by Karina Halle
Next we hit the Wild West Coast, which was this prehistoric mashup of ferns and native palm trees and rivers flowing down lush green mountains, and walked along dark beaches strewn with driftwood, beaten by the raging azure sea, a blue so brilliant it hurt my eyes. There’s not much to do there but take in the sights, so we looked at strange rock formations called the “pancake rocks,” ate something called whitebait (it tastes better than it sounds), and watched as a dumpy weka bird waddled up to Amber and stole her sandwich.
The highlight, though, was yesterday when we went glacier hiking. I had to put up with all the snarky questions, like, “But you’re from Canada, don’t you have to glacier-hike to get to work?” to which I said it rarely snows where I live. (Hello, don’t you remember the Vancouver Olympics when we had to truck in snow for our mountains?) But aside from that, it was a fucking trip.
We had to get up at the ass-crack of dawn and make our way to the glacial center in the middle of the small but touristy village of Franz Josef. Nick really wanted to do the helicopter tour version but none of us could really spare the expense, so he went off and did that on his own while we did the cheaper version. I could tell Gemma was pretty pissed off about that.
The tour was pretty straightforward. Walk for what seemed like forever across the alluvial plain, crisscrossed with streams of melting glacial water (hey, geography was my best subject in high school after art), the imposing face of Franz Josef glacier slowly getting closer and closer. On either side, waterfalls spilled down in thin ribbons from forested cliffs and the clouds clung to the edges, obscuring the peaks in mist.
Finally we were up close to the giant wall of blue and gray ice towering above us, and the only way through was up. You have to climb up steps your guide carves out of the snow, everyone in single file, with only metal-spiked hiking poles for stability.
I brought up the rear of the group, with Gemma in front of me, and I had this incredible view of everyone walking along the ice like a row of ants. We walked across planks over aqua-tinged crevices that seemed to cut straight into the earth, made our way through caves and holes cut right through the ice, and moved up and down passageways that were so high on either side that the glacier was the only thing we could see. It was pretty unbelievable, and at one point I had to stop and take it all in with my eyes. I knew my photos wouldn’t even do it justice.
“What are you doing?” Gemma asked. I guess I did look strange, standing there, pole in hand, staring wildly at everything around me. In the distance the group was getting farther and farther away, heading back down the glacier now.
“I’m trying to remember this,” I told her. “I’m afraid my photos will lie and I’ll forget.”
I could feel her eyes searching mine for a moment and I turned to take her in. She looked so fresh, so beautiful, her eyes and hair so dark against all the white, the tan of her skin glowing. There was something else, too, something in her expression that made me want to stare at her longer. What was it? Longing? Yearning?
For what?
She gave me a quick smile, as if realizing she’d been found out, and then said, “Are you going to try and paint this as soon as we get back?”
I nodded. “I’ll try. That’s why I’m hoping I can remember this sight just so.” But now she would be in the picture, her curious face standing out amid the white ice and green mountains. I was suddenly aware of how small, tiny, and helpless the both of us were on this cold mass of advancing history.
“Do you ever paint?” I asked her. I wasn’t sure why, she just always seemed so interested in my art, asking to look at my sketchbook every day. I’d been more than happy to show it to her. Her expression turned to fear. I couldn’t figure out what I said wrong.
Then it hit me. “Oh,” I quickly said, feeling like an idiot. “Sorry, Gemma. I forgot that your father was an artist. That must be a question you hear all the time.”
She looked away, a cold breeze sweeping silky chocolate strands across her face. “No, it’s okay.” She rubbed her lips together for a few long beats. Somewhere above us, hidden in the clouds, a helicopter whirred. “I did used to paint, actually,” she admitted. “I was pretty good. My paintings were being shown alongside my dad’s the night he . . . the night of the accident. But I didn’t paint after that.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes blazed as she glanced at me. I was sure she was going to tell me to fuck off with the constant questions but she didn’t. She took in a deep breath and composed herself. “Because of my hand. I loved the landscapes, just like my father, but my thing, what made me special, was being extremely detailed. My canvases were small and my subjects were smaller. I loved just spending hours and hours and days working one dot, one stroke at a time. It took me away some place, all that concentration, you know?”
I nodded. I knew very well. Life would pass you by while you were in that world, but it was the only world I needed.
She sighed. “But I can barely write my name neatly now and so I certainly can’t fucking paint the way I used to. If I try and do anything with my left hand that requires too much precision, I get the shakes. And though I guess you could say I’m ambidextrous now, I can’t get that same exactness again. The details are all lost and it looks like mush . . .” She trailed off and looked away, her focus on the group that had just disappeared over a mound of ice. She blinked a few times and I was certain she was about to cry. “I just can’t paint.”
I’d never heard her sound so sad.
Instinctively, I reached out for her arm and pulled her to me. She lifted her feet, the crampons strapped to her boots coming out of the ice and allowing her to fall into my arms. I didn’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have my art, and it broke my heart to see that Gemma had suffered that loss, along with so much.
I held her there, aware that it was only for now, that I could only try and give her comfort, until someone in the group called out our names. Before they could think we had both fallen into an ice hole, we broke apart and hurried after them.
“Wow,” Vera says softly after I tell her about the glacier hike, having stayed silent the whole conversation. “That’s heavy shit, Josh. When was this again?”
“Yesterday,” I tell her.
“Have you talked to her about it again?”
“No, I haven’t been alone with her. After the hike, we met up with Nick the Dick and got some lunch before we came here. Amber and I spent the night in one of the cabins they have here. Reminds me of the ones we used to stay in on Salt Spring Island, you know the A-frame ones? But Gemma was with Nick in the bus, by his side the whole night.”
She makes an annoyed growl. “Ugh, that’s frustrating.”
“Right,” I say, exhaling loudly. I look over my shoulder to see Gemma packing the rest of breakfast away in the bus but she’s too far away to hear me. “I just don’t know why she’s with him, you know? And why did she invite me along with them? I mean, she’s not making any plays for me. Fuck, I can’t even read her half the time.”
Vera is silent for a moment before she says, “She’s scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“Losing everything, maybe. If I were in her shoes, I’d be scared to leave the person that I’m with and take a chance on the one that’s fleeting. You’re just a visitor, Josh. You’re leaving next month. I think it’s just too big of a risk for her, ya know?”
“Is that what Mateo would say?” Vera’s man friend went through pretty much the same thing. He was married when he met Vera and took a chance on her, even though she was as fleeting as it gets. Of course, that all worked out for the best for her. To Mateo, the risk, Vera, was worth it.
To Gemma, I’m not.
“Sí,” she says, putting on her Spanish accent. “And if Mateo were there I’m sure he could talk some sense into her. But, I’m just saying, try not to take it too personally. She likes you, that’s why you�
�re there. But she’s freaking out over what to do. If you want her, you have to prove that you’re a risk worth taking.”
“That’s kind of a dickish thing to do when her significant other is right there.”
But of course, that’s kind of what I’ve been doing anyway, whether I’m aware of it or not.
“True,” she says. “Look, I don’t know. Just keep having fun. You’re in fucking New Zealand, you should be frolicking with orcs and shit and doing stuff that gets your blood pumping.” Pause. “What about that Amber chick? Why not go for her instead?”
“She’s hot and sweet and very endearing, in this quietly kooky way,” I tell her. “But she’s not Gemma.”
“Then you’re shit out of luck, broseph,” she says with a sigh. “I’d say you need to protect yourself and your heart and all that bullshit, but you know what? I’ve never witnessed you behaving this way over a girl before. You’re falling hard. Maybe it’s about time you fell.”
“You’re sadistic.”
“I’m just trying to look on the bright side,” she says breezily.
“Yeah, for you.” I don’t want to fucking fall. I don’t want to hit the ground.
“I guess it comes down to whether the fall is worth it. You want Gemma to think you’re a risk worth taking. It has to go both ways. If you want her, you have to be willing to fall for her.”
“Stop being rational,” I tell her.
“Hey, you were the rational one for me and Mateo. If it weren’t for you egging me on and telling me to take a chance, I wouldn’t be living in Madrid with him. I wouldn’t be so fucking happy. I want you to be happy, too. Take the leap, Josh, or you’re going to regret it.”
I swallow hard, feeling uneasy. Man, is my sister striking fear straight into my heart.
After we hang up, I make my way to Mr. Orange, which is purring like a jackhammer. Gemma is driving today, Nick beside her, and I climb into the back, buckling up beside Amber.
“How is your sister?” Gemma asks, eyeing me in the mirror.
I shrug. “Good, as always.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Not when she’s being a pain in the ass,” I say, and then look out the window as we pull onto the highway and start making our way farther south toward Wanaka and Queenstown.
And especially not when she’s right.
Chapter Ten
JOSH
The movies were the last place I thought we’d end up, but when we rolled into Lake Wanaka late that morning, a storm was in the process of doing the same.
We parked Mr. Orange at a campervan park beside the lake. With the dark clouds that seemed to rush together above the lake and the churning gray-blue waves, it was a spectacular sight, the surrounding mountains shrouded and only hinting at their hidden size. Unfortunately the rain that started to pour down on us confined us to Mr. Orange and eventually gave us cabin fever. We were lucky that the weather held out for as long as it did on this trip.
After I examined a tucked-away cupboard and brought out a stack of vintage porn magazines from the late seventies—apparently Gemma’s uncle had left more than just Pink Floyd behind—Gemma remembered there was a really cool movie theater in the lakeside town. They only took reservations and there wasn’t much choice of what to see, but none of us really cared as long as it got us out of what would forever be known as the Shaggin’ Wagon. I mean, Pink Floyd and porn? Gemma’s uncle must’ve been a busy guy.
After a quick phone call to reserve seats for whatever movie was playing in the evening, we busied ourselves with a trip to the nearby Puzzling World, which consisted of a bunch of visual exhibits engineered to make you feel high as fuck. When we were appropriately disoriented, we headed to the cinema early to grab dinner there.
I’ve never seen a cinema quite like this. From the outside it looks like your average mountain chalet, other than the fact that there’s this weird sculpture on the roof. Inside there’s a brightly colored bar and café filled with movie posters. We order salads and burgers and split two bottles of wine between the four of us.
The wine is almost gone when the doors to the cinema open. The waiter tells us we can order more food or drinks and take them inside if we want. Amber asks if I’ll split another bottle with her, and because I’m feeling buzzed I can’t say no.
Armed with alcoholic provisions and full bellies, we head into the theater part and I am blown away. Though there are a few old-fashioned theater seats on the rows leading down to the projection screen, the rest consist of a smattering of airplane seats and couches from the seventies and eighties. There are plaid love seats and velvet chaises, and at the very front is a fucking car. Yeah, like a yellow fifties convertible. Some lucky bastards are already climbing into it and claiming their seats.
“Holy schnikes,” Amber says from beside me in her best Chris Farley impression. “This is the coolest place ever.”
Even Nick gives out an impressed, “Wow.”
But while we stand there gawking at the gloriously haphazard room, the couches and seats are all filling up fast. It’s a rainy night in the outdoor capital of the world, and it seems all of Wanaka and maybe even nearby Queenstown has come to the movies.
Nick grabs Gemma’s hand and leads her down toward the front, snagging a love seat before another couple is about to sit down.
I’m looking around wildly, not wanting to end up in the boring theater seats when everything else is so cool.
“Hey hot stuff, over here,” Amber calls out, and I see her down the back row, snagging what looks to be an oversized armchair, the kind that Archie Bunker used to complain in all day. I bring the wine over and try and figure out how we’re both going to sit on this thing.
“You can sit on my lap,” she says with a coy smile and I laugh.
“Right,” I say. “I’m a foot taller than you and twice as heavy. I’ll crush you like an itty bitty ant.”
“You’re right,” she says. “I remember in Abel Tasman when you accidently rolled over me in the night. Thought I was going to die more than once. Death by Josh.”
“Lies,” I tell her, though knowing my predisposition for falling out of bunks, it might be true.
I sit down, placing the bottle of wine and glasses on the small table beside us and make room so she can fit in between me and the cushy arm. She’s small but her ass is big (nothing I would ever complain about), so she ends up sitting half on me. I’ve been known to get boners at inappropriate times, like when a hot chick sits on me, so I really hope it doesn’t happen now and give her the wrong idea.
The movie starts, some art house flick starring Scarlett Johansson that I wouldn’t normally see, but we didn’t have a choice, and hey, it’s Scarlett. We drink our wine, even though I have to reach over her every few minutes to either pick up my glass or put it down, and each time I do, I brush against her breasts.
My dick stirs in my pants.
This isn’t good and I know, I know, that Amber can tell.
I try and concentrate on the film. This is also a bad idea. Naked Scarlett isn’t helping at all, she’s just making things worse.
When the room goes really black during a nighttime scene, I feel Amber turn into me, her breathing hard and loud. Before I have a chance to prepare myself, her fingers are in my hair, her hand on my crotch, and she kisses me.
Her lips are light at first, and there’s enough time to pull back and protest, if I want to. What I’d say, I don’t know. I’ve never been very good at rejecting girls. But then she’s kissing me harder and my mouth opens, letting her. The feel of her tongue in my mouth elicits a small moan from me, and I can’t help but get sucked into it, the feeling of her want and need for me.
I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel good, that it doesn’t turn me on, this feeling of being wanted. She’s fumbling for my zipper and I’m afraid this can’t end well. The problem
is, I do find Amber hot and funny, and I do like her as a person. But she’s not the one I want to be with, and because of that I can’t lead her on. If I didn’t like her, well, sad to say but I wouldn’t have a problem with it.
I’m gathering up all of my strength to pull away and put some distance between us, preparing what I’m going to say to her after the movie, that I’m not interested in her that way and then be faced with the bone-crushing awkwardness that will surely follow, when suddenly the movie stops playing and the lights in the theater flick on.
The door to the café opens and the smell of fresh-baked cookies wafts in.
What the fucking fuck?
As if expecting this, some people in the theater are getting out of their chairs and heading toward the café. Even Nick, who is halfway up the aisle when he spots us, with Amber’s hand down my pants, her lips on my neck. There’s no time to make ourselves look appropriate.
He raises his brows at us but keeps walking, disappearing into the café with everyone else.
Amber quickly removes her hand and I zip up my pants before anyone else has a chance to see.
Holy shit. This isn’t good.
“Whoops,” Amber says, her cheeks turning red. “That was unexpected.”
I’m not sure if she means the intermission or the fact that her hand was wrapped firmly around my erection. Unexpected, indeed.
Luckily, I don’t see Gemma get up and Amber soon excuses herself to go to the washroom. She comes back a short while later with two still-warm chocolate chip cookies. She gives one to me as she settles back down in her spot. This time, however, my dick ain’t playing.
“I guess this is their thing,” she says with a mouthful of cookie. “Intermission and cookies.” She shakes the near-empty bottle of wine at me. “More wine?”