Where Sea Meets Sky (36 page)

And yesterday.

Gemma lets go of my hand and lets out a whoop of joy and starts running up and down the beach like a horse that’s been set free. I watch her, then take out my camera and start snapping pictures of her, of the beach, of the sunrise.

She raises her hands out, like she’s about to fly, and tips her head back to the sky, eyes closed and smiling. I can feel the peace radiate from her, like she’s being born anew. It’s stunning.

I love you
, I think as my heart seems to expand inside me.

And you’ll hurt me.

You’ll burn me.

You’ll mark me.

But it’s already worth it.

I sit down in the sand and bring out the sketchbook and pastels from the pack. Eventually she comes over to me, glowing even more brightly than the sun.

“Trying out the pastels?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No. You are.”

She frowns and the glow seems to recede like the tide.

“Like before,” I say to her, patting the sand next to me. “Like in Kaikoura. I want you to capture this, but with the pastels.”

She frowns, but to her credit she crouches down beside me. She’s not running away. “Why?”

“Because I think it will be good for you,” I tell her.

She studies me carefully with those dark eyes of hers. “I’m not sure if you know what’s good for me.”

I grin at her. “I do. I’m good for you.” I grab her shoulder and push her down so she falls back on her ass. She glares at me but again, she’s not getting up, she’s not leaving.

I place the box of pastels and the open page of the sketchbook beside her. “You won’t see anything more inspiring than this,” I say, gesturing to the sky, now gold. “Recreate it, capture it. Let it be wild, let it be messy. It’s the first sunrise of many more to come. You can’t screw it up. If you do, there’s always tomorrow.”

I know she’s not the kind of person who looks kindly on the concept of tomorrow, but it seems to work. She chews on her lip for a moment, staring out at the ocean, before she rifles through the pastels and pulls out a goldenrod-colored one. She gingerly touches the pastel to the page and it leaves a waxy imprint. It’s messy. It’s abstract. You can’t be precise. It’s all about feeling and blurred edges and the loss of detail. It’s the perfect medium for her.

She needs to let her soul out, on that page, like an artist. I feel like no one has seen it since her father died, since her art stopped. I understood what she meant by self-preservation. But it was more than that. It was like she had gotten rid of the only outlet she’d known.

I stand up and leave her in peace but she quickly mutters, “No, stay. I don’t want to do this alone.” She’s never sounded so vulnerable.

So I stay. I sit beside her and watch with my own eyes as she recreates a new version of the world; her version. It’s imperfectly perfect and I’m lucky to be a part of it.

However much in love with her I was a few moments ago, I’m more in love with her now. And with each radiant smudge, each beautiful design, the feeling grows. And grows. And grows.

When she’s done, she has tears rolling down her face. She has created art; gorgeous, heartfelt art. It’s more than a sunrise. It’s capturing a feeling, the right now. And she’s just as proud of herself as I am of her.

I gently kiss her tears off of her face. I kiss her until she smiles.

I kiss her until we’re naked on the sand and she’s riding me and her bronzed body is lit by the morning sun, the pale blue sky behind her. We might be having the first sex of this day to follow that first sunrise. I hope we’re setting an example for the rest of the earth. The sun climbs the sky and tomorrow creeps up in the distance, hiding behind the horizon.

Waiting.

“I should get a tattoo,” Gemma says to me as she drives down the winding road toward Rotorua, dense forest and ferns blanketing either side of us and tossing long shadows across the bus.

I raise my brows and give her a look. “Really?”

It’s been three days since that sunrise at the East Cape and we’ve managed to cram a whole lot of nothing into them. As we rounded the cape heading west along the soft curve of the Bay of Plenty, we stayed for a few nights on Ōhope Beach outside the town of Whakatane, renting a beach house for a few days. (Yes, pronouncing “F” instead of “Wh” still makes me laugh.)

We were right on the beach, and when we weren’t relaxing on the balcony and enjoying the ocean view, we were eating, fucking, swimming—you know, all the good things. Though one of the days I managed to convince Gemma to stop being too cool for school and to come dolphin swimming with me.

That was definitely a highlight, getting into wet suits and going out on the open seas between the sandy shore and the steaming volcano of White Island, chasing down dolphin pods. The boat would get in front of the incoming pods and everyone would have to get in the water quickly. It was up to the dolphins to decide if they wanted to check us out or not.

One decided it liked Gemma a lot—it kept swimming around her and she kept humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like Pink Floyd to keep it interested. When we climbed back on the boat, she looked so elated I thought she was going to float away.

We’re heading to Rotorua because it’s apparently a really stinky place. Okay, well, there’s supposed to be really cool volcanic remnants and hot springs and that kind of stuff, but from what I’ve learned it apparently smells. We’re there for a night at a holiday park then over to Auckland, through the city and up into the Northland to other places I don’t remember and on to her grandfather’s place for New Year’s Eve.

Time is flying and Gemma’s statement about the tattoo has thrown me off a little.

“Where do you want to get it done?” I ask. “What were you thinking of getting?”

She purses her lips. “I’ll know it when I see it.” She turns her attention to me, staring at the tats on my forearms. “What are your tattoos supposed to be?”

I shrug. “A little bit of this and that. It’s not so much what they are . . . most are just patterns I like. It’s about what they represent.”

“And what’s that?”

“Moments in time. Tattoos are time stamps. That’s why I don’t believe in regrettable tattoos. I mean, shit, I’ve seen some pretty ugly ones and I’m glad I don’t have any of those. But, really, as long as your tattoo looks nice and is aesthetically pleasing, then why regret it? It symbolizes a moment in your life in a world where everything passes us by in the blink of an eye. I think it’s good to have these reminders to bring you back. Make you remember, reflect. Make sense?”

She nods. “Makes sense. That’s kind of what I was thinking, too. I want something to represent this. Us.”

I raise my brow and look at her in surprise. I can’t help it. “Us?”

She swallows uneasily and looks back to the road. “The trip, everything.”

But it’s too late. She said “us.” She wants a permanent reminder of
us
, something that I always assumed was temporary in her eyes.

Maybe I’ve been wrong about the whole thing.

Maybe I have something to work with here.

“So,” I say, skirting over it in case she gets defensive. “Did you want to do it in Rotorua? Auckland? ‘Cause I will totally get one, too. Not matching, of course.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Hell no, not matching.” But she’s smiling. “How about Lake Taupo? They’ll probably have better artists to choose from anyway.”

“So we’re going to Lake Taupo after this?”

“Guess so,” she says with a smirk.

We decide to bypass Rotorua all together (which, luckily, means I don’t have to do something called “Zorbing”—being pushed down a hill in a giant hamster ball—and head straight to Lake Taupo, stopping at a few of the better volcanic hotspots like Craters of the Moon, complete with dangerous steam venting from the earth and bubbling, boiling mud.

It’s late when we finally pull into the slick holiday park but the next day we’re up bright and early and trying to hunt down the best tattoo shop that will take us on a short notice. There’s one in the center of town, among hostels and cafés and kiosks advertising skydiving and jet-boating and all those other ways to kill yourself. The lanky-looking dude in the shop is friendly and professional, and soon I’m being led to my chair. I take off my shirt and lie down. I’ve opted for a black-inked Canadian maple leaf but done in the Maori tribal style on an area of my shoulder blades that will fit in well with the existing tattoo there.

The needle buzzes and I feel the buzz in my veins. It’s addictive, this high that I get from getting inked. I’m glad Gemma brought up the idea or I wouldn’t have thought of it. She’s been rather . . . distracting.

She stands across from me, flipping through the book of sample tattoos and I take the time to admire her ass. You can bounce quarters off that thing. One of my favorite things to do is slap it with my dick. It’s like a cock trampoline.

I know she feels my eyes burning into her because she turns around gives me a wry glare. “I found my design,” she says though.

“Don’t tell me,” I tell her, wanting it to be a surprise.

About forty minutes later, I’m done. I glance at the tattoo in the mirror and smile. It’s pretty fucking awesome and couldn’t be more perfect. A time stamp of a person and a place I don’t ever want to forget.

It’s what the Kiwi’s would call a
choice
tattoo.

I glance at her over my shoulder. “Do you like it?”

She can only nod but her eyes tell me more. She loves it, both of our cultures melding into one.

The artist covers it up as Gemma gets into the chair and pulls up her hair, piling the massive waves on top of her head.

“I want it on the back of my neck, here” she says to the artist, pointing at the base. “And I want it in an infinity twist. Just like his necklace.”

The artist looks to me, briefly studying the greenstone. “Sure thing.”

As he begins to sketch it out, I stand in front of her, my hand going to her neck, the very place I like to hold her sometimes. “I thought you said no matching tattoos,” I say softly, massaging her there.

She cocks her head. “Your necklace isn’t a tattoo. You didn’t say it couldn’t match something else.”

Naturally, I’m flattered. More than flattered. I’m floored. I’m feeling a lot of things, and it’s not just the adrenaline from the tattoo. I feel like I’ve hit the ground and I’m still smiling and there’s another level below me that I’m about to fall through.

It gives me the craziest idea in the world.

When she’s got her tattoo, her time stamp of infinity, and we’re both buzzing from the needle and ink, I take her hand and lead her to one of the kiosks we passed by earlier. Two hours ago, it seemed like a death wish. Now I realize we’re both falling. Might as well make it even more real.

Because if you’re falling helplessly in love with someone, why not jump out of an airplane with them at the same time? I swear, I should write the advertisements for these companies.

I expect Gemma to scoff at my idea and call me a cliché tourist since Lake Taupo is the skydiving capital of the world, or at least question why someone with a fear of heights would want to do this crazy-ass thing.

But she doesn’t. She smiles. She agrees. She’s excited. She’s gone as nuts as I have. I realize that both of us can’t be trusted anymore with rational thinking. Everything seems to be coming from the heart, from some place that makes smart people do very stupid things, like get tattoos on a whim and then jump out of an airplane.

And so, the next thing we know, we’re at a small airport being fitted into a jumpsuit, a bathing-suit-like cap, and goggles. Thankfully, we don’t look as dorky as we did when we went black-water rafting at Waitomo. Holy fuck, does that seem like ages ago.

Of course we’re doing this tandem with a trained instructor. I get outfitted into a harness by mine, some guy who has the unfortunate name of Nick. I try to not feel like this is a bad omen. Maybe Nick doesn’t always have to be followed by Dick.

I don’t feel the slightest bit nervous though until we walk out of the hangar and I see the bright pink plane we’re going to go up in. Once we’re inside and the doors close and we’re coasting up into the air, I want nothing more than to grab Gemma’s hand. But she’s chatting with her instructor like this is something she does every day.

It doesn’t help that the instructor is a young, strapping Polynesian guy with just the kind of muscles she liked in Nick. Damn it. Maybe this is a bad omen after all.

It definitely at least feels like a bad idea when the doors open. I’ve been trying to distract myself with the view and the enormous blue expanse of Lake Taupo beneath us, but now that air is rushing in through the plane at twelve thousand feet, I’m not sure jumping out of a plane is necessary. Can’t I just stay here and look at the scenery? Why would anyone jump out of a perfectly healthy plane?

But Gemma is up next and I barely have time to wave a fretful goodbye to her before she’s out the door.

Pins and needles swarm my arms and legs, my chest grows hot, and I’m instantly regretting everything.
Shit, shit, shit.
And then I’m hit with the fear of actually shitting myself, or worse. Like, passing out and then waking up on the ground to a bruised ego and soiled underwear.