Where Sea Meets Sky(100)

“Let me go,” I say.

“You could make me,” he says, his grip not loosening. “I know you can.”

He’s right. But the truth is, I think his arms are the only thing keeping me upright.

“It’s done,” I say, my chin dipped low, staring at the floor between us. “It happened. I can’t get those paintings back. I was a different person before and I’m a different person now.”

The child is grown, the dream is gone. “Comfortably Numb” plays in my head and I close my eyes.

“But would you do it again?” he asks. His voice sounds larger than life in here. “Or will you destroy something before you have a chance to lose it?”

He’s in my head, he’s in my heart. How did he get in here? There’s an edge to his words, like he knows, like he knows me.

I’m numb, I’m numb, I’m numb.

“Gemma,” he says in a hushed tone and plants a hard kiss on the top of my head. He wraps his arms around me. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to lose your father. If I lost my sister, I don’t know what I’d do. And if I lost the ability to create, the one thing that makes me happy, that would almost be worse. But . . . you have to understand . . . or maybe not . . . but your father won’t stop being your father. And you won’t stop being an artist. You just have to let it out. Don’t think that because time has passed you’re not allowed to grieve anymore.” He pulls back and cups my face in his large hands, peering down at me. “And don’t think that because you can’t paint the way you used to, in the way you deemed as good—the only way—that you can’t create. You’re a different person now, as you say. Your art will be different. You don’t have to stick to the only path you thought possible. There are others. Believe me.”

I stare up at him, letting his words sink in. They’re starting to stick.

Maybe I’m thawing.

I rub my lips together. “What did you want to get from here?”

His brows knit together but he nods, knowing I’m done talking about it. He doesn’t have to know that he’s gotten to me. He pulls away and looks around him. “Well, I was hoping to pick up something other than my watercolor pencils.”

I tap my fingers to my chin, glad to have something else to think about. I walk over to the shelves and bring out a box full of supplies. My hand is shaking a bit but I decide that’s okay. I’m still a bit shaken up over Josh’s words, at the hope in them, at the way he managed to see inside me.

Will you destroy something before you have a chance to lose it?

I rummage through it and bring out black, green, and yellow oil paints. Their caps seem stuck on but they should be all right. I wave them at him. “How about oils? Only three colors, though.”

“Nah,” he says, coming over. “Too serious.” He puts his hand in and pulls out a box of chunky pastels. “Bingo.”

I eye him curiously. “Pastels? You don’t strike me as a pastel kinda guy.”

“I can’t always be emo, can I?” he says with a wink and I laugh. “These are perfect.”

I shrug. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“You float my boat,” he says seductively, and I know we have to get out of here before the air of respect totally disappears.

We go and pack up Mr. Orange. It’s tougher than normal to say goodbye to my mother and Auntie Jolinda. Actually, it’s never been tough before. I would just give them a wave and tell them I’d call them and maybe see them in a few months, and that would be that. I would leave without a second thought. I would feel no loss.

But something is different now. I feel this great link to the land here, to them, to their lives. I don’t want to say goodbye. I’ve grown accustomed to having them around me, having them take care of me, and I’ve never liked or wanted that before.

Being home felt nice. Being home felt like . . . home.

It doesn’t help that my mother has somewhat opened up to me. Or maybe, maybe, it’s that I’ve opened up to her. Maybe we’re meeting halfway now. Either way, I climb into the passenger seat with heavy shoulders. I roll down the window and wave to them as they stand in the driveway. They wave back and I think to myself, I love them.

Then I shake it off and slap the outside of the van door through the rolled-down window, signaling for Josh to drive on. We motor down the road, ready to resume our adventure, just the two of us.

The drive up the East Cape is easy for the first part. We pass through farms and orchards and sunny fields, the highway skirting the endless blue ocean. Just outside of the Mahia Peninsula, we pull off the highway and have lunch sitting by a river. We devour a baguette sliced open and topped with brie and fresh tomatoes sprinkled with sea salt. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten, the sun beating on our backs, cool water at our feet.