Where Sea Meets Sky

“Thanks, dickhead.”

“Seriously,” I say, “I don’t know why I picked New Zealand but it just seems like a good place for my first time overseas. It’s small, they speak English, it looks a bit like Canada . . .”

“There’s a hot chick there that you want to bang,” she adds.

I grimace at those words. “That helps, but that’s not why I’m going.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I don’t actually know her.”

“You keep saying that, too.” She pauses. “It’s okay to be infatuated, I understand. Believe me.”

“You and Mateo,” I start, searching for the right words. “You had a connection but you also knew each other. It wasn’t . . .”

“Insta-lust?”

“No. Well, maybe. Hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“There’s nothing wrong with insta-lust, Josh. I mean, isn’t most lust instant? You see the person and right away you’re like, damn, I want to get in their pants. If insta-lust didn’t exist, there wouldn’t be one-night stands, would there? You saw this Gemma chick and you wanted to fuck her right away. The fuck was good enough to make you want more. It’s simple.”

“I don’t think we should talk about this anymore.”

She sighs. “You’re so weird about this stuff.”

“I’m not, you’re the weird one.”

“Fine. Well, anyway, I say go have fun. You’ll have the best time of your life, I’m telling you that right now. And Josh . . . I’m proud of you.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously. It takes guts to do something like this. I hope you get the girl. Just remember to keep me updated.”

“I’m not getting the girl,” I tell her again sternly.

“Just like I didn’t get the guy.” Then she tells me she loves me and hangs up.

The funny thing is, my closest friends, they obviously know about the trip and are super excited for me. My friend Brad has even been to New Zealand and gave me his Lonely Planet guidebook stuffed with all his highlighted recommendations and shit to do. But I never discussed Gemma with them. I guess because I don’t want them to assume the same thing that Vera does: that I’m going there for her. They’d never let the pussy jokes stop. And, if I’m being honest, a part of me is afraid that if by chance I do come across her, it won’t be anything like I remembered. I’m afraid that I’ll lose her before I have a chance to have her.

I really should go back to lying to myself.

Chapter Four

AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND

JOSH

I have no idea where I’m going. I’m unbelievably tired, sore, strung-out. People are speaking with funny accents. The light in the airport is too bright. I don’t know what time it is. The customs officials are asking me too many questions about soil and seeds and fruit. I’m in another hemisphere, another day. I’m in the future. I’m a traveler through both time and space, yadda yadda. Led Zeppelin must have been talking about jet lag.

Somehow I find my way into the arrivals area of the Auckland airport. I’m here. I made it. I’m really here.

Holy fuckfarts.

This was a huge mistake.

The weight of all my impulsive decisions come crashing down on me like rolling rocks, picking up speed. I drag my overpacked backpack to a chair and plunk myself down on it, head in my hands. I could have thought this over yesterday. I could have had second thoughts on the long-ass plane ride, when I watched thirty million episodes of New Girl and How I Met Your Mother.

Instead, all my doubt smashes into me the minute I’m on New Zealand soil.

I’m alone in a foreign country with a finite amount of money to my name. I only have a backpack with some random shit I didn’t need to bring. Outside the large windows it’s summer. My head is in winter. I quit my job to do this. I may be doing this for a girl I don’t really know.

I’m an idiot.

I don’t know how long I sit like this. Maybe minutes, maybe an hour. I only raise my head when I feel someone sit down on the chair next to mine.

It’s an older, heavyset man with a bushy beard, a baseball cap on his head. He’s got a stuffed Kiwi bird in his worn hands and twirls it around.

He catches me staring and gives me a knowing look. Just add a twinkle in his eye and a pipe in his mouth and he could be fucking Santa Claus.

“Jet lag is a bitch, aye?” he says in a gruff Kiwi accent.

I nod. “I guess you could say that.”

He narrows his eyes, sussing me out. “Where ya from, mate?”

“Canada,” I say, turning my backpack over so he can see the freshly affixed Canadian flag patch I placed on it.

“Where in Canada?” he asks.

“Vancouver, British Columbia. West Coast.”

“Where in Vancouver?”

I raise my brow. “Uh, in the city, near downtown.”

“Where in the city?”

“Commercial Drive?” I say, as if the truth isn’t the right answer.

Finally he smiles. “Love that area. My cousin lives on Broadway, near the Drive. Last time I went was just before the Olympics.”

My mind is blown. First person I talk to in a foreign country and they pretty much know exactly where I live. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

He’s watching me. Then he says, “Small world, aye?” Suddenly his attention is caught by a load of passengers coming through the arrivals area. “Excuse me, my granddaughter is here.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">