Where Sea Meets Sky (39 page)

I feel like my lungs are being deprived of oxygen and my heart has too much blood to pump. I’m gaining and losing. I’m torn. I’m
loved
.

He plants a soft kiss on my forehead. “I know everything I’ve just said is scary. In fact, I think I’ve freaked myself out a bit. But it’s true. And you don’t have to do anything, you don’t have to say anything. Just let me love you. That’s all.”

That’s all
, he says. But that’s everything. How is it that
being loved
is even scarier than being
in
love?

I swallow hard and close my eyes as he wraps his arms around me. He’s so good to me, too good to me. I don’t belong with this man, not me with my heart of ice and he with his soul of fire.

The breeze off the bay is coming in colder now and I’m suddenly aware that we’re both naked in the sand and not too far away from the house. I’d hate for Uncle Robbie to make a discovery with his flashlight.

“We should go,” I tell Josh as I pull away.

He can’t hide the disappointment in his voice. “All right.”

Even though it’s for the best, my heart sinks a bit and I feel bad that I can’t say anything that he wants to hear. I lean over, grab his face and kiss him.

“Happy New Year,” I whisper to him.

“Happy New Year,” he whispers back.

Chapter Twenty-Two

JOSH

I have the mother of all hangovers. It’s the kind that keeps you stuck to your bed, to the beach, to the grass, to whatever place you happen to wake up in, and you can’t move because you know if you do, all the painful parts that make up your brain will become dislodged, bouncing around like razor-blade pinballs, and you’ll soon wish for a swift and painless death.

I blink, staring at the ceiling. Gemma and I are in the small guest room at Pops Henare’s house. She’s squeezed in between me and the wall, sleeping soundly. I hate her for it. I know now that I’m up, I won’t be able to fall back asleep, and I’ll have to suffer.

My phone rings, the sound like bullets exploding in my head. Who is calling me? Why did I drink all that champagne and smoke all that weed?

Why did I tell Gemma I was in love with her?

She moans beside me, pulling the pillow over her face. I reach into my pockets because of course I’m still wearing my clothes from last night, all covered in sand, and pull out my phone.

It’s Vera. And holy shit, it’s already one in the afternoon.

“Hello?” I answer and try to get out of bed, lifting Gemma’s leg off of mine.

“Josh?” she asks. “Happy New Year!”

I mumble something into the phone and then shuffle my way down the hall and out the back door. I can hear people in the kitchen and someone, probably Pops, watching TV, but I can’t even begin to socialize. I walk outside into hot, blinding sunshine. It’s like knives to my brain.

“Josh, are you okay?” she asks. “Don’t ruin my buzz.”

“What time is it there?” I mumble as I make my way to the chairs overlooking the beach. I’m squinting so much I’m almost legally blind.

“It’s one in the morning. We’re twelve hours apart, remember? I thought you’d be up by now.”

“Well, as you can hear, I’m awake,” I tell her. “Are you with Mateo?”

“Of course! Want to talk to him?”

Before I can tell her that I can’t process his accent right now, I hear a muffled sound and then his voice on the other end.

“Happy New Year, Josh,” Mateo says. His accent is always a lot milder than I remember. “How is New Zealand?”

“Great. I’m hungover.”

“Well, I am sure Vera and I will be tomorrow. You are enjoying yourself, yes?”

“I think a little too much, actually.”

“Then you’re really living life now.”

I can almost hear his grin. I nod and wince at the pain my head causes me. I’m living life for once, and it’s a bit terrifying. “That I am,” I tell him.

“Then keep it up, it’s worth it. Believe me.” There’s a pause and I hear Vera in the background. “Okay, I shall let you go,” he says and we say goodbye. Vera comes back on the line.

“How are you and Gemma?” she asks.

I would much rather talk about her and Mateo. “We’re good.”

“Anything happen since Christmas?”

“Been doing a lot of traveling,” I tell her, which is true.

“Does she make you happy?”

I laugh. “She’s driving me crazy.”

“The good kind of crazy?”

I sigh and look at the sand where we made love last night. Where I told her that I love her. Where she didn’t say it back.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “All I know is I’m not ready to leave her.”

A weighty pause rests in the air and then she says, quietly, “So don’t.”

“It’s not so simple.”

“Sure it is.”

“Vera,” I warn her. “This isn’t like you and Mateo. You knew how you felt and you knew how he felt. That was easy.”

“It wasn’t
easy
—” she begins, but I cut her off.

“I know how I feel,” I tell her. “And I’ve told her how I feel. But she doesn’t seem to want it. She wants me but she doesn’t want me to love her. Does that make sense?”

Another pause. “You love her?”

I groan. “Ugh, it’s too hot to talk about this.”

“If you love her, then you have two choices,” she says. “You can either love her from afar, at home in Vancouver, or you can love her from there. Either way, the love part isn’t going away. You just have to choose what scenario makes you the happiest.”

I tug absently at my lip ring. “If she doesn’t love me back, both scenarios will make me miserable.”

She sighs. “When did you turn into such a pessimist?”

“I have art school to think about, Vera.”

“I had school to think about but it worked out. You can work it out, too. They have art schools in New Zealand, right? You could apply to one, get a student visa. Problem solved.”

“And the whole part about her not loving me back?”

“Love takes longer for some people than others,” she says. “But if she gets there in the end, isn’t that what’ll make it worth it? The answer to that is
yes
, Josh. It does. I say go for it. That’s what you once said to me.”

“All right,” I tell her. “I’ll see how it goes. We still have another week here together.”

“I bet it’s nice and warm and beautiful. Enjoy it.”

“I am.”

I’m about to hang up when she stops me. “Oh, by the way, mom actually called me the other day.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was late in Vancouver and she sounded drunk. In fact, I know she was drunk. She started telling me that she missed me and you and wondered where she went wrong, why two of her children would want to go overseas, thousands of miles away from her. She thinks we hate her.”

“I don’t hate her,” I say.

“Neither do I,” she says. “But I don’t think she really knows how she can be, you know? Anyway, she might call you soon. Talk to her. It was nice to hear her talk like that.”

“All caring and shit?”

She laughs. “Exactly.”

After we hang up, I lean back in the chair and stay that way until Gemma comes out and sits down beside me.

I slowly turn my head to look at her. “How are you, Peggy Sue?”

She raises a brow. “I feel like death.”

“Well, you don’t look like death,” I tell her. “It’s actually pretty annoying.”

“I know what will cure you,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me unsteadily to my feet. “It’s about time you try marmite. In fact, a marmite chippie sammie.”

“So many words I don’t understand.”

We go back into the house and straight to the kitchen. Her grandfather is watching TV, something Gemma says he does a lot of since he injured his knee a few years ago. The man moves slowly and painfully but refuses to take medication for it, so that’s why her uncle and aunt live with him, to help out. He’s a tough man, but a good man, and I like him. Once again, I find myself wishing I had the same family ties as she does.

“How are you two?” he asks.

“Been better,” says Gemma.

He, like Gemma, looks great, even healthy, though I know I saw him throwing back shots of what can only be considered Satan’s homebrew last night.

Within minutes, Gemma has thrown together a sandwich consisting of potato chips stuck between two pieces of bread smeared with brown stuff.

I start laughing and then laugh even more when she starts to eat it.

“That is the most white-trash thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell her.

Her grandfather chuckles from the TV room, though Gemma only glares. “Hey,” she says between mouthfuls, “the bread is to soak up the alcohol; the chips are for crunchy, greasy tastiness, and also for soaking up the alcohol; and the marmite is all B vitamins. It’ll cure you right up.”

I turn my head toward the TV room and yell, “Is this true, Pops?”

“It’s worth a shot if you’re that hard up, mate,” he answers.

Gemma smiles sweetly and pushes the sandwich in my face. “Trust me.”

I take it from her, not really sure if I do trust her or not. But I eat it anyway. It’s actually pretty good, though the marmite has this strong, concentrated soy-saucey beer taste going on.

We take our plates and sit down on the couch across from her grandfather.

“So where you two off to next?” he asks, shutting off the TV and giving us his full attention.

Gemma opens her mouth but immediately shuts it. She takes a bite of her sandwich and then says, “I don’t know. It’s up to Josh.”

They both look at me. I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Well, start looking at the guidebooks, boy,” he says. “How many days do you have left here?”

I swallow hard. “Ten.”

“Then make them count, aye?” He leans back in his chair and taps his fingers on the arm. He’s got tattoos on them, too. “If I were you, I’d go up to Cape Reinga.”

“Is that the northernmost part?” I ask, recalling its place on our travel maps.

“Sure is. Where the Tasman Sea meets the Pacific Ocean. Our ancestors believe it’s is a very spiritual place, where the spirits jump off from this world to the next. No matter what you believe, it’s very special, very important.
Tapu
.”

“
Tapu
,” I repeat.

“Sacred,” he says, with a grave look in his eyes. “There is a very, very old pōhutukawa tree there at the end. The roots are where the souls slide down into the afterworld.”

I nod, wanting to say “cool” but figuring that’s too glib of a statement for something that sounds so serious. “Sounds like we have to go,” I say, meaningfully.

He nods. I feel like his dark eyes are trying to tell me something else but then he abruptly turns back to the TV and clicks the remote to turn it back on.

In the end, we decide to stay only one more night at the Henares’ place. The clock is ticking and Gemma and I don’t have much time together. I’m trying to think of some way out of this, some way to lengthen my stay, to return, to take her with me, to do anything rather than let the two of us part ways. I know if we do, I’ll lose her forever.

Our plan—well, actually, my plan, for once—is to take Mr. Orange to the Karikari Peninsula, a place that looks amazing for a few nights’ stay, all white sand coves, clear blue tropical water, and lots of privacy, then we’ll motor up to Cape Reinga, as far as you can possibly go in New Zealand, then on the way back stop by a ninety-mile beach to do some sandboarding on their massive sand dunes. We’ll come back here on the way back, drop off Mr. Orange, and then get the next bus back down to Auckland.

It’s a lot packed into a short amount of time, but like Pops Henare said, we have to make it count.

Even though we know we’ll be seeing them all again in a week, it’s almost an emotional farewell between us, Pops, Robbie, and Shelley. Once again I’m feeling that pang of losing family in the long run.

The ride up to Maitai Bay on the Karikari Peninsula is markedly different from our other ones. We’re silent. Free blares on the stereo, but after a while Gemma slips in Pink Floyd. When “Comfortably Numb” comes on and she starts staring out the window, mouthing the lyrics, I wonder if she derives any comfort from the song at all, or if it’s an anthem of sorts.

There’s a heavy tension in the air between us. It’s not necessarily bad, it’s just that we both seem to be caught in our minds, our own little worlds. My fears are of losing this world, of losing her. There’s much left to explore—here, in her. I feel like I’ll be leaving when things are only getting started.

I wonder how badly I scared her last night by telling her I loved her. The look in her eyes wasn’t of rejection; it was fear. And I don’t have much time to help her overcome it.

I don’t have much time.

When we pull down the unsealed road and into the campground, Gemma’s spirits seem to lift. The spot is beautiful—but what hasn’t been beautiful in this country? There are a few other campervans around but it’s not too busy and we’re able to secure a spot.

We park Mr. Orange and start getting ready for dinner. I want to stay here for at least two nights, just to really feel like I’m here, so we make ourselves at home, airing out clothes that we laundered at her grandpa’s and setting up the table and camping chairs.

She’s so beautiful here, her face turned to the sun. Sometimes I see her reach for the pastels. She usually just holds them, thinking about the scene, thinking about what she wants to do, but she rarely puts them to use. I think she’s still afraid to create, to open herself up, to put her soul on paper for others—
for me
—to see. That’s okay, though. That’s a start.

I want to tell her again that I love her. I had no idea that once you realized you were in love, it was nearly fucking impossible to keep it to yourself. I always thought guys were such chumps for putting themselves out there like that, but now I’m doing the exact same thing. It probably makes me a chump, but the funny thing is, I don’t care. Love whittles the world down into caring about just one thing.

It’s not that I need her to say it back, though to be honest it’s killing me that she hasn’t, but I can’t keep it inside. I’m thinking it all the time, over everything she does. I’m thinking it when I’m pissing in the outhouse, I’m thinking it when I’m talking to strangers. It’s invaded me, and the longer I try to contain it the more it wants to escape, like an oil spill.