Where Sea Meets Sky (27 page)

Hamish laughs. “When your feet get wet, you’ve gone too far.”

Josh gives me a look and I can’t help but laugh, too. “Come on, you Canadian,” I tell him, pushing him forward onto the gravel road that winds down the hill.

“You’re awfully violent this morning,” Josh says. “Should I be worried?”

“You should always be worried,” I say, and I try to ignore the pang of guilt that comes right after. Yesterday I ran into Lake Tekapo wanting to feel numb from head to toe, hoping to quell my raging heart. I ended up kissing him again. I can still taste him on my lips.

“Don’t worry about me, Josh,” I had said.

“But I do,” he answered. And the look in his eyes, it was the same as this morning, full of warmth and concern and all the things that might heal me from the inside out.

I turn my attention to the road and start marching down it, my legs pumping briskly. I haven’t done anything physical since the Routeburn Track, and even though that was just a few days ago, I feel like I haven’t been pushing my body. The funny thing now is I’m not even sure that I’ll be continuing my crazy fitness schedule. I’ll never stop being active—I definitely picked up that habit during my physio training after the accident—but I won’t have to beat myself up over missing a workout here and there.

“What are you thinking about?” Josh asks, his long legs easily keeping up my fast pace.

“Why are you asking?”

“You have that look on your face.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What look?”

“The one that says you’re so far gone inside your head that you can’t even come out to play.”

I stare at him for a few strides and he stares right back. He can see me at times like this and I hate it.

I kick at a stone and watching it go tumbling down the road. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s always nothing and it’s always something,” he murmurs but doesn’t say anything else.

When we turn a corner, the blue bay of Le Bons comes into view and the sight of that endless ocean, the one that makes Josh feel so alone, spurs something in me.

“Fine,” I say carefully. “I was just thinking I haven’t worked out in a while.”

He scoffs incredulously. “We were just hiking for like four days straight. What the hell? That has to count for something.”

“It does,” I admit. “I’m just used to keeping goals and records and trying to keep on top of stuff.”

“But that’s your job talking,” he says.

I give him a pointed look. “Old job,” I remind him.

“Sure. But old or new, it’s a job, right? No way to live your life. Is it your passion? I mean, in the way that painting was?”

My heart sinks for a moment. “No. Not at all. It was just something I enjoyed and was good at.”

“Lots of people think that’s what passion is.”

I rub my lips together. “Most people are wrong.”

He stares at me and I can’t read his face for the life of me. But I also don’t want to spend too much time doing so. Soon we’re walking across a large expanse of hard, wet sand, out toward a tractor hauling a small metal boat.

“Now that,” I say, grabbing Josh’s phone out of his pocket and swiping across the screen in order to take a picture, “is a real Kiwi scene.” I snap the shot and hand it back to him. “You’re welcome.”

He takes the phone. “Hold up,” he says, coming around the front of me. “If you’re going to use my phone to take a picture of a tractor and a boat, I’m going to use it to take a picture of you.
You’re
a real Kiwi scene.”

I freeze, totally unused to having my picture taken. I know, it’s weird in this day and age of selfies and Facebook and Instagram. But the Instagram pics I take are usually of Auckland scenery or healthy meals I made, not of myself.

“Smile, weirdo,” Josh says.

My frown deepens and that’s when he takes the picture. He glances at the screen and shrugs. “Well, at least it’s accurate,” he says before shoving it back into his pocket. “Shall we see a man about a tractor and a boat?”

I make a humorous grunting sound and follow him to the water’s edge where Hamish is backing up the tractor.

“Need help?” I yell at him.

He shakes his head and keeps backing up until he slams on the tractor brakes and the whole boat goes sliding backward off the trailer and into the water where it lands with a splashy thud.

Hamish hops off the tractor and gestures to the boat with one arm. “All right, everyone in!”

Though I’ve known not to expect a dock in places like this, I also wasn’t thinking about having to wade through water. I take off my jandals and hold them in one hand, glad I’m wearing shorts as usual.

Josh, on the other hand, is wearing jeans and his skater shoes. He takes the shoes off and rolls up his jeans to the knees.

“You look like Tom Sawyer,” I tell him.

“I love Rush,” Hamish says, hopping on the boat and flipping through the radio channels, as if he expects to find the band and song playing right this minute. “Canadian band, aye?”

Josh and I walk up to the boat, the water reaching to mid-calf on me, before it starts to float away. Josh gets in first and I’m quickly hauled up by him until I’m sitting down on the cold metal seat that stretches across the boat’s middle.

Hamish lowers the propeller into the water. He gives us some quick info on the bay and the surrounding environment, though I’ve heard of most of the birds and sea creatures before. Then he slams on the thrust and we propel forward over ice blue waves that mimic the color of Josh’s eyes.

For the most part, the boat ride is a bumpy trip. The Southern Pacific Ocean rushes into the bay and we bounce around, the cold spray coating my bare limbs. At one point the boat really slams down after a sharp swell, as if we’re landing on a turtle’s back, and Josh’s arm goes around my waist, holding me tight and close.

I don’t protest. He can hold me all he wants here because I have this feeling that if I even move, I’ll be swept overboard. Partly because it’s wet and windy and wild out, and partly because it would be ironic. The girl who’s trying so hard not to drown would literally drown in the end.

Hamish takes us past the white, ribbed walls of the sea cliffs, and all the cormorants and gannets and other seabirds that lodge there, perched precariously. I wonder how they can even survive living on the absolute edge, in danger with every breath of their lives.

“Here are your dolphins, Gemma,” Hamish suddenly says, and the boat guns it further into the open ocean. That thing that Josh feared, that unending emptiness and loneliness, well, I’m finally aware of it, finally fearful. The waves are so big and the boat is so small. We could keep going and going and going until New Zealand were just a dot on the horizon, and we’d be alone forever.

I suck in my breath, trying to calm the panic rising at the bottom of my throat, and Josh instinctively holds me tighter. Maybe he can tell. But he’s just letting me know he’s there.

Suddenly gray and black bodies are shooting out of the water to the left of us and then to the right of us. The smallest dolphins I’ve ever seen are propelling themselves out of the water while others are racing us just below the surface, a stunning contrast against the thick, aqua blue of the water. They ride the waves and the current like underwater surfers.

Josh may have been making fun of me for being a dolphin hipster, but I’m sincerely impressed by these tiny, quick guys. I wonder if I should let him know that or keep up my reputation.

“Ah, dolphins,” Hamish remarks earnestly. “The llamas of the sea.”

Josh and I exchange a look at that.

When we’re cold, a bit wet, and utterly enthralled, running on delicious adrenaline, Hamish turns the little boat around and we head back toward the sharp, guano-stained cliffs of Le Bons Bay. After we make our way past the sharp hills and toward the wide beach, he runs the boat into the sand and then ushers us off.

As far as tours go, this one was utterly rudimentary. But that’s part of the charm. It was personal—just Josh and I, getting to experience the little Hector’s dolphins and that terrible taste of the open sea. It was real to the bone, and I knew because of that it would stick with me for a long time.

With Hamish in the background trying to hook up the boat to the tractor trailer, we make our way across the beach and back toward the road. The sand is extra cold beneath my feet and I’m trying to walk faster because of it.

I look beside me at Josh. He looks pumped, elated, yet when he meets my eyes I see a thread of darkness in him.

“So, what did you think?” I ask.

“You actually care what I think?” he answers. My smile falters for a moment but he’s already looking back at the hills in front of us. “I thought that was pretty fucking amazing.”

“A bit of a low-budget adventure,” I say, feeling as shy and unsure as a girl at her first school dance. What the hell is wrong with my head?

Once we reach the end of the beach, we slip our shoes on. Hamish seems to be taking his time. He’s actually abandoned the tractor and boat and is walking to a shed on the opposite side of the beach. It looks like we’ll have to walk up the hill without him.

Together.

On our own.

The thought fills me with unwarranted trepidation, and I’m not sure if I’m more scared of myself or of Josh.

We’re halfway up the hill, the rugged brown cliffs rising from the road on one side, gently sloping into green fields and trees on the other, when Josh says, “So, the ‘us’ that happened in Vancouver . . . is that ever going to happen again?”

The question stuns me. It’s so blunt. I stop walking, glued to the road, a tiny plume of dust rising up around me. I can only stare at him blankly.

He throws his hands up in the air. “Oh, come on Gemma, it’s a valid question.”

My heart is starting to hammer against my rib cage and my breathing deepens. But instead of answering honestly, I answer with spite. “I don’t know. Is the ‘us’ that was you and Amber in the movie theater ever going to happen again?”

Josh jerks his head back, blindsided. He blinks, his mouth opening and closing, searching for words, but he has none that can help him right now.

“Amber told me,” I quickly fill in, knowing what he’s trying to ask. “Said that Nick caught the two of you.”

Josh lowers his head until all I can see is his jet-black crown. When he looks back up, he’s running his hand down his face, stretching his features, his eyes turned to the sky. “Gemma,” he manages to whisper, but he can’t go on.

“It’s fine,” I lie, “but I just find it funny that you have the nerve to bring up the way that we were once when you were with her so recently.”

He pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head. “That is
not
fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” I say plainly and start walking past him.

“No,” he growls and grabs my forearm, pulling me to a stop. “You can’t walk away after dropping this.”

“You’re the one who made out with and groped Amber!” I cried out.

“You’re the one who was continuously fucking her boyfriend, loud as hell,” he retorts and his grip tightens. “And don’t tell me he wasn’t your boyfriend. Whatever he was, that asshole was in you repeatedly. Do you think that was easy for me to watch? To hear? To be around?”

“Well you certainly had a willing distraction.”

“Amber,” he seethes, his eyes blazing, “came on to
me
. And I was nice to her about it. And yeah I got hard ’cause I got a fucking dick and she’s a nice, pretty girl. But she’s not you and I made that very clear to her. No one is you but you, and you don’t even seem to know it, let alone believe it matters.”

“Because it can’t matter.”

He grabs my other arm and pulls me to him, my chest almost pressed against his. “It can matter now. Nick is gone. What’s stopping you?”

I try to pull away but his grip is strong, his muscles flexing to keep me in place. “I think I just told you.”

“Amber,” he says breathlessly. “Is that it? Is that all? Is that the only reason I’m not deep inside you right now?” His gaze is suspicious, roaming all over my face, searching my features for the truth. If he finds it I wish he would tell me, tell me my truth so I can know for myself.

He watches me and I don’t think he’s found what he’s looking for. His frown deepens. “This is ridiculous.”

“What?”

“I
like
you, Gemma,” he says. His tone is hard and honest. There is something so brave about this moment that I can barely take in what he’s saying. “I like you a lot. I’ve liked you a lot since we first fucked and you got in that cab and I thought I would never see you again. You invaded my dreams. You invaded my art.” I raise a brow at that, struck by this revelation. “You invaded my life. I started to think that perhaps you were never real, just something I made up, or a ghost you can’t hold on to. Most guys would let it go but I couldn’t. I came here hoping I would have the balls to find you, and with some help I did.”

He pulls me closer to him so I can feel the heat of his skin between us. His voice lowers and his eyes soften, gazing down at me with a hint of carnality. “I found you. And after everything, I’m still here because of
you
. I could go on a backpackers bus, I could hunker down in a hostel somewhere and be quite content. But I’d never be so happy alone out there as I am by your side, even when we’re dealing with the most bogus shit like psycho meathead ex-boyfriends and hooligan parrots and running out of gas on what’s probably the set of Rob Zombie’s next horror film, I’m still not going anywhere. I’m here right now because of you, I’m here in this country because of you, and I’ve been the horniest motherfucker for the last few weeks all because of you. Because of
you
.”

I look away from his face, trying to ignore the sincerity in his voice, and stare straight ahead at his chest, absently focusing on the designs of his black T-shirt. He means his words and they’re trying to get under my skin, loosen my defenses, melt what little armor I have. I want to believe them so badly but I know if I do I’ll have a hard time holding on to the person I need to be. Josh has this uncanny ability to lift my fingers, one by one, from my tight grip on myself, but I’m not letting go yet.