Where Sea Meets Sky

Naturally, once the four of us got back to the campsite, that’s exactly what we did. It was still the afternoon, but we loaded up on more supplies and parked our asses down in the camping chairs, refusing to move. We filled up on hot dogs again, copious amounts of alcohol, and at some point during the night Nick stopped being a douche long enough to play several drinking games with us.

It was actually a lot of fun. The caves had somehow made us all bond together in one way or another, but by the time the sky grew dark and the stars peeked through the clouds, we could barely move our tired muscles.

We called it a night.

And I, well, for my own safety I slept in the tent.

Chapter Eight

GEMMA

“Please tell me you have Advil,” Josh moans, his hands together in mock prayer. “I will do anything you want if you just give me one. Just one.”

“Anything?” I ask, cocking my brow.

We had to get up bright and early again to make it to just outside of Wellington tonight, but that was easier said than done. We all ache from our necks to our toes—even me and Nick, and we’re used to physical exertion. Being in that cave absolutely slaughtered us and made us strain muscles we never knew we had, and though I wish I had packed some ibuprofen with us to ease the pain, we’re all going to have to suffer.

“Anything,” Josh says, and I can see he wants to make it sexual but manages to rein himself in. Or maybe it’s me who wants him to make everything sexual. I push that thought away as I shove a piece of hair behind my ear and spy Nick coming back from the washroom block. I’m already feeling extremely guilty for what happened yesterday.

Armed with the chilly bin packed with leftover food and drink, I press past Josh, who is sitting in the doorway of the van, begging for mercy, and start placing stuff in Mr. Orange’s fridge. Bacon, eggs, hot dogs, potato salad, cans of beer. At least it will be on during the drive and our stuff will stay cool.

“I wish I could make you do anything,” I say, shutting the fridge door and placing the chilly bin in the storage space behind the backseats. “Because I have a wicked imagination. You should be glad we didn’t play truth or dare last night. But I don’t have any drugs, and it’s called Nurofen over here, by the way.”

“Right,” he says. “And what did you call that cooler earlier? A chilly bin?”

“Well, it’s a bin that keeps things chilled,” I point out defensively.

He starts ticking off his long fingers. “Right. And a truck is called a ute, and the hood is called a bonnet, and the trunk is called the boot, and you fill up with petrol before you drive your tyres, spelled with a y, on the bitumen.”

“Everything you said makes perfect sense.” I try to keep a straight face but his exasperated expression is just so cute. His upper lip snarls just so, like it’s taunting me, daring me to bite it and show it who’s boss.

“Almost ready to go?” Nick asks, suddenly appearing at the door and giving me a fright. I look at him and nod. That wash of guilt comes over me again, like someone has doused me with petrol. I haven’t even done anything but I still feel it soaking me to the core.

I’m in danger of igniting.

My problem is, no matter what I do, I can’t stop being attracted to Josh. I’ve tried, but the moment he first threw his backpack into the bus and climbed aboard, I began a wrestling match with my hormones. And, though I’ve kept myself totally appropriate, I can’t help my body from the physical reaction it gets just by being near him, I can’t help my mind for wanting to focus on him all the time, and I can’t help the butterflies that seemed to have escaped my gut and moved into my heart.

I can’t help any of it, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to fight it.

So far, being squeezed in an underground cave for hours has been the easiest part of the trip.

Once Amber comes back from the showers, her hair piled high in a wet, messy bun, Nick gets into the driver’s seat and taps the passenger seat for me to sit down. I do so somewhat reluctantly. I want Amber or Josh to have the front row of the journey down to the south tip of the North Island, but if Amber sits with Nick then I’ll be in the back with Josh and things might get weird. And forget about Josh sitting at the front. Nick would probably say something asshole-ish, and I now know that Josh is not a fan of him. What had he called him again? A dicknugget?

We pull away from the holiday park and hit the open road. Pink Floyd’s “Flutter” seemed to work yesterday as good morning music, so I put it on again, sliding it into the cassette deck with a satisfying snap. I don’t know why Uncle Robbie only had these tapes in Mr. Orange, but they bring back old memories of my childhood and will hopefully make some new ones here.

Because everyone is worn out and aching, we all keep quiet, stopping only once outside Waitomo to get coffee. It’s a beautiful morning, though—warm, golden sunlight hits the damp cool of night, causing clouds of mist to gather in the fields and flank the base of rolling green hills. When I can tear my mind away long enough from the problem at hand, I’m caught up in a sense of adventure and freedom that I’ve never had in my own country before.

And yet it’s all an illusion—the adventure will be short-lived and there never was any freedom. Not here, not when I’m caught like a fish on a line, not strong enough to fight.

I glance at Nick. He’s concentrating on the road, his brows together. I know he wants the old bus to go faster, but it just can’t. It’s not built that way. It’s built to take its time, to do more than get people from point A to point B. It wants you to savor the journey. 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">