Where Sea Meets Sky (34 page)

The necklace stays on.

He goes down on me first, teasing me slowly until I’m squeezing his head between my legs and I’m coming, hand over my mouth so my mother doesn’t hear.

I’m totally sixteen again.

Then when I feel I’m too spent, too dazed, he thrusts inside me, bringing me back to life. I’m half off the bed and he’s standing, my legs in his capable hands, and the necklace jostles slightly while he drives himself in and out. It’s not long before I’m coming again, louder this time, caught up in the connection, in the sight of his long, hard body, of the gift I gave him, of the want and lust in his hooded eyes.

He collapses on top of me and then sinks into my bed, pulling me back into him, his legs and arms wrapping around me, much like they did on the top of Key Summit. I give into his warmth, to the intimacy. I can’t imagine anyone else ever holding me this way, and it’s one more stab to the gut that I can’t bear.

Every moment we’re together now I’m so conscious that we’re teetering toward the end. Tomorrow we leave for the East Cape, for that sunrise I always wanted to see, the first in the world. Then we skirt the Bay of Plenty, maybe popping down to Rotorua or Taupo, and then back up toward the Northland and New Year’s Eve at my grandpa’s. After that, we’ll head back to Auckland, and then the real world begins. He’ll go back home. I’ll look for a job.

And try to forget him.

But the thought of him leaving me scares me more than anything, more than trying to figure out jobs and figure out my future. I don’t know how I’ll go back to living with Nyla and Chairman Meow again, just existing on fumes, succumbing to the emptiness inside, the sadness. I guess I’ll have no choice but to harden myself once more and build my armor.

But my armor has chinks. If it didn’t, Josh wouldn’t be in my bed right now, holding me like he’ll never let go, and I wouldn’t be loving every sweet second of it.

If I was smart, I would do it now. I wouldn’t lie here with Josh, I wouldn’t let him hold me and make me feel like I’m so fucking important to him. But I’m not smart. Not anymore, not now. Maybe I never was. I want to enjoy him while I can, even though I can see the Gemma of the future and she’s lonely and cold.

I tried to tell Josh the other day, when Grant pulled that drunken bullshit at the dinner table. I tried to warn him, that I can’t do what he thinks I can. I can’t be that person he wants me to become. I can’t hold on to myself and let go at the same time.

He kisses the rim of my ear, his favorite place, and murmurs a heavy goodnight.

He’s burying the ache as well.

The next day we’re up bright and early to keep our tight schedule. I know the drive up to the East Cape will take longer than it looks, thanks to Mr. Orange’s composition and the cape’s remote and twisting roads.

After we have another hearty breakfast and I’m convinced I’ve gained another two pounds, Josh asks, a little too innocently, if I have any art supplies around.

I know we do. My father’s studio, under Auntie Jolinda’s room in the guest cottage, has been largely untouched since his death. I go in there from time to time when I’m back home, just to feel a piece of him, something tangible and real that he’s left behind. But other than that, no one moves his stuff around. It’s still his room and we like to pay respects.

But I know that my father would have loved Josh, would have loved his talent, and wherever he is, I know he wouldn’t mind a little tour, even if it’s to see if there are any leftover pencils or canvas or whatever Josh has his eye on.

Together we stroll down the gravel path, the morning sun high and strong. He grabs my hand and squeezes it hard just as I take out the keys. There are valuables in there, paintings that we could never bear to lose.

“Is this difficult for you?” he asks, eyes searching mine.

I manage a smile. “It’s not easy but it’s good. It’s a good kind of pain.”

He nods and waits as I unlock the door and push it open.

Dust rushes to meet our faces and floats in the air like mist, caught in the sun streaming through the back windows.

Most things in the studio, particularly easels with paintings my dad was still completing at the time of the accident, are covered with white linen, giving the room a ghostly look. I flick on the light but the bulb seems to have burned out. It doesn’t matter; the natural light that floods in from the south-facing windows is more than enough.

Josh is silent as he takes it all in, and there’s a wash of reverence in his expression. He’s being respectful and I love him for it.

Finally, he looks at me. “This is a good space.”

I nod. “He was in here all the time. Could hardly get him out. I used to sit right over there,” I point to a stool in the corner, “and spin around and watch him paint.”

“Where did you paint?” he asks.

He’s getting closer to a question I don’t want to answer. I clear my throat, feeling like the dust is getting lodged in there. I point at a spot in the corner, behind a shelving unit. “Over there.”

He eyes it, frowning. “Where are your paintings?”

I feel the hot cloak of shame come over me. “I destroyed them all.”

He stares at me blankly for a few long beats. “You what?” he whispers.

I look away, unable to handle this. I’ve never brought it up with anyone. After it happened and my mother found out, we had a horrible fight, but that was the end of it and it was never mentioned again. Now I can feel Josh’s eyes on me, trying to understand.

He thinks I’m crazy. I think he’s right.

I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. “I destroyed the paintings. All that were in my possession, anyway. I burned them in the fire pit outside. There’s nothing left.”

“Why would you do that?” His voice is shocked, saddened, heart-breaking to hear.

I put my head in my heads, blocking him out. He wraps his fingers around my forearm and pries my hands away. “What happened?” he asks.

My face crumples. Why doesn’t he understand?

“What happened?” I repeat, shame and fear and anger competing in my heart. “He
died
. I was ruined. I lost the two things I loved most in the world, that’s what happened!” I pull away from him and stumble to the middle of the room, gesturing wildly around me. “How could I look at what I used to be, what I used to have? I couldn’t! The paintings would hang on the walls in here and they would mock me, they would make fun of me for not becoming what I could have been. Haven’t you ever lost something, Josh?”

He stares at me, not saying a word.

“Well, I did,” I go on, my heart racing, “I lost them in the worst way.”

“So you shut down,” he says, almost to himself.

I frown at him, my hackles rising. “It’s called self-preservation.”

He smiles sadly. “It’s not a way to live, Gemma. Everyone is going to lose something, someone, at some point in their lives.”

“You don’t understand,” I snap, glaring. He thinks he has me all figured out. He doesn’t know me, he wasn’t there, he didn’t have to go through it. “You have everything.”

He raises his brows and gives his head a little shake. “I don’t have everything,” he says quietly. “I barely have you.”

We stare at each other, the dust still hanging in the air. I try and compose myself, breathing in and out, but my breath keeps escaping me.

I need to escape.

I walk past him but he grabs me and hauls me to him. “Don’t run,” he says, holding me by the shoulders in place. “Not from this, not from me.”

“Let me go,” I say.

“You could make me,” he says, his grip not loosening. “I know you can.”

He’s right. But the truth is, I think his arms are the only thing keeping me upright.

“It’s done,” I say, my chin dipped low, staring at the floor between us. “It happened. I can’t get those paintings back. I was a different person before and I’m a different person now.”

The child is grown, the dream is gone
. “Comfortably Numb” plays in my head and I close my eyes.

“But would you do it again?” he asks. His voice sounds larger than life in here. “Or will you destroy something before you have a chance to lose it?”

He’s in my head, he’s in my heart. How did he get in here? There’s an edge to his words, like he
knows
, like he knows
me
.

I’m numb, I’m numb, I’m numb.

“Gemma,” he says in a hushed tone and plants a hard kiss on the top of my head. He wraps his arms around me. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to lose your father. If I lost my sister, I don’t know what I’d do. And if I lost the ability to create, the one thing that makes me happy, that would almost be worse. But . . . you have to understand . . . or maybe not . . . but your father won’t stop being your father. And you won’t stop being an artist. You just have to let it out. Don’t think that because time has passed you’re not allowed to grieve anymore.” He pulls back and cups my face in his large hands, peering down at me. “And don’t think that because you can’t paint the way you used to, in the way you deemed as good—the
only
way—that you can’t create. You’re a different person now, as you say. Your art will be different. You don’t have to stick to the only path you thought possible. There are others. Believe me.”

I stare up at him, letting his words sink in. They’re starting to stick.

Maybe I’m thawing.

I rub my lips together. “What did you want to get from here?”

His brows knit together but he nods, knowing I’m done talking about it. He doesn’t have to know that he’s gotten to me. He pulls away and looks around him. “Well, I was hoping to pick up something other than my watercolor pencils.”

I tap my fingers to my chin, glad to have something else to think about. I walk over to the shelves and bring out a box full of supplies. My hand is shaking a bit but I decide that’s okay. I’m still a bit shaken up over Josh’s words, at the hope in them, at the way he managed to see inside me.

Will you destroy something before you have a chance to lose it?

I rummage through it and bring out black, green, and yellow oil paints. Their caps seem stuck on but they should be all right. I wave them at him. “How about oils? Only three colors, though.”

“Nah,” he says, coming over. “Too serious.” He puts his hand in and pulls out a box of chunky pastels. “Bingo.”

I eye him curiously. “Pastels? You don’t strike me as a pastel kinda guy.”

“I can’t always be emo, can I?” he says with a wink and I laugh. “These are perfect.”

I shrug. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“You float my boat,” he says seductively, and I know we have to get out of here before the air of respect totally disappears.

We go and pack up Mr. Orange. It’s tougher than normal to say goodbye to my mother and Auntie Jolinda. Actually, it’s never been tough before. I would just give them a wave and tell them I’d call them and maybe see them in a few months, and that would be that. I would leave without a second thought. I would feel no loss.

But something is different now. I feel this great link to the land here, to them, to their lives. I don’t want to say goodbye. I’ve grown accustomed to having them around me, having them take care of me, and I’ve never liked or wanted that before.

Being home felt nice. Being home felt like . . . home.

It doesn’t help that my mother has somewhat opened up to me. Or maybe, maybe, it’s that I’ve opened up to her. Maybe we’re meeting halfway now. Either way, I climb into the passenger seat with heavy shoulders. I roll down the window and wave to them as they stand in the driveway. They wave back and I think to myself,
I love them
.

Then I shake it off and slap the outside of the van door through the rolled-down window, signalling for Josh to drive on. We motor down the road, ready to resume our adventure, just the two of us.

The drive up the East Cape is easy for the first part. We pass through farms and orchards and sunny fields, the highway skirting the endless blue ocean. Just outside of the Mahia Peninsula, we pull off the highway and have lunch sitting by a river. We devour a baguette sliced open and topped with brie and fresh tomatoes sprinkled with sea salt. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten, the sun beating on our backs, cool water at our feet.

We laze about, lying in the grass at the river’s edge, kissing sweetly and passionately. Sometimes we are full on making out and other times just staring at each other. His hands and eyes are always on me, touching me, roving over me, and I succumb each time, feeling prized and wanted in a way I haven’t before.

This is so physical that it’s beyond the physical.

Somewhere before the town of Gisborne, we fill up with petrol at a small, down-at-its-heels station, complete with rusted pumps. Josh goes inside to pay and when he comes back out, he’s grinning, waving something in his hand.

“What?” I ask as he hops in the driver’s seat.

He proudly displays it in his palm. It’s a cassette tape of the best of Free.

“They had cassettes?” I ask.

“It was either this or Maori chants or Reba McEntire, so I picked this. Who doesn’t love Paul Rodgers and Free? Now we can have new music for this part of the trip.”