Where Sea Meets Sky

I’ve never been very good at picking out presents. I usually get people the same damn thing. For my mom, something for the kitchen, even though she doesn’t cook; for Mercy, a gift certificate. For Vera I try to get her some rare music memorabilia, like a Faith No More single on seven-inch vinyl, or something astronomy-themed. For the ex-girlfriends who happened to be in my life during the holidays in the past, they’d get a nice date and maybe one of those tacky coupons for a free back rub or mindless fuck.

But Gemma needs something special. I just don’t have the slightest idea what that is. I decide to get Amber’s gift first. I wander into the least gaudy souvenir shop I can find, and after some searching I pick up a flask that has a Kiwi bird on it. It’s classy and cute and also a bit badass, which suits her just fine. Amber has always struck me as a bit of a sheltered child with a hidden side to her. I think by the time she gets back to San Jose after her around-the-world trip, she’s going to be a totally different person.

After I get that, I’m left to wander up and down palm-lined streets named after Dickens and Tennyson. It strikes me that this is the first time I’ve been alone in a very long time. I’m not sure if I like it. I’ve always been a bit of a loner but now I’ve grown accustomed to being around people all the time, people I like, people I love.

My thoughts jar me. People I love? Where the fuck did the L-word come from? I don’t think I love Gemma, I just like her a lot. Like, an awful lot. Like, an absurd amount, to the point where I can’t stop thinking about her, even when she’s right beside me; even being away from her to buy her a damn Christmas present feels like ages.

I like her. So what? That’s always been obvious.

I like being inside her. No, I love being inside her. And listening to her, talking to her, watching her smile, hearing her laugh. I love trying to bring her out of her shell, the real her, seeing those glimpses of sunshine inside of her that I know no one else can see. I love the way she smells, the feel of her skin, her muscles, her lips, her hair. I love that she’s slowly trusting me and that she cares for me, and maybe one day it will be as much as I care for her. I love her battered little soul and artist’s heart stuck in the body of a warrior. I love that’s she more broken than me, because I think I can put her back together. I love that there is so much left in her to discover.

But I’m not in love with her.

Am I?

I blink and shake my head. It won’t end well if I keep thinking like this. What do I know, anyway? I’ve never even been in love before.

And that’s when it hits me. I know what I’ll give her. The sketchbook I’ve been drawing, painting, and sketching in. I know I thought about giving it to her before, but now it’s official. I’ll give her that, when this is all over. It’s the biggest piece of me that I can give—the world, the trip of a lifetime, her, all recorded through my eyes.

But since I’ll be working in it until the day I leave, I’ll have to get her something to tide her over, so she doesn’t unwrap nothing on Christmas.

I go into an art supply store and buy a blank card and a dense pencil and head to a large, busy square at the end of the shopping center. I sit on the edge of a giant fountain, and while the palm trees wave above me, I sketch a different scene on the card, one of snow and ice. I draw Santa Claus and myself in a present-filled sleigh, flying up into the clouds.

Underneath I write: Your present is coming.

I almost write and so am I, but I figure that’s probably not appropriate for Christmas morning.

“There you are.” I hear Amber’s sing-song voice. I quickly turn my head to see her coming toward me, shopping bag in tow, and make sure that her present is completely hidden.

She stops in front of me and spies the card. Her mouth drops open. “Shut the front door. Did you draw that?”

“Yeah,” I say, sliding it inside the envelope but not sealing it. “I won’t be able to give Gemma her gift until right before I leave, so it’s just something to take its place for now.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s your cock.”

“Hey,” I say, grinning at her. “If I recall correctly, you’re quite fond of my cock.”

She glares at me and puts a hand on her hip. “Was.”

I get up. “Well, if you must know, I’m going to give Gemma my sketchbook when this is all over. All my drawings, paintings, every step of the trip that I’ve re-created. What do you think?”

I watch her closely for her reaction as to whether this is actually a pretty cheap and lame idea or not. As I said, I don’t have the best gift-giving skills. But her eyes start to well up and her lower lip sticks out slightly. “Josh,” she says softly. “That’s beautiful.”

“Really? You don’t think it’s a cop-out?”

She widens her eyes. “How could anyone think that? That sketchbook is art. It’s your life, it’s . . . you. Anyone would be honored to have that, but she’s especially going to melt. Awh, I wish I could be there to see her face.”

“I don’t,” I say, “because if she likes it that much, you know what’s going to happen next.”

She shakes her head, muttering something about me being a pervert. Then she gives me a reluctant, wry smile. “You did good, Josh.”

Eventually Gemma comes to pick us up in Mr. Orange, outfitted with a brand-new back window, and I’m feeling more confident about my decision. When we get back home, her house smells of fresh-baked cookies, or “biscuits” as they call them, and there are Christmas songs playing. I decide to start sketching more; I want to capture her family, her holidays. 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">