Where Sea Meets Sky(19)

“So what are your plans?” Tibald asks me after he goes over their route in detail.

I shrug and take a sip of my beer. “I’m staying at the backpackers here for a few more days and then . . . I dunno.”

Tibald laughs. “You’re serious? No plans, nowhere you want to go?”

“Nope.”

“Milford Sound, Mount Cook, Lake Taupo, Bay of Islands, Abel Tasman? None of those places tickle your fancy?”

“There will be no tickling,” I tell him.

“So why are you here?” he asks.

I pause before I gulp down the rest of my beer. Why am I here? Wasn’t I still in the process of figuring it out?

Aware that the Germans are all staring at me, waiting for my answer, I say, “I just figured it was something I should do.”

“I see,” Tibald says, leaning back in his chair. “Just get here and figure out the rest later.”

“Something like that.”

“And you don’t know anyone here? You randomly picked New Zealand?”

I tilt my head, considering the question. My eyes quickly dart over to him and he slowly nods, smiling.

“You do know someone. Who is she?”

Now Schnell has perked up, seemingly more interested in my nonexistent story.

“Who said anything about a she?” I ask, but I realize I don’t want to pretend anymore. These guys are strangers but that makes it easier. I sigh and then launch into everything about Gemma.

When I’ve finished, the three of them look impressed, like, Hey this guy is actually a dedicated stalker. I must make them feel better about themselves.

“Are you going to go see her?” Michael asks.

I shake my head. “No. Like I said, I don’t even know her last name and she was right, there are a million Gemmas here, at least on Facebook.”

“But you know where she works.”

“Not really. I forgot the name. She just said an Australia rugby player, or ex-rugby player, owns it, has a chain of them or something.”

Suddenly Michael is on his phone, Googling something. “Murphy’s Gym?” he asks, looking up at me. “There’s an Australian rugby player, Nick Murphy, who used to play for the Wallabies. He owns a gym here called Murphy’s Gym. Could that be it?”

He slides the phone over to me and I stare at the smug face of Nick Murphy on the website’s home page. His neck is thick, his blond hair buzz-cut and he has the body of a meathead. I quickly scroll through, trying to find out if Gemma works there, but her name isn’t listed as one of the personal trainers.

“I don’t know,” I say warily. “It doesn’t seem like the place. I mean, she’s not listed as working there.”

“Well, maybe stuff happened between then and now,” Tibald says. “We should all go there tomorrow and see. It’s in Mission Bay, not too far from here.”

I feel sick. Must be the jet lag. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say.

“Sure it is,” Tibald says, slamming his beer down. “You’ll have moral support. If she’s there, then, well at least you’ll get to see her again. If she’s not there, we’ll just head to the beach anyway. It’s sweet-as there.” He slurps the foam off the sides of the beer and gives me a look. “You know what ‘sweet-as’ means, right?”

“A weird way of saying awesome?” I ask. He nods and I sigh. My heart has been racing for the last minute. “I don’t really need moral support, you know. I mean . . . I don’t even know you guys.”

“Sure you do,” Tibald says. “That’s the beauty of traveling. Haven’t you caught on yet? There are no strangers here, just friends you haven’t met yet.”

I roll my eyes. “How cliché.”

“We only learn the clichés in Germany.” He grins then raises his beer. “Here is to tomorrow and Josh’s first night in New Zealand. Prost!”

Well, I have to prost to that.



When I wake up the next morning I literally have no idea where I am. I’m facedown on the scratchy carpeted floor. I can hear two people snoring on and off, like dueling piano players from hell. My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow and my nostrils are filled with the odor of stale beer.

Cautiously, knowing my brain is about to explode from dehydration, I raise my head. I’m in the backpackers. I’m in Auckland, New Zealand. I have the worst hangover of my life.

Tibald is passed out in his clothes on top of his sleeping bag. Schnell is snoring in his bed, but he’s all turned around and his feet are on the pillow. Michael is snoring on my bed, having fallen asleep on top of the wrong bunk. Why am I on the floor? I have no idea but it doesn’t bode well for my first morning in this country.