Roadside Attractions

One

TORONTO, ON

Never trust a man who writes you poetry.

Because eventually, after four straight years of showering you with lyrical prose and promises of forever, he’ll leave you with nothing but shitty words.

day, without warning, you’ll come home from work to a half-empty apartment, only to find his collection of T.S. Eliot missing from the bookshelves you share. His countless leather-bound journals and fancy ballpoint pens? Gone. His turtleneck sweaters? Those will be gone too.

In their place, you’ll find nothing but a handwritten letter on the kitchen table.

Four years, reduced to nothing but pen and ink.

It’s been two days since I found it—the letter. Really, it was more of a note, scribbled down on a piece of lined paper from one of the aforementioned journals . Apparently, even to a self-proclaimed lover of the written word, our relationship wasn’t worth more than a few sentences .

Stella,

I’ve enjoyed my time with you, but I think it’s best if we close this chapter. I need to find myself, see new places. You understand. You’ll always be the brightest star in my sky.

Roman

P.S. Don’t text.

The juxtaposition between you’ll always be the brightest star in my sky and don’t text is laughable.

If there’s one thing a man will always have, it’s the audacity.

Like the calm, level-headed woman I am, I destroyed the note after reading it, ceremoniously holding the page up to a lighter. I watched the words burn, then tossed it into my kitchen sink. It was supposed to be cathartic—it set off my smoke detector instead. But despite my best efforts, I can still picture those words perfectly, as if they’ve been tattooed behind my eyelids.

Before Roman, I’d always considered myself fiercely independent—maybe to a fault. I’d grown accustomed to looking out for myself in every circumstance because I knew nobody else ever would.

Romantic companionship was hardly a priority. My world was made up of routines and structure, perfectly crafted so that when it came down to it, I wouldn’t need anyone else. I’d spent most of my life laying down brickwork and building it into a wall that was meant to be impenetrable. I had my best friend, Noor, and that had been enough for me.

But Roman Prescott had managed to break through.

Four years ago, when we first met at age twenty-two, he was determined to be the one to change my ways. I was the cynical challenge for the hopeless romantic. He wormed his way under my skin, winning me over with charming smiles, notes left in my backpack, and winks sent my way across the university quad.

Roman was a big fan of grand gestures. When he finally asked me out, it was with a bouquet of wildflowers he’d handpicked himself, in front of my entire economics class. And after we’d been seeing each other for a while, he sent me on a scavenger hunt around the city, where the prize was him asking me to be his girlfriend.

Miraculously, it worked. Something about him thawed my frozen heart, no matter how much I tried to resist it. And that makes all of this so much worse. After everything he did to get us to this point, why would he leave me like that? He was the one who relentlessly pursued me. He was the one who suggested we move in together. He was the one who started talking about forever.

I was doing perfectly fine before he came along and ruined everything.

Something snaps between my fingers and jolts me back into reality. It takes me a second to remember I’m at the office, hours after the work day was supposed to end, and another second to realize the snap was me breaking my pen from gripping too hard. Black ink pools all over my hand.

“Ugh,” I mutter, grabbing a tissue from the box on my desk, hoping to save my pencil skirt from the line of fire.

After dabbing as much ink as I can, I douse my hands in sanitizer and glance out the window, to the buzz of the busy Toronto street below. We’re just hitting golden hour, sunlight reflecting off the windows of the skyscrapers, basking the inside of the office with warm, yellow light. It’s a Friday evening in early summer, and the city breathes with life, bursting from the seams. The park across from the office has attracted a crowd of evening sunbathers and scattered games of frisbee golf. It’s funny how green grass and sunny skies are enough to reignite people with the will to live after a cold, hard winter.

Most people in my age bracket are probably heading out to get a start on their weekend, but I’ve always been a hermit, something that’s proving to be trickier post-Roman. Suddenly home is far from my favourite place to be. Which is why, hours after all my colleagues have gone home, I’m still here. Just me and the custodian, who’s vacuuming out in the hallway.

I was lucky enough to get a job at a marketing firm like Coates they’re both full of shit. And now that our mutual connection has been severed, I see no reason to continue our acquaintanceship.

“Whatever you say, Moore,” he concedes, just as the bartender deposits my plate of tacos on the counter. I grab them, moving to head back upstairs before he smoothly steps into my way.

It’s the first time I’ve actually looked at him tonight. This close, I have to crane my neck to get the full scope. His stubble has grown darker since the last time I saw him, but everything else feels the same—the thick brows, eyes so brown they’re nearly black, angular face, and dark waves that always manage to look like he just ran his fingers through them. I think that’s the most annoying part—the fact that he’s the level of attractive that feels like a constant punch to the gut. His outer appearance does far too well at masking the little dipshit below the surface.

Wyatt bends his head, narrowing his eyes and scrutinizing my face. I frown, leaning away from him, trying to ignore the burn in my cheeks. “Can you move?”

“We were having a conversation.”

“Go talk to a wall.” I make another attempt to sneak past him, but he doesn’t budge. I huff out a breath of annoyance. “What do you want?”

“Why are you here?” he asks simply.

“Am I not allowed to be? I didn’t realize you had a monopoly over Tricky Trixie’s. ”

“I haven’t seen you here in years.” He pauses, tilting his head. “I can only assume Roman’s absence is screwing with your mind as much as it is mine.”

My skin prickles. “If this is you attempting to have a heart-to-heart with me, it’s not going to work.”

“How about a toast, then?” he counters, holding up his Budweiser ceremoniously. “Fuck that guy.” He takes a generous sip as if to emphasize his point.

At that, my interest is piqued, eyebrows raising. “Damn, did he dump you too?” I tease. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you insult him.”

Wyatt shoots me a sardonic smile. “Yeah, well, it’s easy to insult someone who stole from me and then left the province.”

I freeze, though my heart begins to race, a string of questions eager to burst from my lips. “Hold on—he stole from you? And you know where he is?”

He laughs shortly and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Roman owes me a fuck-ton of money.” He flashes me the screen. “And the dumbass forgot to stop sharing his location with me.”

I step closer, eyes widening as I peer at the black-and-white contact photo of Roman, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, currently smack-dab in the middle of Manitoba. It doesn’t feel real, like there’s no way he could actually be there. After the note, I figured he’d be in Europe, not twenty hours away in the next province over. Since when does “finding yourself” mean going to the middle of nowhere?

Roman has never shared his location with me, but then again, I never thought to ask. Knowing that he’s shared it with Wyatt all this time casts a sliver of doubt in my brain, like more pieces are missing from this puzzle.

“What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry, do you not remember blocking my number?” Wyatt stares at me as though I’ve grown another head. “I couldn’t exactly reach you.”

The infamous blocking. How could I forget? Back when Roman and Wyatt were roommates, I’d gone over to their place to see the former, only to find the latter scantily clad on the living room sofa, limbs tangled with a beautiful brunette. If he’d done his job and put a sock on the door, I could’ve skipped the trauma of seeing Wyatt Song mid-fuck. He’d covered himself with a blanket and followed me out, trying to apologize, but I was already permanently scarred. And when it happened again with another woman one month later—in the kitchen that time—I'd promptly blocked him after receiving his apology text.

“That explains why my life has been so peaceful until now.”

“Anyway.” Wyatt smiles sharply. “He’s a piece of shit. And I’m going to track his sorry ass down. He doesn’t deserve to get away with this.”

“You’re following him?”

Wyatt nods. “Leaving tomorrow morning. I have to assume where he’s at now isn’t his final destination, and he probably won’t stay there for much longer.”

I narrow my eyes, skeptical. “So, what, you’re seriously going to put everything on pause to trail him indefinitely? That’s a little extreme, even for someone with no life.”

“Ouch. Sometimes I forget how bitey you can be,” he remarks, though his eyes light up as he leans against the wall next to the stairs. “Roman needs to learn a thing or two about actions having consequences, and I’m more than happy to teach him. I’ve had enough of his bullshit.”

“That. . . might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I conclude, though I have to admit, I feel a twinge of jealousy at his spontaneity and brazen attitude.

“Judge me all you want,” he says simply, lifting his hands. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I make Roman cough up my money and then be rid of him forever.”

Pursing my lips, I study his face. I mistook the look in his eyes for humour earlier, but it’s very clearly rage. It should be comforting to know it’s not just me Roman left behind. Instead, it only makes me more pissed off. What kind of person abandons their girlfriend and their longest friend?

I’m tempted to ask more questions. Did Wyatt notice anything different about Roman before he left? Was he as blindsided as I was? How much did Roman even steal?

But no—Roman Prescott has already consumed too much of my mental energy. I need to move on. I need to forget him, the way he’s so easily able to forget me. Letting myself get this angry feels like giving him too much power. I step back, lifting my plate a little higher as if to toast Wyatt, feeling a small flicker of respect. “Well, good luck with that. Give him hell.”

“I plan to. Wanna come along?”

I nearly choke. “With you? Never.”

“Suit yourself.”

This time, he lets me side-step him, and I head back up the stairs to safety. I try to banish all thoughts of Roman and revenge from my brain, but I can’t stop picturing his smiling face in the centre of bum-fuck Manitoba. My limbs feel rigid as I settle in next to Noor again.

For the rest of the night, I stew on Wyatt’s words, his fury. Maybe his plan isn’t so ridiculous. He’ll undoubtedly have the element of surprise on his side. And God knows what I wouldn’t give to make Roman feel even an ounce of the pain he’s made me feel.

Then again, what the hell am I thinking? If I were to start writing a “Worst Ideas Ever” list, following my ex-boyfriend would be at the top. I shouldn’t get involved. Roman has wasted so much of my time. The last thing I want to give him is more of it.

But then, as we go to leave and I open my wallet to pay for our tab, I notice the empty slot inside for the first time, and it’s like a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head.

That fucker stole my credit card.