself relaxing when I see families and old people passing us by, coming from the other way. If they can do it, I can do it.

We cross a swing bridge, then meander beside the Routeburn River for some time, a slice of rushing water that is so unbelievably clear and blue it looks like the waters of Tahiti, a striking contrast against the moss-covered rocks it winds around. The trees are beech and some other weird New Zealand kinds that harbor tiny yellow birds and colorful pigeons. The air is filled with bird-song.

“This is so pretty,” Amber whispers from in front of me. “It makes me want to puke.”

The beauty does make you a little sick. It’s too much and it gets worse the higher we climb. Soon we move through tall beeches flanked with bright green lichen and waist-high ferns, the sunlight dappling through the branches at all the right moments. I take picture after picture, hoping they’ll help me to draw the route later on. I was never one to draw or paint landscapes, but now that I’m here it’s all I can do.

After we make our way past streaming waterfalls and gorges, the climb evens out and we find ourselves in a high valley. Here the river widens, soaking into the tussock plains and stretching out until it hits the surrounding mountains. The sky has turned gray and the mountaintops disappear into the mist, only to reappear minutes later.

Gemma, who is at the front, stops to get water out of her pack and then points to the distance, where the valley and river seem to converge with the mountains.

“See that lip,” she says after a drink of water. “We’ll be staying up there tonight. I booked us a room at the hut.”

Damn. That lip, that little area high between the mountains, is way the fuck up there. We’ve already been walking for hours, or at least it feels that way.

But this is an adventure and there’s no turning back on an adventure. My muscles are not sore yet, so that’s a good sign. We bring out some energy bars and almonds and drink more water before heading forward.

In another couple of hours we’re rewarded with the most epic views over the valley. We’re up even higher than I thought and we can see the river below us, meandering through the tan grass for kilometers and kilometers. Little colored dots slowly move along the river, hikers going to and fro.

Further up, the Routeburn waterfall spills down the mossy banks of the mountains, spraying us in fine mist every time the breeze picks up, and there’s a massive wooden building jutting out of the trees. This is apparently the Routeburn Falls hut, but it’s nothing short of a hotel. There’s a wide deck with people leaning against the railing, steaming mugs in hand, waving at us and admiring the view that won’t stop taking their breath away.

The four of us nearly collapse once we reach it—even Gemma and Nick are sweaty and red-faced. We stagger into the hut and haul our bags through the giant mess hall and over to the bunk beds. It’s just row upon row upon row of bunks, but at least they’re divided into groups of four and have the illusion of privacy, even though there are no doors.

The first thing I want to do is take a shower, but even though there are toilets and running water, there are no showers. I have to make do with my sweat. Tired and “buggered,” as Gemma would say, we decide to cook up our favorite staples—hot dogs—on the stoves in the communal kitchen and break out the bottle of whiskey that I decided to buy before we came. You can’t exactly carry a bunch of beer or wine with you.

We do a few shots, play an old board game, and then it’s time for bed. Even though I’m starting to get sore and I can barely keep my eyes open, I stay up sketching for a couple of hours, hoping to capture all the passing moments before they fade forever.

The last thing I draw is a picture of Gemma as she sleeps in the bottom bunk across from me. While drawing Gemma from memory back in Vancouver felt slightly intrusive (okay, so it didn’t help that she was naked), drawing her asleep with her eyes closed, her face open and vulnerable is . . . necessary. I hope that by the end of the trip I can give her the whole sketchbook, just so she knows just what kind of effect she’s had on me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let her know otherwise.