Where Sea Meets Sky by Karina Halle

I hope I’m brave enough to let go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  JOSH

  Christmastime in the summer is a real fucking trip. That’s the only reason I think the holiday has snuck up on me—it just doesn’t feel real. In Vancouver, I would be working holiday hours, dealing with the constant rain and cold and the never-ending darkness and exhausted shoppers bumping into you in the streets armed with bags of Christmas gifts.

  Here, on the other side of the world, the sun is high in that bright, blue sky all day, and it’s warm—hot, even—and you feel like you don’t have a care in the world.

  Though, of course I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a care. It’s officially Christmas Eve now and I haven’t bought Gemma or Amber anything for tomorrow. I probably should get something for Gemma’s mom and aunt, too, since I’m spending the holiday at their house.

  When I wake up on a wobbly air mattress on the floor, I ask if there’s some way Gemma can drop me off in Napier so I can do some shopping. Both she and Amber have this sheepish look in their eyes and tell me that they have to go shopping, too. We’ve all totally dropped the ball this holiday.

  It’s not long before we’re up and dressed and clamoring downstairs, just in time to see her mother has laid out a spread of breakfast delights on the table—French toast, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, a pot of steaming coffee. Her uncle Jeremy and his kids are already digging in, so we sit down with them. I don’t mind—Gemma’s got a pretty awesome family.

  I really like her uncle—he’s easygoing and says the most inappropriate things. His kids are really cute, too—you know, for kids. Gemma’s auntie Jolinda has yet to pinch my butt cheeks, but the week is young.

  At first I wasn’t too sure about her mother. She reminded me of my own mom in that cool, standoffish way. But she’s actually not that bad. I can see how Gemma gets some of her traits from her, even if she didn’t get the pale skin and blond hair. There’s warmth inside of both of them; you just have to look for it from time to time.

  With Gemma, I’m learning how to bring it out of her more and more. And the more I hear her laugh, the more I feel her, the more I want her. It’s a bit addictive.

  Sitting at the table, passing juice and coffee, laughing and talking, I start to get that ache that Gemma talks about. But I know exactly what it is. I like it here. I like being with her, feeling like I’m a part of something with people who care about me. I mean, they don’t know me and I don’t know them, but you can feel the love around the table and it doesn’t seem to matter who it’s directed toward. I’m treated just as well as Gemma and Amber and it’s . . . nice.

  At home, I don’t have this. Even when I was little, I didn’t have this. I had a mother and father who constantly argued—she was hard and impenetrable, he was having an affair with a woman who wasn’t. My sister, Mercy, was the perfect one, and Vera was the screwup, lashing out at the world. I was the youngest, watching it all unfold and feeling slightly removed, sometimes too young to really understand what was going on.

  I understood now, though. And now I could see what I was missing.

  This.

  I feel Gemma’s hand on my knee, giving me a quick squeeze and bringing me back. Her eyes are asking me if I’m okay, and that ache is replaced with gratitude for her, for her concern, for her touch.

  I only wish I could take her with me.

  When breakfast is finished the three of us pile into Mr. Orange and head past vineyards and farms to the city. It’s ridiculous how pretty this place is. I don’t think I’ve seen an ugly part of New Zealand yet. I tell Gemma this.

  She smiles at me. “Well, you haven’t seen Invercargill. Mick Jagger called it the asshole of the earth.”

  I frown. “I bet New Zealand’s asshole still looks better than his.”

  “Ugh,” Amber says from behind us. “I do not need the mental imagery, thank you very much.” She makes a disgusted sound and then suddenly adds, “Hey, guys. I’m going to miss this, you know.”

  I turn in my seat and look at her. “Talking about Mick Jagger’s asshole?”

  “No,” she says. “This. Us. Mr. Orange. Going places.”

  As much as I’ve grown tired of being cooped up in this bus, I can’t really imagine a life in which I’m not exploring a country in him, seeking out new places and adventures each day. That will be another thing I wish I could take with me.

  “You’re leaving on Boxing Day, right?” I ask.

  She nods uncertainly. “Day after Christmas? Yeah. What’s Boxing Day for, anyway?”

  “I don’t really know,” I tell her, “but it’s a holiday here and in Canada. Something about giving boxes instead of gifts?” I know that’s totally wrong, though.

  “I’m going to miss you, too,” Gemma tells her sincerely, eyeing her in the mirror.

  “Please play ‘Wish You Were Here’ ad nauseam after I leave and think of me,” Amber says. “That can be your Christmas gift to me.”

  “Dude!” I exclaim. “I am never listening to Pink Floyd ever again after this.”

  “But every time you hear it,” Gemma points out, “you’ll think of us.”

  “True.” But the truth is, everything is going to make me think of her.

  We drive through the city streets and have a tough time finding parking. I guess Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve is sort of asking for trouble. After stalking shoppers back to their cars and trying to steal their spots to no avail, Gemma says she’s going to drop us off and take Mr. Orange to an auto-glass shop to see if his window can get a quick replacement.

  I offer to pay for it—I was serious when I first brought that up at the Routeburn shelter—but once again she waves me off. She tells us she’ll be back in a couple of hours and then she’s gone, puttering down the road.

  Amber had asked me earlier if I wanted to go halfsies on a gift for Gemma’s family and said she’d take care of picking it out, which totally saves my ass. All I have to do is buy something for her and Gemma.

  It’s not going to be easy. Amber and I split up and I stroll around Napier aimlessly. By noon it’s hot as fuck out. The town is actually pretty neat, with all these Art Deco buildings re-created from the thirties when an earthquake wiped them out, and it’s fringed with palm trees and blue surf. I want to ask Gemma about growing up here and wonder what she was like in high school, if she went to the beach to party with the other teens I spy there. Then I remember all her trophies and her comment about putting balls in her mouth and I laugh.

  I’ve never been very good at picking out presents. I usually get people the same damn thing. For my mom, something for the kitchen, even though she doesn’t cook; for Mercy, a gift certificate. For Vera I try to get her some rare music memorabilia, like a Faith No More single on seven-inch vinyl, or something astronomy-themed. For the ex-girlfriends who happened to be in my life during the holidays in the past, they’d get a nice date and maybe one of those tacky coupons for a free back rub or mindless fuck.

  But Gemma needs something special. I just don’t have the slightest idea what that is. I decide to get Amber’s gift first. I wander into the least gaudy souvenir shop I can find, and after some searching I pick up a flask that has a Kiwi bird on it. It’s classy and cute and also a bit badass, which suits her just fine. Amber has always struck me as a bit of a sheltered child with a hidden side to her. I think by the time she gets back to San Jose after her around-the-world trip, she’s going to be a totally different person.

  After I get that, I’m left to wander up and down palm-lined streets named after Dickens and Tennyson. It strikes me that this is the first time I’ve been alone in a very long time. I’m not sure if I like it. I’ve always been a bit of a loner but now I’ve grown accustomed to being around people all the time, people I like, people I love.

  My thoughts jar me. People I love? Where the fuck did the L-word come from? I don’t thin
k I love Gemma, I just like her a lot. Like, an awful lot. Like, an absurd amount, to the point where I can’t stop thinking about her, even when she’s right beside me; even being away from her to buy her a damn Christmas present feels like ages.

  I like her. So what? That’s always been obvious.

  I like being inside her. No, I love being inside her. And listening to her, talking to her, watching her smile, hearing her laugh. I love trying to bring her out of her shell, the real her, seeing those glimpses of sunshine inside of her that I know no one else can see. I love the way she smells, the feel of her skin, her muscles, her lips, her hair. I love that she’s slowly trusting me and that she cares for me, and maybe one day it will be as much as I care for her. I love her battered little soul and artist’s heart stuck in the body of a warrior. I love that’s she more broken than me, because I think I can put her back together. I love that there is so much left in her to discover.

  But I’m not in love with her.

  Am I?

  I blink and shake my head. It won’t end well if I keep thinking like this. What do I know, anyway? I’ve never even been in love before.

  And that’s when it hits me. I know what I’ll give her. The sketchbook I’ve been drawing, painting, and sketching in. I know I thought about giving it to her before, but now it’s official. I’ll give her that, when this is all over. It’s the biggest piece of me that I can give—the world, the trip of a lifetime, her, all recorded through my eyes.

  But since I’ll be working in it until the day I leave, I’ll have to get her something to tide her over, so she doesn’t unwrap nothing on Christmas.

  I go into an art supply store and buy a blank card and a dense pencil and head to a large, busy square at the end of the shopping center. I sit on the edge of a giant fountain, and while the palm trees wave above me, I sketch a different scene on the card, one of snow and ice. I draw Santa Claus and myself in a present-filled sleigh, flying up into the clouds.

  Underneath I write: Your present is coming.

  I almost write and so am I, but I figure that’s probably not appropriate for Christmas morning.

  “There you are.” I hear Amber’s sing-song voice. I quickly turn my head to see her coming toward me, shopping bag in tow, and make sure that her present is completely hidden.

  She stops in front of me and spies the card. Her mouth drops open. “Shut the front door. Did you draw that?”

  “Yeah,” I say, sliding it inside the envelope but not sealing it. “I won’t be able to give Gemma her gift until right before I leave, so it’s just something to take its place for now.”

  “Please don’t tell me it’s your cock.”

  “Hey,” I say, grinning at her. “If I recall correctly, you’re quite fond of my cock.”

  She glares at me and puts a hand on her hip. “Was.”

  I get up. “Well, if you must know, I’m going to give Gemma my sketchbook when this is all over. All my drawings, paintings, every step of the trip that I’ve re-created. What do you think?”

  I watch her closely for her reaction as to whether this is actually a pretty cheap and lame idea or not. As I said, I don’t have the best gift-giving skills. But her eyes start to well up and her lower lip sticks out slightly. “Josh,” she says softly. “That’s beautiful.”

  “Really? You don’t think it’s a cop-out?”

  She widens her eyes. “How could anyone think that? That sketchbook is art. It’s your life, it’s . . . you. Anyone would be honored to have that, but she’s especially going to melt. Awh, I wish I could be there to see her face.”

  “I don’t,” I say, “because if she likes it that much, you know what’s going to happen next.”

  She shakes her head, muttering something about me being a pervert. Then she gives me a reluctant, wry smile. “You did good, Josh.”

  Eventually Gemma comes to pick us up in Mr. Orange, outfitted with a brand-new back window, and I’m feeling more confident about my decision. When we get back home, her house smells of fresh-baked cookies, or “biscuits” as they call them, and there are Christmas songs playing. I decide to start sketching more; I want to capture her family, her holidays.

  That night, her mother has family friends over for dinner—the stiffly dressed Priscilla and Grant Richardson. It’s apparently day two of amazing feasts. After we drink wine in the sun on the wide stone patio in their backyard, which is essentially composed of a dark blue lap pool and groomed grass, we head inside for barbecued prawns, crayfish, salmon, and grilled abalone with honey-roasted potatoes and carrots.

  I make a remark about how different it is to be having prawns for Christmas Eve dinner when Grant Richardson fixes his eyes on me. He’s a little drunk and he’s got this smug look on his face that I didn’t notice earlier. I feel like I’m not going to like what’s coming next.

  “So, how are you liking New Zealand?” he asks.

  I smile before taking a bite of the salmon. “I love it.”

  “And when do you go back?”

  “January tenth,” I tell him, even though it pinches a bit to say it out loud.

  “I see,” he says. “And then what happens between you two?” He points to me and Gemma with his fork.

  I raise my brow. “Excuse me?”

  “Grant,” Gemma’s mom says, shooting him a look.

  He ignores it and slips into a lazy smile. “Justine tells me you guys are,” he coughs, “a couple. Just curious if you intend to stay in contact with her after you leave or if this is a shoreman-on-leave type of deal, if you know what I mean.”

  Who the fuck does this prick think he is? I look at Gemma with my blood boiling loudly in my ears. She’s silent, shocked, maybe embarrassed. Everyone at the table is.

  “Oye,” Jeremy says to Grant, “let the lovebirds be, bro.”

  I give Jeremy a quick smile, raising my palm briefly. “No, it’s okay. I guess it’s a simple question,” I say, but when I look at Grant, I know my eyes are hard. “Not that it’s any of your business whatsoever, but I certainly hope to stay in contact with her.”

  He leans back in his chair. “I know young hormones, my lad. Just be honest with each other. You wouldn’t want to lead her on.” He gives Gemma a pointed look. “Or vice versa.”

  I look at Gemma curiously but she still seems frozen.

  “Hormones?” I repeat. “What I feel for her is a hell of a lot more than hormones, sir.”

  “Grant,” Justine says, getting to her feet. “I don’t think their relationship is any of your concern, whether you mean well or not.” She puts emphasis on the or not part.

  Gemma suddenly seems to find her strength and gets up, leaving the table and going outside. I stare at the table, puzzled. Auntie Jolinda is giving me a sympathetic look while Grant looks smug. His wife Priscilla eats slowly, ignoring the whole, strange thing.

  I get up and go after her. I find her walking down the road toward the ocean.

  “Gemma!” I call out softly and jog after her. Once I catch up to her, I tug her arm to stop her in her tracks. “What the hell was that all about? Who the fuck is that obnoxious yuppie prick?”

  She’s upset, chewing on her lip angrily. “That’s Grant Richardson.”

  “Yeah, I got that much. Who the fuck is he to you?”

  She sighs and keeps walking, but slowly, so I walk beside her. “I used to go out with his son in high school. Remember I said I stayed at the hostel in Paekakariki with an ex? Well, that was him, Robin Richardson.”

  “Why is your mom friends with them still?”

  “They were friends with my parents before my dad passed. Robin and I dated for a few years. It was inevitable. You know how high school is.”

  “So what happened? Does he hold a grudge or something?”

  She exhales noisily through her nose. The back of her head is lit by the golden setting sun. I’
m hanging on to her every word.

  “Yes,” she says, “though he shouldn’t still. After high school, Robin went away to university in Australia and I found someone else. It was wrong, but I was young and stupid. Anyway, Grant saw us together and questioned Robin about it. Poor Robin had no idea. I felt terrible, I still do, though I know Robin is engaged in Melbourne somewhere and it all worked out in the end.”

  “I see,” I say, understanding a little bit but not really liking this fact about her. “That was a long time ago, though, right?”

  She nods. “It was before Nick. I think he wants me to get my comeuppance. Sounds like he wants you to do the same to me as I did to his son.”

  “That’s a bit fucked up.”

  “Well, they were a pretty fucked-up family. Still are. He’s a lush and his wife is a doormat.”

  “And Robin?”

  “Actually, he was quite nice,” she concedes thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t have done that to him.”

  I purse my lips for a moment before saying, “Then why did you?”

  She looks away and shrugs. “I don’t do long-distance relationships well. I don’t do relationships well, period. You saw me and Nick.”

  I did. But I can’t help but notice that her mother was the one who mentioned the term relationship. Obviously that notion had to come from somewhere, whether it was accurate or not.

  “You’re a complicated little woman,” I say, deciding not to bring it up.

  She raises her brow. There’s some relief in her face that the conversation is over. “Who are you calling ‘little’?”

  “Most women want to be called little.”

  “Not this one.”

  “And that’s what I . . .”

  She gives me a sharp look. “Why you what?”

  What the hell was I just about to say?

  “Want to fuck you senseless,” I finish, wrapping my arm around her waist and holding her to me.

  She laughs. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but no. The next time we fuck, we’re going to be in my bloody bed. I’m tired of having your cum dripping down my leg.”