Where Sea Meets Sky: A Novel

by Karina Halle

  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 Ambe
r 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.

  We carefully climb out of the bus, our sore muscles extra tight from all the sitting, and see a black-and-white cat hanging around the front door, our welcoming committee. Leaving our gear in the bus for now, we walk into the house. It already smells amazing as bursts of basil and sizzling garlic hit my nose. The kitchen to the left is being used by two tall guys who are taking advantage of the stove. They give us a friendly wave then go back to cooking.

  “You must be Gemma,” a woman says, coming out of a small den to our right. She’s got a wild mess of hair—even more unruly than Amber’s—and her aging face is pointedly makeup free. She wears a long flowing cape and seems extremely secure in herself, a vision of poise. I wish I could be her someday.

  I quickly shake the woman’s hand, her many bracelets jingling as she introduces herself as Kate. When we’re all paid up, we go back to get our bags and lug them through the ramshackle living room, complete with cozy couches and board games, and through the French doors out onto the patio. As I had remembered, the view is still spectacular, overlooking the beach, Kapiti Island, and in the far distance, the tip of the South Island.

  “Shit,” Josh says from beside me, sucking in his breath as he takes in the view. “Good choice, Gemma.”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal, but secretly I’m over the moon that this is making an impression on him.

  “So where are we staying?” Nick asks, and I realize we’re just standing in the middle of the backyard, between a crop of gardens and a soothing koi pond. I nod at what looks like a little shed poking out around the corner, half hidden by lush banana and yellow-blossom kōwhai trees.

  “That’s our room,” I tell him. Then I point to a pair of French doors to the side of us that open to the yard. “And that’s where Amber and Josh are sleeping.”

  “Sweet,” Amber says enthusiastically as she makes her way to the doors and goes inside.

  “You wanted some privacy, aye babe?” Nick asks, wrapping his arm around my waist. I nod and let him kiss my neck and press up against me. I make sure not to look at Josh, who I can tell is now following Amber over to their room. The truth is, I originally wanted us all to stay in the dorm, but there were only two beds available in the four-bed room, so Nick and I snapped up the private one.

  I can’t complain, though. When we step into the tiny one-room cottage and see that it has its own queen-size bed with mosquito net, Nick wastes no time in shutting the door and throwing me to the mattress.

  I open my mouth to protest, to say that Amber and Josh will be wondering what happened to us, when I realize they won’t be wondering at all. They’ll know. And even though I don’t really feel like it, perhaps a romp in the hay will fix what’s ailing me. And Nick. It has been a few days without real privacy, and usually sex is the only thing that holds us together.

  That’s probably why you’ve been falling apart, I think to myself as he kisses me and starts taking off my shorts.

  Nick is a good-looking guy. He’s a hot jock, like most rugby players are. He strips down to nothing and his erection stands stiff and swollen. He has a nice cock, too, considering his weakness for steroids. Any woman worth her salt would want to sleep with Nick—I mean, if they were into the clean-cut, overly muscle-y, athlete look. I know it’s what attracted me to him in the first place.

  But even though my shorts and underwear are at my ankles and his fingers are pressing down into my folds, I’m very conscious of how un-wet I am. I need this but my body isn’t so sure.

  Nick is persistent as ever and there’s no real time for foreplay with him. Soon he’s flipped me over and taking me from behind as he stands at the foot of the bed. It hurts at first but the position allows me to pretend Nick isn’t there at all.

  I’m thinking of Josh. I pretend it’s him filling me up, his balls slapping against my ass, his grunts filling the room. It’s not hard to imagine—I’ve had him this way before. He’s more than a fantasy, and if I let out a scream, he could hear me. He’s real and tangible, and for these few moments, he’s mine again.

  It’s not long before I’m coming, and I owe it all to him. My hands grip the clean duvet and my face is pressed against it, my mouth obscured, and I’m glad that I can’t accidently call out Josh’s name because that is so close to happening. I can taste it. I want to yell it, scream it. Josh. I want him to know.

  When Nick comes, a little too loudly considering where we are, he pulls out and smacks me on the ass.

  “Fuck, I needed that one.”

  I roll over on my back and nod at him through the quickly fading haze. Usually after sex I find myself feeling closer to him, both mentally and physically. Now I just feel this cold distance between us.

  “Hey babe,” he says as he slips his shorts and T-shirt back on.

  “Mmm?” I should get dressed, too, but I feel too spent. I’m trying to relive the few minutes before.

  “I’m not sure what you have planned tonight with those two,” he says, gesturing toward the house, “but whatever it is, count me out. I saw the pub down the street. I think I’m just going to head there.”

  I sit up. “Are you sure? Do you want
company?”

  He gives me a pointed look. “No, I do not want company. That’s why I’m going.”

  “I meant me.”

  He blinks at me for a moment, as if to say, I know what you meant.

  I swallow. “Okay, well whatever you want to do. We’ll just be here. I was thinking of going down to that pizza place and getting some takeout, then just having some food and drink on the terrace.”

  “Pizza?” he repeats, and his eyes settle on the tiny pooch of my stomach that I can never seem to get rid of, no matter how hard I train. “You better not let yourself go soft or you’re not going to have a job come February.”

  I glare at him. “It’s a road trip, Nick. Crap food is going to be involved.”

  “Well, just remember that good nutrition doesn’t have to be difficult.” He’s taking on his trainer voice, and it annoys the shit out of me. “Kale chips here, a protein shake there. It’s easy. Plus I haven’t seen you keep up with your exercises. It will be hard for you to catch up when this is all over.”

  Now I’m getting out of bed and angrily slipping on my shorts, hyper-aware of my large boobs and poochy stomach. “How can I keep up with my exercises?” I ask defensively. “I spent hours in a cave yesterday using muscles I never knew I had.”

  He shrugs and stares at his face in the mirror on the wall. “I get up every morning before you do to fit in my routine. It’s about time you start making this part of your life a priority. It’s not enough to just want something, Gemma, you have to fight for it, too. If you don’t have the passion for this career then maybe you should be doing something else.”

  I stare at him, balking at his words that seem to hit me like hammer blows. I don’t even know what to say, because for once he’s being smart. Worse than that, he’s being true. Do I really have the passion anymore? Did I ever?

  He glances at me and frowns when he sees my face. “I’m just looking out for you,” he says with complete sincerity. “No need to freak out. You’re gorgeous in any shape or form, you know that.” His voice softens now, trying to appease me. “If you want to eat your pizza and drink your beer and get soft like the rest of them, that’s your choice. But it’s a choice you better know you’re making if you really want to cut it as a trainer. This is your job we’re talking about, and I just don’t want you to forget that.” He heads for the door. “I’ll see you later.”