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I turn around and look at the silhouetted peaks of the mountains across the water. That’s what our view is of: tomorrow. It’s amazing to think I’ll be there, on another island, in another place I’ve never been.
I start to relax a bit at that thought and wander into the kitchen, where I meet Craig and Braydon, two post-college kids from Dublin. They invite me to have a beer and the pasta they just made, but I politely decline. The food, that is—I never turn down a beer.
Sitting there and talking to these guys makes me remember why I’m there—to travel, to meet people, to open my eyes and get a fucking life. All this shit with Gemma and Nick has started to mess me up and forget the big picture. I have to remind myself she was only my reason for being here. She isn’t my everything.
Curiously, I’m not listening to their travel adventures for long before I see Nick walk past the kitchen and out the front door. He gives me a nod of acknowledgment, which is big for him. I expect Gemma to follow behind any minute.
She doesn’t. Strange.
A little while later, when the sun starts to set behind the mountains of the South Island and the two Irish lads move their beers to the patio, Amber and Gemma come by and ask what kind of beer and pizza I want. Half an hour after that, we’re all on the patio, enjoying good Kiwi beer and shitty Kiwi pizza.
“No offense,” I say, shoving the last bit of pizza into my mouth, “but your pizza sucks. It’s like eating cardboard with tomato sauce.”
Gemma sticks her tongue out at me. “Then why did you eat it all?”
“Because it’s food.”
“I thought it was fine,” Amber says, always diplomatic. She eyes me mischievously. “It’s hard to cook cardboard just right.”
“Well, yours is for sure,” Gemma points out, ignoring our jabs. “You’re eating gluten-free.”
The air around us has settled to a soft, silvery blue. Dusk is here and the sun is long gone, though the light seems to stay, burning the area where the sea meets the sky and the mountains fade into the night. There’s a fresh breeze coming off the water and you can hear the steady rhythm of the waves as they pound into the shore.
Gemma had told me that Nick went to the local pub, needing some alone time, and I guess that’s why the Irish guys have moved in on our little group. I don’t mind; it’s nice to have them break up our unit, which has started to feel a bit claustrophobic at times, plus they’ve introduced us to a crazy drinking game.
For once, I’m not the most drunk. I’m taking it easy, not entirely trusting myself these days. Not around her, anyway.
Instead it’s Gemma who’s tying one on. She has one beer, then another, trying valiantly to keep up with the Irish boys. I want to tell her that’s one battle she doesn’t want to win, but I’m not sure if it’s my place.
Finally, the hippie-lady owner of the hostel has to come out and tell us all to be quiet—there’s too much laughing, too much shrieking, too much spilling. At this, the Irish decide to join Nick at the pub and invite us to come along. Gemma, suddenly growing stone-faced and silent, vigorously shakes her head no. There’s no way I’m going without her.
Amber decides to go with them, though—she’s been flirty with the Braydon guy all night—and soon it’s just me and Gemma, alone in the chairs. It’s dark, save for a faint light from inside the hostel, and the sound of crickets competes with the crashing waves.
It’s romantic. So uncomfortably romantic.
And quiet. Gemma isn’t saying a word and I have to stare at her closely, her features muddy in the dark, before I realize she’s staring right at me.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, taken aback by her hidden perusal.
She swallows, licks her lips, then looks to the sea. “I don’t know.”
“Drunk?”
She nods. “I guess that’s it.”
It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to be able to tell when something is bothering a girl. They wear it plainly on their face, in their tone, in their posture. It does take a brain surgeon to actually extract that information from the girl. The most you’ll get is a hard “I’m fine,” and the rest remains buried.
Still, I care about her and I can’t let things go. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I sigh and lean back in the chair. I finish another beer, the silence thickening between us, before I say, “You know you can talk to me about everything. I know we aren’t close or anything, but if you need someone . . . I’m here.”
I can see the white of her teeth as she smiles but her voice is dry. “You are the last person I can talk to.”
I frown. “Why?”
She doesn’t say anything. I can almost hear those wheels in her head turning. Without thinking, I reach over and I grab her left hand, hoping to get her to spill.
It’s trembling in my grasp.
“You’re shaking,” I tell her, and she quickly snatches it back, far away.
“It’s nothing,” she says, her voice raised and almost panicky.
“Are you cold? I can get you my sweater.” I begin to rise from my chair.
“No,” she snaps. She sighs and rubs her other hand down her face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I just mean, it’s fine. I’m not cold. My hand just shakes sometimes.”
I sit back down. “Just the left one?”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
