“Where you going?” Josh asks.

“You’ll find out later,” I tell him with a smile. I walk to the back door of the house near our bedroom and find his sketchbook. I tear a piece of blank paper out of it, pick up the pastels and some old book about New Zealand trees to use as a hard surface, and go back outside.

I walk to the edge of the lawn and jump down into sand below, then make my way along the beach, fine white sand at my feet. Further down, by the holiday park, there are people gathered, the hāngi pit starting to smoke, the air filling with the smell of burning manuka wood. I go the opposite way, rounding the corner of low, red clay cliffs and find an isolated pocket of beach with stunning views of the neighboring rocks and islands.

I think about what my grandfather has said.

I think about what my mother has said.

I think about what Josh has said.

And I start to paint.

New Year’s Eve has always been a big deal in my family. In fact, I think it’s a big deal to every Kiwi, and not in the same way it is elsewhere in the world. Our New Year is about being with family and enjoying the summer. It’s a weeklong event where people holiday at family baches and barbecue a lot of food, not just a one-night stand, as it seems to be elsewhere in the world.

At that, I look over at my one-night stand. He’s sitting on a log with Auntie Shelley and one of our neighbors, Jono, the lanky fellow who runs the campground and likes to take tourists out for bushwalks. Josh is laughing hard at something Jono has said, and Aunt Shelley leans over to smack Jono on the shoulder.

It’s dark, the stars are out, and the fire flickers and flames. We ate the hāngi a couple of hours ago, and as usual, it was delicious. It’s not just the fact that we used high-quality meats and vegetables but the fact that it’s such a process, such an event shared by many people, that makes it taste so good.

Josh seemed to love it. He ate everything he could before going back to drinking with my grandfather. It’s almost midnight now, but if it’s like any other year, we probably won’t notice it’s the new year until after the fact. No one here counts down. We just enjoy being with each other and slide into the next year that way.

Josh catches me staring at him. I was supposed to grab a beer from one of the chilly bins and come right back but I’ve been taking my time. I want to slow down. Time is going way too fast.

He excuses himself from between Auntie Shelley and Jono and strides over to me.

“Hey handsome,” I say and can’t stop myself from grinning. Even in the firelight, he steals my breath.

“Hi beautiful,” he replies, grabbing my hand and a beer. “Care to join me on a walk? I heard you like long romantic walks on the beach.”

He waggles his eyebrows in an overexaggerated manner and grabs my hand.

We walk away from the robust crowd until the firelight begins to dim and their voices fade. Occasionally you can still hear Uncle Robbie laugh. We go along the edge of the water, the waves gently lapping. Stars reflect on the bay. We don’t talk but we don’t need to.

I feel him in every part of me. I feel like we’re saying enough with each breath we take in, with the way we squeeze each other’s hand. We walk past our house and to the little cove I was at earlier in the day, when I sat down and made a pastel painting of the bay. It still hums with my creative energy, like it was waiting for me to return.

Someone in the far, unseen distance yells “Happy New Year!” and the sky behind us lights up with a few cheap fireworks.

“Happy New Year,” he says, pulling me toward him and planting a long, lingering kiss on my lips. It’s hot. The sand on our bare feet is cool. The sky is alive with light. The horizon is black.

I murmur it back to him, lost in his kiss, in the heat of his embrace.

“I was thinking,” he says when he finally pulls away. From the way he cups my face and the earnestness of his words, my pulse kicks up a notch.

“Yes?” I ask with shaky breath.

“Maybe . . .” he trails off and looks away.

“What?” I ask, even though I think I’m afraid to hear the answer.

“I don’t want to leave.”

I exhale and smile. “I don’t want you to leave either.”

“So what if I don’t?”

My smile falters. “I don’t understand.”

“What if I don’t go. What if I stay here.”

I nearly laugh. “Josh, you can’t. You have school.”

He pulls away briefly, and in the light of the moon I see him run his hand through his hair. “I know I do. I know. I just . . . Gemma. I can’t leave you. If I can think of a way to stay, to make this work, I will.”

I feel like there’s a brick lodged in my throat. He can’t stay here for me. I’m not worth it. He must know that, he must know the kind of person I am.

“Why would you do that?” I ask. “Why . . . I give you nothing. I’m just this girl . . . you deserve someone else, someone . . . better. Anyone.”

“Gemma.”

I manage to swallow. “What?”

“I’m in love with you.”

Those words. Those words still my heart. They reach into my chest and make a fist. I can’t breathe. I feel too much that it numbs me. The sharp stab of happiness sinks into me like a blade, but it’s the blood, the aftermath, that makes me so incredibly scared.

“Did you hear me?” he asks quietly. He comes over and slips a hand to the base of my neck, holding me gently. I can see the moon reflected in his eyes as he peers down at me, trying to see the parts I’m trying to hide. “I love you.” His voice is gruff and so heartfelt that it’s almost like he’s putting his heart in my hands. “I love you.”