Page 26 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Then I’m laughing.
Laughing so hard I can’t stop. Laughing until I’m doubled over on the sidewalk clutching my achy ribs while tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t even know why I’m laughing, other than the almost-getting-smashed-by-a-bicycle endorphins.
“Why are you laughing?” Ben asks, but he’s laughing now, too.
“Because I’m in Iceland!” I exclaim, waving a hand through the air. “Weare in Iceland, Ben. Me. You. Together. In Iceland. It’s absolutely ridiculous!” Then I laugh some more.
“Yeah, guess it is a wild turn of events, huh?” Ben echoes my sentiment but falls quieter.
“A wild turn of events?” I repeat. “I think that’s putting it mildly.”
Ben clears his throat as our laughter floats away, then switches the subject on me. “Your laugh,” he remarks. “It still sounds exactly the same. Just like I remember it.”
“Is that your way of saying I have some annoyingly high-pitched laugh you can’t forget or something?”
“No.” He shakes his head and shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets. “Nothing like that. It’s…nice.”
A streetlight flickers on above us. It’s a little past nine o’clock, but this time of year the sun won’t fully set for another half hour. When we start walking again, it’s a little closer than before, a little slower than before.
But as we part ways for the night at our neighboring hotel doors, Ben turns to me, face partially obscured in the shadows of the dim hallway lighting. “Just so you know, I’m really glad it’s you here with me, Ems.”
With a shy smile, he disappears into his room.
I’m really glad it’s me, too.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Chapter 8
Tip #3 when visiting Iceland:Make sure you’re at least in halfway decent shape PRIOR to departure.
Day two’s schedule is packed full and, frankly, pretty damn intimidating.
Nervous energy creates restless tingles down my arms and legs, my fingers furiously working the zipper on my jacket as we pull into the parking lot of Þingvellir National Park’s visitors’ center, situated at the exposed rift separating the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates.
There are many ways to explore the continental divide: a simple viewing from a lookout point, hiking one of the many trails around and/or between the rift, or—for those adventurous types who want to get their full money’s worth—scuba diving the glacial water of the Silfra fissure between the exposed plates.
Due to time constraints, Suki opted for a simple viewing fromthe lookout point at the visitors’ center—which, thank god, because if I had to put on a wet suit and scuba dive through freezing-cold water into a deep, dark crevice in the earth, I’d probably bail on this entire trip and hop aboard the first flight back to the States. Yes, I want to see the world. No, I don’t want to end up the subject of a Friday-night special edition20/20as a scuba-gone-wrong tourist piece.
I exit the Suzuki, dressed in what I hope is appropriate clothing for the day ahead: wool leggings under lightweight waterproof pants, new hiking boots (not even a tad broken in), thermal long-sleeved T-shirt, fleece-lined raincoat, and wool beanie. I’d decided I’d aced this test when I saw Ben at breakfast wearing the same pieces of attire—his boots scuffed and well-worn—but now that I’m out in the elements, my confidence wanes.
We cross the parking lot toward the welcome center with a gift shop and café, and once inside, we split up. Ben goes out to the viewing area to start taking photos, and I spend a half hour inside soaking in the informative displays and maps of the park.
Despite this being only my second full day in Iceland, I’ve already learned I could spend an entire year here and still not see everything this country has to offer. The tour of the Golden Circle we’ll be doing today is proof of that. We’ve got today only to make the circular trip of Iceland’s famous road chock-full of eye-catching scenery, and though I’ll be the one writing the article forAround the Globe, I’m glad it was Suki who had the responsibility of narrowing down the itinerary. As amazing as it is to be in the only spot in the world where one can view the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates aboveground, Ben and I are still on a time crunch.
After I’ve read the displays and purchased two coffees from the gift shop—hoping Ben still takes his black with just a pinch of sugar (and wondering what it says about me that I still remember this)—I make my way outside and follow the path to the viewpoint overlooking the tectonic plates and hiking trails below. People of all ages line the railing, snapping photos with their cameras and iPhones. I spot Ben off to the far left, away from the crowd, his camera set atop a tripod as he leans in to look through the viewfinder.
“Getting anything good?” I ask, sidling up next to him.
“See for yourself.” He scoots to the side and motions for me to take his place behind the lens. I pass him one of the to-go coffees as I take the spot he vacated. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” I lean in to view the photograph on the display screen and gasp.
The angle of the image showcases the crevice widely in the distance, narrowing in the foreground, creating the illusion the earth is actively splitting in two, the very ground beneath our feet crumbling away at any moment now. Dark, ominous clouds fill the sky above, the sun trying its best to break through the tiny cracks to no avail. Unease sweeps over and through me, and I feel as if I’m getting a private glimpse into Ben’s psyche by viewing the world through his eyes.
“That’s haunting.” Backing away from the camera, I peer up at him. “Your photos are so good no one is even going to read my article.”
“Not true.” He flips a lever on the tripod and slides the camera off, then settles the strap over his shoulder once more. “You’re a fantastic writer, Ems.”
