Where Sea Meets Sky

“Josh,” I say, clearing my throat. I eye the golden cityscape outside of the window. “What time is it?”

“Seven,” he says. “At night. You must be jet-lagged. You should have seen us for the first few days. There’s an eleven-hour difference between here and Koln, where we’re from. We were batshit crazy.”

His English is very good. I nod. “Jet lag, I guess. I didn’t sleep on the plane either.”

“Well, you got enough sleep now,” he says, smacking the railing. “If you keep sleeping, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night. Come out with us. Have you seen any of Auckland yet? Did you come straight here?”

There are too many questions for my brain to handle. “No, and yes.”

He breaks into a smile again. “Well, then, you have no choice but to come with us. We’re just about to get something to eat at a pub.”

I slowly sit up. “I should shower . . .”

“Shower? What for? Are you planning on meeting any women and bringing them back here? I hope not. The bunk seems barely able to support you alone.”

I stare at the boisterous little man blankly. “Suit yourself,” I finally say. “You’re the ones who will have to put up with my stink.” I hop off the bunk—does teeter dangerously under my weight—and quickly brush my teeth at the sink they have in the room. I finish off with a spritz of cologne, just in case.

Twenty minutes later, Tibald, Schnell, Michael, and I are all at some Irish pub around the corner. I’m still tired but the beer is perking me up. I snack on potato wedges dipped in sour cream and sweet chili sauce before moving onto meat pie.

The Germans are an affable bunch. Tibald is the loudest and most talkative, while Schnell is silent and stone-faced and looks eerily like Paul Bettany in The Da Vinci Code. Michael, with his baby face, is happy and eager to please. I learn that they’re all triathletes back at home and Michael was thinking of doing his degree in sports medicine at one of the city universities, so they all came down to check it out together. They’ve been here one week already and in a few days are joining some multi-week bike tour, heading toward the South Island.

“So what are your plans?” Tibald asks me after he goes over their route in detail.

I shrug and take a sip of my beer. “I’m staying at the backpackers here for a few more days and then . . . I dunno.”

Tibald laughs. “You’re serious? No plans, nowhere you want to go?”

“Nope.”

“Milford Sound, Mount Cook, Lake Taupo, Bay of Islands, Abel Tasman? None of those places tickle your fancy?”

“There will be no tickling,” I tell him.

“So why are you here?” he asks.

I pause before I gulp down the rest of my beer. Why am I here? Wasn’t I still in the process of figuring it out?

Aware that the Germans are all staring at me, waiting for my answer, I say, “I just figured it was something I should do.”

“I see,” Tibald says, leaning back in his chair. “Just get here and figure out the rest later.”

“Something like that.”

“And you don’t know anyone here? You randomly picked New Zealand?”

I tilt my head, considering the question. My eyes quickly dart over to him and he slowly nods, smiling.

“You do know someone. Who is she?”

Now Schnell has perked up, seemingly more interested in my nonexistent story.

“Who said anything about a she?” I ask, but I realize I don’t want to pretend anymore. These guys are strangers but that makes it easier. I sigh and then launch into everything about Gemma.

When I’ve finished, the three of them look impressed, like, Hey this guy is actually a dedicated stalker. I must make them feel better about themselves.

“Are you going to go see her?” Michael asks.

I shake my head. “No. Like I said, I don’t even know her last name and she was right, there are a million Gemmas here, at least on Facebook.”

“But you know where she works.”

“Not really. I forgot the name. She just said an Australia rugby player, or ex-rugby player, owns it, has a chain of them or something.”

Suddenly Michael is on his phone, Googling something. “Murphy’s Gym?” he asks, looking up at me. “There’s an Australian rugby player, Nick Murphy, who used to play for the Wallabies. He owns a gym here called Murphy’s Gym. Could that be it?”

He slides the phone over to me and I stare at the smug face of Nick Murphy on the website’s home page. His neck is thick, his blond hair buzz-cut and he has the body of a meathead. I quickly scroll through, trying to find out if Gemma works there, but her name isn’t listed as one of the personal trainers.

“I don’t know,” I say warily. “It doesn’t seem like the place. I mean, she’s not listed as working there.”

“Well, maybe stuff happened between then and now,” Tibald says. “We should all go there tomorrow and see. It’s in Mission Bay, not too far from here.”

I feel sick. Must be the jet lag. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say.

“Sure it is,” Tibald says, slamming his beer down. “You’ll have moral support. If she’s there, then, well at least you’ll get to see her again. If she’s not there, we’ll just head to the beach anyway. It’s sweet-as there.” He slurps the foam off the sides of the beer and gives me a look. “You know what ‘sweet-as’ means, right?” 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">