Where Sea Meets Sky (15 page)

We pull away from the holiday park and hit the open road. Pink Floyd’s “Flutter” seemed to work yesterday as good morning music, so I put it on again, sliding it into the cassette deck with a satisfying snap. I don’t know why Uncle Robbie only had these tapes in Mr. Orange, but they bring back old memories of my childhood and will hopefully make some new ones here.

Because everyone is worn out and aching, we all keep quiet, stopping only once outside Waitomo to get coffee. It’s a beautiful morning, though—warm, golden sunlight hits the damp cool of night, causing clouds of mist to gather in the fields and flank the base of rolling green hills. When I can tear my mind away long enough from the problem at hand, I’m caught up in a sense of adventure and freedom that I’ve never had in my own country before.

And yet it’s all an illusion—the adventure will be short-lived and there never was any freedom. Not here, not when I’m caught like a fish on a line, not strong enough to fight.

I glance at Nick. He’s concentrating on the road, his brows together. I know he wants the old bus to go faster, but it just can’t. It’s not built that way. It’s built to take it’s time, to do more than get people from point A to point B. It wants you to savor the journey.

Nick is all about speed. Even his features—sharp and short nose, small eyes, straight brows—move quickly and dramatically. You get a glance at him and you have an idea of what he’s all about. You don’t need to keep staring. But still, he’s handsome, in that overly athletic way—deeply tanned skin, thick neck, white teeth. It was his smile that won me over the day we first met in his gym, that and the fact that he was successful, had a career behind him, and a new one in front of him. But he’s not smiling much these days.

He’s not happy to be here. He’s always been a rather hot-headed person—especially when he was playing rugby—but for the most part he’s aloof. He keeps that all buried, and all you see is the professional. Here, though, everything seems to put him on edge. What he did with Blair was embarrassing, yelling at him like that and smacking his hand away just for touching me. I want to say it’s out of character, but something tells me it’s not. I may not know Josh but I’m not sure I know the guy I’m seeing all that well either.

It’s like being here is the last thing he wants to do. He’s sullen, moody, immature. At first I assumed that Nick was coming because he wanted to do this trip with me and Josh had just spurred him on. But now I’m starting to think the only reason he’s beside me right now is because he doesn’t want to lose face. He doesn’t want to
lose
, period. He’s competitive to the very core, and I’m just a prize.

As the easy acoustic notes of “Fearless” play out over the speakers, I glance at Josh in the rearview mirror. He’s sitting back beside Amber and staring out the window, his legs splayed, wearing flip-flops, jeans, and a tight black T-shirt. His tattoo snakes masterfully down his arms, like an organic extension of his shirt, and his thick, rich black hair is free of product and occasionally falls across his forehead. He’s lost in thought, his pretty blue eyes taking the passing scenery in.

Josh’s face invites you to stay awhile, to spend some time taking him all in. You want to dwell on his features—the soft, Elvis-like curl to his upper lip, his arched dark brows, the slant of his cheekbones. Most of all, you just want to stare into his eyes. Sometimes they’re so easy to read that you think you can see right into his soul. Other times they’re clouded, like a storm rolling down a blue glacier, and you have no idea what he’s thinking, what he’s wanting.

I want him to want me.

I want him to not want me.

I don’t know what I want.

But when he was massaging my legs yesterday in the caves, I couldn’t deny there was something between us. There always had been, there had just been too few opportunities for it to spark.

It scared me, the feelings he brought out.

But so far my fear is greater than my want.

And so I’m with Nick, not with Josh, because Nick is my future. And Josh, he’s a ghost from the past, staying for a spell before he’s pulled back to where he came from. He’s not permanent. He’s like the wind. He’ll be with me long enough to ruffle my feathers and then he’ll be gone.

Just outside of Tongariro National Park, we pull over for greasy fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. The imposing volcanic peak of Mount Ngauruhoe, still fringed with snow, pokes its head in the distance. We sit down at a picnic table nearby, a scenic spot for lunch, and I can’t help but watch Josh as he takes it all in, the contrast of white against all the green. I wonder if it reminds him of home.

“Do you miss Canada yet?” I ask him, pouring an illegal amount of vinegar all over my chips.

“Not even for a second,” he says, eyeing the carcasses of vinegar packets as they pile up in front of me. “When did you start missing New Zealand while you were gone?”

I thought he’d already asked me that question, back when we were talking in his bed till dawn. I don’t look at Nick as I answer, “I didn’t miss it at all.”

I’m not sure why I say that since it isn’t exactly true. I had missed some things—our chocolate for one, Watties tomato sauce (not ketchup), and a few friends and family. And I guess, on occasion, I had missed Nick. But things are different now, and I’m not about to admit anything.

“Well, I’m homesick,” Amber admits, and I look at her in surprise.

“You are?”

She nods and exchanges a look with Josh. “I was just telling Josh last night that I don’t really . . . feel like I’m here yet. It’s like my memories of home are more tangible and this is just some dream.”

“Could it be jet lag?” Nick suggests.

She shakes her head, a few curls coming loose and framing her fairylike face. “No, physically I feel fine. Mentally I feel like I’m in a cloud.”

“I told you, it’s because you’re placing too much pressure on yourself,” he says, and I feel like an animal when someone pets them the wrong way, my hair all raised. It actually bothers me that the two of them are having private moments together.

I blink and try to shake it off, and Josh eyes me closely. I put on my mask and tell him to elaborate.

“I don’t know,” he says, running his hand along the dark stubble on his jaw. I’m glad he didn’t shave this morning. I like it. He looks more rugged. “I’m just now figuring this out for myself, but it seems like when you travel, at least for the first time, ‘cause, fuck, I don’t know any better, there’s so much pressure to take it all in. You’re short on time and money and you panic, thinking, ‘I better be present in the here and now or I’ll never remember anything, I’ll never feel like I’m here. It will be a waste of time otherwise.’ But the more you concentrate on being here, the more it clouds over. Amber said she was feeling the same way, so maybe I’m onto something.” He shrugs, as if suddenly aware that neither Nick nor I might understand.

But I do understand. I went through it myself.

“So then what do you do?” I ask.

His mouth quirks up into a smile. “Just relax and have fun. Do what we’re doing right now. Embrace the fog, I guess. Eventually it has to clear up.”

“I have no idea what the hell you
munters
are talking about,” Nick says as he rolls up his chips into the newspaper and tosses them into the rubbish bin. He never eats chips and usually picks all the batter off of the fish.

“You wouldn’t,” Josh says under his breath, and I shoot him a sharp look. He doesn’t look the slightest bit apologetic and meets my eye with determination. I can almost hear what he’s thinking—
I told you he was a dicknugget
. Thankfully Nick is already halfway to Mr. Orange and doesn’t hear him.

“Maybe the fog is a good thing,” I tell him as I get up. “Maybe clarity shows you the ugliness underneath.”

“You say ugly like it’s a bad thing,” he challenges.

“Okay, now I’m confused,” Amber says with a whine. She turns to me, stuffing the last of her chips in her face. “Speaking of confusion, where did you say we were staying tonight?”

“Paekakariki,” I tell her.

She snorts. “Kakawhat?”

New Zealand place names never get old for these two. The minute I told them about a place called Whakapapa (“Wh” in Maori is pronounced as an “F,” by the way), they couldn’t stop laughing for minutes. “It’s a little beach town outside of Wellington. I’ve booked us a hostel there so we can get a short break from the bus.” Before they can ask, I say, “Don’t worry, you’re in a dorm room. It’s cheap. Much cheaper than Wellington. Anyway, that’s why we’re staying there. Plus, it’s about time you guys see a real west-coast Kiwi beach.”

As we walk back to the bus, I turn and give Josh an impish look. “Did you want to try driving?”

“Uh, what?” he asks, stopping in his tracks. “Isn’t that illegal?”

I roll my eyes. “You have a driver’s license. It’s valid here, too. You just drive on the other side of the road; everything else is the same.”

“Except I’ll be sitting on the wrong side of the van, driving on the
wrong
side of the road, and changing gears with the wrong hand,” he points out.

“Don’t be a chook.”

“That’s
racist
,” he says with a face of exaggerated disgust.

I slap him lightly on the back, though I really want to slap him on his ass. “Chook means chicken.”

“Oh.” He looks at Amber, who shrugs.

“I don’t care who drives,” she says, “just don’t kill me.”

I cock my head and look back to Josh expectantly. “I rented a car in the States, drove through a part of the southwest. If I can do, I think you can do it.” I raise my brow at him and look him up and down. “Or maybe not.”

He bites the bait. “All right, I’ll drive.”

I grin at him. I’m not sure why I think this is a good idea. I guess I just want to share
something
with him, even as simple as driving.

Naturally Nick is pissed off, even though I can tell he’s tired of being behind the wheel.

“It’s going to take twice as long now to get there,” he says as he begrudgingly sits in the back beside Amber.

“He’s not going to drive the whole time, let him have some fun,” I admonish him.

Josh climbs into the driver’s side and tilts his chin down, looking up at me through his dark lashes. “Fun?”

I smile and shut the passenger door, snapping on my seat belt. “You can at least drive stick, right?”

“Of course,” he says, staring at the wheel and instrument panel with thinly veiled trepidation. “Herman is manual.”

“Herman?”

He gives me a grin. “Yeah, I named my VW, too. He’s a Golf though, so half of Mr. Orange’s size. Bought him last year with the money I won from an art contest.”

I’m impressed. “Nice.” I’d seen Josh’s work in his room, so I knew he was talented, but it says something when other people recognize it, too. For a moment I feel like throwing a smug look over my shoulder at Nick—he who believes the arts are a waste of time—but I keep my attention on Josh instead.

He turns the key and Mr. Orange starts with a throaty grumble. He moves his feet around and gives off a small sigh. “At least all the foot pedals are in the right spot.”

That said, we still lurch around for a moment. I’m glad we’re on a side road and not the highway. “The clutch is sticky,” I say, trying to make him feel better as Amber and Nick get tossed around in the back.

“The whole bus is sticky,” he grumbles, but his eyes are dancing and he’s looking more alive than he has all day. I settle back in my seat, my feet propped up on the glove compartment as Josh gives me a sidelong glance, not so subtly ogling the length of my legs that my shorts show off.

He catches my eye and doesn’t look ashamed to have been caught checking me out. In fact, his expression lights up. He likes that I know.

I like that I know, too.

By the time we reach the highway, he seems to have gotten the hang of shifting with his left hand and doesn’t even flinch when traffic passes on the “wrong” side.

Josh ends up taking us all the way down to Paekakariki. We spend the next three hours talking and laughing, and it’s like our own little world up here, where it’s just the two of us and the passing green scenery. There’s just something so easy about him, about the way I can relate to him and the way he relates to me. All those wicked little feelings I had about him during our night together come back with more punch.

My brain wants to do battle again and I reluctantly let it win. Whatever I’m feeling, it can’t stay.

By the time we roll into Paekakariki, the sun is low on the horizon, coating the wild Tasman Sea in waves of gold. Most people would pass by this tiny settlement on the way to Wellington, our nation’s capital, and I only know about it because I’d gone to Wellington once with an ex-boyfriend and all the affordable places were booked. We took the train out to this town because we had heard good things about the sole backpacker’s hostel they had. Though the ex moved on, the memories remained.

“This is cute,” Amber says in a hushed voice from the back, her wide green eyes taking in the “town,” which consists, basically, of one street. There’s a dairy, or corner store, with all the basics, a pizza shop, a real estate office, a white clapboard church, a post office, a pub, and an empty storefront with a for lease sign.

On one side, right beside the highway, are giant, imposing green hills dotted with sheep. They loom over the town, begging you to touch them, climb them. On the other side of the town is a long strand of wild beach, roaring waves, and the long, crocodilelike body of Kapiti Island, a nature sanctuary.

“Where’s the hostel?” Josh asks and I tell him to take his next right. There are basically only two blocks between the highway and the beach, but we tempt fate by bringing Mr. Orange up a long, twisting driveway to the top of a small rise. He puts the bus into park, slamming on the hand brake, and peers at the house.

It looks like a quaint residence, not a hostel, but that’s part of the appeal. In fact, you would never know it was a hostel if it weren’t for the discreet sign at the base of the driveway that says
PARAKEET BEACH BACKPACKERS
.