Where Sea Meets Sky

That night, her mother has family friends over for dinner—the stiffly dressed Priscilla and Grant Richardson. It’s apparently day two of amazing feasts. After we drink wine in the sun on the wide stone patio in their backyard, which is essentially composed of a dark blue lap pool and groomed grass, we head inside for barbecued prawns, crayfish, salmon, and grilled abalone with honey-roasted potatoes and carrots.

I make a remark about how different it is to be having prawns for Christmas Eve dinner when Grant Richardson fixes his eyes on me. He’s a little drunk and he’s got this smug look on his face that I didn’t notice earlier. I feel like I’m not going to like what’s coming next.

“So, how are you liking New Zealand?” he asks.

I smile before taking a bite of the salmon. “I love it.”

“And when do you go back?”

“January tenth,” I tell him, even though it pinches a bit to say it out loud.

“I see,” he says. “And then what happens between you two?” He points to me and Gemma with his fork.

I raise my brow. “Excuse me?”

“Grant,” Gemma’s mom says, shooting him a look.

He ignores it and slips into a lazy smile. “Justine tells me you guys are,” he coughs, “a couple. Just curious if you intend to stay in contact with her after you leave or if this is a shoreman-on-leave type of deal, if you know what I mean.”

Who the fuck does this prick think he is? I look at Gemma with my blood boiling loudly in my ears. She’s silent, shocked, maybe embarrassed. Everyone at the table is.

“Oye,” Jeremy says to Grant, “let the lovebirds be, bro.”

I give Jeremy a quick smile, raising my palm briefly. “No, it’s okay. I guess it’s a simple question,” I say, but when I look at Grant, I know my eyes are hard. “Not that it’s any of your business whatsoever, but I certainly hope to stay in contact with her.”

He leans back in his chair. “I know young hormones, my lad. Just be honest with each other. You wouldn’t want to lead her on.” He gives Gemma a pointed look. “Or vice versa.”

I look at Gemma curiously but she still seems frozen.

“Hormones?” I repeat. “What I feel for her is a hell of a lot more than hormones, sir.”

“Grant,” Justine says, getting to her feet. “I don’t think their relationship is any of your concern, whether you mean well or not.” She puts emphasis on the or not part.

Gemma suddenly seems to find her strength and gets up, leaving the table and going outside. I stare at the table, puzzled. Auntie Jolinda is giving me a sympathetic look while Grant looks smug. His wife Priscilla eats slowly, ignoring the whole, strange thing.

I get up and go after her. I find her walking down the road toward the ocean.

“Gemma!” I call out softly and jog after her. Once I catch up to her, I tug her arm to stop her in her tracks. “What the hell was that all about? Who the fuck is that obnoxious yuppie prick?”

She’s upset, chewing on her lip angrily. “That’s Grant Richardson.”

“Yeah, I got that much. Who the fuck is he to you?”

She sighs and keeps walking, but slowly, so I walk beside her. “I used to go out with his son in high school. Remember I said I stayed at the hostel in Paekakariki with an ex? Well, that was him, Robin Richardson.”

“Why is your mom friends with them still?”

“They were friends with my parents before my dad passed. Robin and I dated for a few years. It was inevitable. You know how high school is.”

“So what happened? Does he hold a grudge or something?”

She exhales noisily through her nose. The back of her head is lit by the golden setting sun. I’m hanging on to her every word.

“Yes,” she says, “though he shouldn’t still. After high school, Robin went away to university in Australia and I found someone else. It was wrong, but I was young and stupid. Anyway, Grant saw us together and questioned Robin about it. Poor Robin had no idea. I felt terrible, I still do, though I know Robin is engaged in Melbourne somewhere and it all worked out in the end.”

“I see,” I say, understanding a little bit but not really liking this fact about her. “That was a long time ago, though, right?”

She nods. “It was before Nick. I think he wants me to get my comeuppance. Sounds like he wants you to do the same to me as I did to his son.”

“That’s a bit fucked up.”

“Well, they were a pretty fucked-up family. Still are. He’s a lush and his wife is a doormat.”

“And Robin?”

“Actually, he was quite nice,” she concedes thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t have done that to him.”

I purse my lips for a moment before saying, “Then why did you?”

She looks away and shrugs. “I don’t do long-distance relationships well. I don’t do relationships well, period. You saw me and Nick.”

I did. But I can’t help but notice that her mother was the one who mentioned the term relationship. Obviously that notion had to come from somewhere, whether it was accurate or not.

“You’re a complicated little woman,” I say, deciding not to bring it up.

She raises her brow. There’s some relief in her face that the conversation is over. “Who are you calling ‘little’?”

“Most women want to be called little.”

“Not this one.” 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">