Where Sea Meets Sky

I’m not amused but Tibald takes the reins. “So,” he quickly says, “do you think he has a shot with her? I mean, you wouldn’t invite a guy you shagged along on vacation with you and your boyfriend unless there was a chance that you’d hook up again.”

She sighs and notices a table waving her over. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe she just wants to have her cake and eat it, too.” Then she leaves, scurrying off into the crowd.

“Great help,” I tell Tibald.

“Why would you have cake and not eat it?” Schnell asks, seeming seriously puzzled.

As I drain my new beer, the rest of the conversation goes to their bike trip, which starts tomorrow, a day before I go off with Gemma and her crew. I don’t know our route at all, but I already made tentative plans to meet up with the Germans, if possible. We’ll at least stay in touch by text and e-mail.

I’m going to miss these weirdos, that’s for sure. Ever since I saw Gemma, I’d been spending the days with them, taking in all of Auckland’s sights. We went hiking on Rangitoto, went up the Sky Tower, took a ferry to Devonport, got thrown out of a strip club, and visited the Auckland War Museum. They kept me busy and my mind off of her. I think they thought at some point I’d give up on the whole trip and just join their bike tour.

But not only would I be unable to bike more than thirty kilometers a day without dying, the truth was I just didn’t want to back down. So what if Gemma had a boyfriend—we had only been a one-night stand. She didn’t owe me anything and I didn’t owe her anything. I liked her company, plain and simple, and I could push past this. Perhaps Nick the Dick was right and I’d hit it off with her cousin. For whatever reason, I just didn’t want to miss any more opportunities in life.

When Wednesday morning at eight thirty a.m. rolls around, I’m standing outside of the backpackers and waiting for Gemma to arrive. My backpack is even heavier now, thanks to the extra summer clothes I’d bought, and I’m zonked from lack of sleep. I was tossing and turning all night, worried my alarm wouldn’t go off, and my new roommates, a bunch of Israeli guys, were bigger party animals than the Germans were.

It’s a workday, so the streets are busy with people heading to their jobs. The sun is just slicing over the tops of the buildings and the air is sea-fresh. I like Auckland—it feels like home. But just like home, I’m ready to leave. I want to leave the concrete jungle behind and step into the unknown again.

Suddenly my ears ring with the deep rumble of an old engine, and the unknown pulls to a stop in front of me. It’s a bright orange, vintage VW bus, and the driver is smiling at me.

It’s the most beautiful sight.

Gemma jumps out of the driver’s seat and for a moment I think she’s going to come over to hug me but she slides open the side door and gestures to it. “You ready?”

I nod and come over to her, taking my bag off my shoulders. She’s wearing white shorts that show off her toned legs, flip-flops, and a black tank top. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She looks excruciatingly wholesome. This is going to be harder than I thought.

“Definitely ready,” I tell her as I swing the backpack onto the floor of the van and step inside. Gemma slides the door shut behind me and I see Nick in the passenger seat, giving me the head nod but nothing else. I nod back and then, hunched over, walk down to the bench at the back. A petite, curvy girl with a mess of blond curls and a pretty, angelic face is strapped into the bright blue seat and I ease my frame down beside her.

“Hey, I’m Josh,” I tell her, holding out my hand.

She gives me a shy smile, her eyes making contact with mine for only a second as she shakes. “Amber.” Her voice is soft and her American accent sounds strange after being around Kiwis and Germans for days.

I’m about to tell Amber something like “nice name” but Gemma struggles with the clutch as she pulls away from the curb and the van jerks forward. I quickly slip on my seat belt while Nick turns to her. “God, Gemma, ease up.”

“Sorry,” she snaps at him. “I’m not used to driving this old thing.” She gets used to it fast though, and we’re zipping through the city as quick as the van can go, which isn’t saying much.

It’s an old thing, but it’s pretty fucking cool. Her uncle must have taken really good care of it. There’s a sink, a fridge, a counter than runs the length of the back, seats behind the drivers, passenger seats that flip up, a table that pulls out in the middle, loads of cupboards, and colorful curtains at the windows. The bright blue seat Amber and I are on folds down into a bed, and above us you can see where the top pops out into a bunk. It’s surprisingly spacious considering there are four of us in here, and there’s a lot of distance between where I’m sitting and where Gemma is.

When we finally make our way out of the inner city, I lean forward on my knees. “Got any tunes?” I ask loudly, trying to see if they have an MP3 outlet for my iPhone.

Nick laughs. “The radio in this shit-heap is broken and we only have a cassette player. Total dodge.”

“But,” Gemma says, flashing me a quick smile in the rearview mirror, “my uncle left us all his cassette tapes. I hope you like Pink Floyd because he only has The Wall, Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and Meddle.”

I do like Pink Floyd, though I can tell the music will color the trip a little differently. But driving round New Zealand in an old VW van seems like the perfect time to listen to them. 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">