by Karina Halle
“Welcome home,” I tell her before I grab her and kiss her. She tastes as sweet and spicy as I remembered and melts into my arms, into my touch. We kiss with deep heat and fired intensity, which only makes me hungrier for her, for everything about her.
I can’t believe she’s here.
Gemma is here.
She pulls away, breathing hard, her hands gripping me tight.
“Josh,” she nearly whimpers in my ear, her voice soft and on the edge of breaking, “I love you.”
My heart does a warm somersault in my chest—the best kind of ache.
“I love you,” she says again, placing her hands on either side of my face and staring at me with those deep eyes of hers, now wet with waiting tears. “I couldn’t stop loving you. You’re so easy to love.” She kisses me again, soft and slow, and murmurs against my lips, “I’m so sorry I didn’t realize it before, that it took me so long. I never meant to break your heart.”
“Gemma,” I say through a groan, my body and heart igniting. “Don’t be sorry. I couldn’t want for more. You’re here. And I love you.” I place her hand on top of my chest. “See, it’s not broken at all.”
“You still love me?” She sounds so shocked, so vulnerable. I can’t help but smile.
“Always,” I tell her and pull her tank top over her head, unable to keep my hands off of her, my skin from her skin. I need to be closer than this, I need to feel her in every way that I can. I need her to be real, to stay real in this room full of art.
She shoots a nervous look to the door, and as she swiftly removes her bra I head over and lock it, ensuring us privacy. When I’m back at her side, my lips graze her nipples before sucking them, and she moans in response. Such a gorgeous sound, one I never thought I’d hear again.
She’s here.
She loves me.
I pick her up in my arms and stride across to the counter in the corner of the room, placing her ass up on the edge beside the sink before pulling down her jeans and underwear.
“I’m having déjà vu,” she says, her smile wanton, her voice throaty. “Though I think the pool table was more comfortable.”
“You won’t be complaining in a moment, sweetheart,” I tell her with a grin as I pull her legs to the edge of the counter and unzip my jeans.
“I like when you call me that,” she says as she wraps her strong legs around my waist.
With one hand I position myself against her and brush a strand of paint-coated hair behind her ears with the other. “Good. Because you’re going to be hearing it for a long time.”
I want nothing more than to take this reunion slowly but I’m fueled by the almost delirious desire to be inside of her again. She holds me close as I push myself in, my eyes squeezing shut as she envelops me, tight and warm, the most decadent feeling.
She gasps then moans, and I do the same.
She’s here. She’s home.
“Please tell me you’re here to stay,” I say to her, my lips finding hers again as I slowly thrust in and out.
“I’m here to learn,” she says softly, her hands gripping my shoulders, my hair. “Not just at school . . .” She breaks off and gasps as my fingers slide around her. “I’m here to learn from you. About art, about love, about everything. I’m not going anywhere.” She looks me in the eye. “You’ve got me.”
She then punctuates those beautiful words by moaning softly, her head thrown back as we sink into the feel of our love for each other. It is so, so impossibly good.
As we move as one, slow then fast and frantic, she gets paint on me, staining my skin, my clothes. We make love in the art room like lovers reunited after war. It gets messy.
But life is messy.
And life is good.
Acknowledgments
It’s funny how you can make plans that you know aren’t even slightly adjustable and yet somehow the universe ends up rearranging things for you. Case in point: back in 2002, after a few years of working mindless jobs; of going to film school for things like make-up, production, and screenwriting but not following up on it; after backpacking around Australia and New Zealand; I decided to get real and continue on with education. I decided on a local college, in their journalism program, and everything was all set for my “real” life to begin. I would go to school and then get a job in my field and that would be the end of that. No more finding myself, no more searching.
Well, when it came time to enroll in my classes for the semester, I had a rather rude awakening. There were no classes. None in the journalism program, none in any program, none at all. There was just nothing. I couldn’t even take Advanced Pyrotechnics 300 if I wanted to. The entire school was booked up.
But that couldn’t really be, could it? I mean, I paid for the school already. I was accepted. I was ready to go.
It turned out that I wasn’t the only student this had happened to. On that day, hundreds of potential students couldn’t sign up for any courses and were consequently turned away from the Vancouver college (which shall go unnamed, but there is a news clip of me being interviewed because of this and saying, and I quote, “It’s like when they oversell an airplane, but I don’t want to be on standby for my education.” How’s that for a sound bite?).
Anyway, apparently this happened because they had “accidently” accepted too many students, and as it turned out, most of them were international (this was right after 9/11 so there was influx of foreign students opting to study in Canada instead of the US). And international students pay more.
So there went my whole damn plan. If I had known there would be no classes for me, I would have applied for another college. Now it was too late in the year to do so and I was screwed.
And so, I decided to apply to a foreign school. Sure, I’d be paying those higher fees, but at least I’d have somewhere to go and I could make an adventure out of it.
Long story short (too late!), I decided on New Zealand. Not only had I spent a few weeks there in 2000 backpacking the country and totally falling in love, my sister Linda and her family lived outside of Wellington. Within a few months I had applied, been accepted, and had selected my course load for my bachelors of communication. It was kind of a bullshit degree, but it would do.
In March of 2013, I moved to New Zealand by myself. I shared a flat off campus on the north shore of Auckland and commuted to the city every day where I attended the university downtown. I made some amazing friends—and met my best friend—and spent my days falling in love with the country’s people, culture, scenery, and outlook, all while lamenting the traffic, the overpriced groceries, and the fact that no one heats their house in the winter.
It was one of the best years of my life and because of that, this book was so easy to write. Though I ended up finishing my degree back at home (journalism, again) I’ve been back since then for my friend’s wedding in 2009, and I was able to add more amazing experiences to my memory bank, some of which have found their way into this book.
Where Sea Meets Sky is, in some ways, my love letter to New Zealand. It’s also a love letter to those who are just finding their way in life, who are too afraid to take risks and chances. You have to learn to go with the flow, and if I hadn’t taken that chance on New Zealand, I’m not sure where I would be right now.
So, my biggest thank-you goes to New Zealand. Then, of course, to everyone I met there, especially Kelly St-Laurent and the Robson family, whom I won’t call out because it will be quite obvious when you discover their names in the book (Hi Tony!).
Thank-you as well to: my gentle, welcoming, and all-around lovely sister Linda, Hamish, and the boys Tor and Bjorn. Kass Healy. Titus Rempell. Gemma Rushbrook. Graeme Marshall. Everyone at Akoranga housing and AUT. My parents for making it all possible. Then of course my lovely beta readers, Laura Helseth, Shawna Vitale, Lucia Valovcikova, Nina Decker, BJ Harvey, Barbie “Ovaltine” Messner, Sandra Cortez. Danielle Sanchez and her buzz skills. Hang Le fo
r her awesome map. The cottage for being such a great writing space. Pink Floyd (OMG I listened to so much Pink Floyd) and Free. Bruce, for being the best dog in the world, even if you are such a pain in the ass. And of course, my husband Scott MacKenzie (who is not a pain in the ass). You WILL come with me to New Zealand one day.
Last but not least, I have to thank my “team” for making this happen: Taylor Haggerty for being such a wonderful agent and the Waxman group. My editor, Jhanteigh Kupihea, for her belief in the story and for being so enthusiastic about Josh and Gemma. Ariele Fredman, Lee Anna Woodcock, Judith Curr, and everyone else at the Atria team for everything from the amazing cover to the tireless support.
Thank you and kia ora!
Read on for a sneak peek at the next novel by Karina Halle
Racing the Sun
Available as an Atria Paperback and eBook in July 2015
I think we’ve all thought about how we’re going to die. My friend Angela Kemp, whom I’ve known since we were playing in saggy diapers together, is convinced she’s going to choke to death on something. Every time we go out to eat, she searches the restaurant for the person most likely to know the Heimlich maneuver and tries to sit by them. It doesn’t seem to matter that I know the Heimlich maneuver; she just wants to know that she’ll be safe if it happens.
Personally, I’ve always thought I’d fall to my death. I think it all started when I was seven or eight years old and had dreams of my house turning over and me falling from the floor to the ceiling, dodging couches and tables. After that, my dreams turned into me falling off of balconies, getting stuck in plummeting elevators, and finally, being in horrific plane crashes. Actually, it was never the crash that killed me, nor was it the scariest part of the dream; it was that I was always sucked out of the airplane first and fell to my death in a horrible rush of cold air and mortality.
It shouldn’t surprise me then that I currently think I’m about to die, and by falling, no less.
In fact, I’m sure there’s no way I can possibly survive this. It’s not that I’m in a taxi that seems to be coughing black fumes out of its tailpipe every two seconds, or the fact that the driver—with a mustache so big he looks like a land walrus—is looking more at me and the two other backpackers in the backseat instead of at the road, but that as we round the corners of the “highway” toward the famously postcard-worthy town of Positano, we’re going full speed and there’s nothing but a sheer cliff face on my side of the vehicle.
“Shit,” I swear, trying to hold on to something—anything—that will keep me in the car and not falling to my death, as my sordid dreams have foretold. I look over at Ana and Hendrik, my Danish traveling compadres for this leg of southern Italy, and they don’t seem all that concerned. I’m especially not going to grab onto big, blond Hendrik since Ana has a problem with random girls touching him.
Not that I’m random at this point. I met up with the couple in Rome and spent a few days with them there before we took the train down south. I know they have plans to keep going all the way to Sicily and hunker down on some beach hut with a bunch of goats (I don’t know, but whenever Hendrik talks about their plans, goats are involved somehow) but I’m starting to believe that Positano is the end of the line for me.
And it’s not just because I’m certain I’m going to die on the way there. It’s because I am flat fucking broke. We all knew this day would come (and by we, I mean my parents and I). After all, I’ve been traveling for six months around the world, and even though I’ve been trying to spend as little as possible, the world isn’t as cheap as you’d think.
It probably doesn’t help that I went a little overboard in Europe and went on a mini shopping spree in every city I was in. But I like to think of my new shawls and sandals and jewelry as souvenirs, not just clothes. I mean, do you get to wear your postcards or ceramic doodads or tiny calendars with pictures of the Eiffel tower on them? No. But you can wear a scarf you picked up from a market in Berlin.
But of course, in hindsight, maybe I should have managed my money a bit better. I just thought that my savings were enough. And then when my parents started bailing me out, I thought I could coast by on that. Just for a little while. Until I found out they sold my shitty 1982 Mustang convertible to help pay for this trip. And then after that, they just stopped putting money in my account.
I’ve now eaten into the money that’s supposed to pay for my return ticket home, a ticket I didn’t think I’d have to buy until I got down to Morocco, or even Turkey.
So, Positano, Italy, on the Amalfi Coast, might just be the end for me.
Or this cab ride. As we round another bend, I can see crazy people parked on the road and selling flowers—not the side of the road, but parked on the actual road. So now people are swerving and going around them, but when Italians swerve they don’t slow down—they actually speed up.
I decide to close my eyes for the rest of the journey and hope I end up in one piece.
Even though the journey from Sorrento to Positano doesn’t translate into many miles, it still feels like it takes forever for us to finally get there.
The walrus-mustached cab driver pulls to a sudden stop, abruptly enough that I fling forward, my curly blond hair flying all over the place as my seatbelt barely restrains me.
“Amber,” Ana says in her deep accent. “We’re here.”
“I gathered that,” I say, and do the very awkward act of pretending to search through my messenger bag for euros. I don’t really have any euros to spare. Thankfully Ana thrusts some bills into the driver’s hand as we clamber out of the cab.
And so here is Positano. I’d been so busy closing my eyes and praying, I hadn’t really gotten a good look at the town on the way over.
It’s fucking charming. I mean, it’s beautiful and stunning and photogenic as all hell, but its charm is the first thing that comes to mind. The cab dropped us off at the top of the hill and you can see just how packed the town is. Building after colorful building crammed below cliffs, staggered down the hillsides, tucked into every nook and cranny. It makes you wonder what crazy person decided to put a town here, of all places.
The one-way road leading down to the beach is narrow, with cars and pedestrians and patio seating vying for space, and lined with stores that beckon you to come inside. Actually, knowing Italy, the minute you walk past, some shopkeeper will come out and literally beckon you to come inside because, like, you can’t say no (maybe that’s how I’ve ended up with so much stuff). In the distance, the Mediterranean Sea sparkles from the sunlight, glittering on the water, and hydrofoil ferries glide through the waves with ease.
“Wow,” I say softly, trying to take it all in. “This is like the movies.”
“Yes, it’s very nice,” Hendrik says blankly. He’s never really impressed with anything. When we saw the Coliseum, he said he thought it would be bigger. Well, I thought it would be bigger, too, but that didn’t stop me from being overwhelmed by the structure and history of it all. “Luckily the hostel is at the top of the hill.”
That is lucky, considering that if it was at the bottom of the hill on this one-way road I’d have to lug my overflowing backpack and duffel bag up to catch a cab or bus when it’s time to leave. Then again . . . I have a feeling I’m going to be here a while. I have enough money to stay at this hostel for a week and then I’m officially fucked.
I try not to dwell on that as I follow the Danes down the road for a few minutes as cars and motorcycles—ubiquitous here—zoom past, narrowly missing me by an inch. Even being on foot and at your own pace, there is still something so dizzying about this place. All these houses, burnt orange and pastel yellow and faded rose, looking down on each other. When I turn around and look behind me, the steep, rocky hills rise up into the sky.
It feels like the whole entire town could topple over at any minute.
This could be a metaphor for my life at the moment.
&n
bsp; After we’ve settled into a rather pleasant looking dorm room (pleasant compared to the fleabag we stayed at in Rome), Ana and Hendrik invite me to go with them down to the beach. I really do want to go and explore, but I have a feeling they’ll want to eat at some restaurant, and that would be more euros than I can afford. As much as I hate it, I have to stick to my weird Italian granola bars and fruit for as long as I can. Besides, I’m sure the lovebirds would rather stroll on the Positano beach with each other and not have some broke, frazzle-haired American girl tagging along.
So they leave and I take my time exploring the hostel. It’s small but even though it’s the only one in town, it’s not as packed as I thought it would be. It’s the beginning of June so I thought all college kids and post-college kids (like myself) would be flocking to this area but I guess not.
That’s fine with me. After living out of a backpack for months on end and never really getting any time for myself, strolling around a quaint but quiet hostel is a pleasure.
I end up back at the reception desk where a girl with shiny, poker-straight, chocolate brown hair is sipping some lemon drink. I get major hair envy over anyone with straight strands.
“Buongiorno,” the girl says with a smile—and an American accent—once she notices I’m there. Then she recognizes me from check-in earlier. “I mean, hello. Amber, right? From San Francisco?”
“San Jose,” I correct her, finding her easy to talk to already. I’ve always been a fairly quiet girl but that changed real quick once I started traveling by myself. “Listen, I was just wondering . . . well, I mean, I know you work here, right?”
She nods. “I hope so, otherwise I’ll be in a lot of trouble.”
“Right. I was just wondering, how did that happen?”
“Oh,” she says and leans back in her stool. I notice how sun-browned her skin is and gather she must have been in Italy, or at least some place warm, for a long time. She breaks into a wide smile. “It’s kind of a long story.”