Roadside Attractions

Three

TORONTO, ON

We’re not even out of the city when the bickering begins.

To our credit, prior to the bickering, most of our time together had been spent in silence. After loading our bags into Wyatt’s beat up 2005 Toyota RAV4, we were immediately met with mid-morning Toronto traffic. Now, we’re stuck crawling along at a snail’s pace.

I feel restless as we hit red light after red light, and the playlist of increasingly grating punk rock music is not helping. On what feels like the fortieth song about being sixteen and melodramatic, I reach forward to change it, unable to take it anymore.

But I don’t get far before Wyatt’s hand snaps out, blocking the stereo. I jump in my seat. “Hey! Not so fast,” he chides.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, trying to settle my heart rate. “What’s your problem?”

“You haven’t been granted stereo privileges,” he says simply, returning his hand to the steering wheel.

I run a hand through my hair, agitated. The car creeps forward. “I’m supposed to just accept that your music taste never advanced beyond middle school?”

“All right, rule number two: you’re not allowed to slander my music choices.”

“Can’t we find something we both enjoy?”

Wyatt snorts. “Does such a thing even exist?”

“At this point, I’d take something that doesn’t make me feel like my ears are about to start bleeding.”

His eyebrows pull together. “Morbid imagery.”

It feels odd to be in Wyatt’s car. Intimate. He’d made an attempt to clear things out after I insisted on joining him, but there’s still leftover garbage from past takeout meals and random Wyatt paraphernalia, like a baseball glove, empty cans of Red Bull, and a couple of hoodies. I’m willing to bet there’s a massive stash of condoms somewhere in here too.

Wyatt side-eyes me in my periphery as the light turns green. “You don’t have to look so disgusted to be sitting in my car, by the way.”

“I don’t look disgusted.”

“Tell that to your face. You look like you’re scared of getting cooties.”

“ Cooties ?” I lift a brow. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” he replies promptly. “Seriously, though. You can at least try to get comfortable. We’ve got a long way to go. You’re not going to contract a disease by being in here.”

I push some of my hair over my shoulder. “Forgive me if Wyatt Song’s sex-mobile isn’t my ideal mode of transportation.”

“Sex-mobile,” he repeats, laughing shortly. “How old are you ?”

“Thirteen.” I flash him a saccharine smile.

“Ha-ha. You’re being awfully judgy for someone who practically begged me to let her tag along,” he points out. “I was looking forward to this time by myself.”

I scoff. “You’re not built to spend time by yourself. I’m sure there’s a woman from Tinder in every major Canadian city right now, just waiting for you to make a pit stop.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Is that a problem for you?”

“How you spend your nights is none of my business,” I respond, holding up my hands. “In fact, I would prefer to know as little as possible. But we kind of have a goal to accomplish here.”

“Hm,” he hums. “Kinda sounds like you want it to be your business.”

“I’ve never wanted anything less,” I remark. “Please, I’m begging you to spare me the details.”

“Are you sure about that? Because you’re the one who brought it up.”

“ Anyway ,” I break in, cheeks heating. “What’s the plan here?”

Wyatt looks away, suddenly very interested in the road, even though we’re stuck at another stoplight. “Plan?” he says lightly.

I raise an eyebrow. “You do have a plan, don’t you?”

He pauses, reaching up to adjust the bill of his ball cap. “I’m not really what most people would call a planner.”

My blood pressure begins to rise. “Are you what anyone would call a planner?”

He quickly side-eyes me. I let out a breathy scoff, feeling like I’ve entrusted a toddler to guide me. I angle toward him in my seat, holding out my hand to demonstrate his list of wrongdoings.

“So you haven’t thought about where we’ll stop for gas, where we’ll sleep tonight, what time we’ll leave tomorrow, or what we’ll do when we find Roman?”

“Nope,” he replies. I feel my eye twitch. “I’ll remind you that up until an hour ago, there was no we . This was supposed to be a solo road trip, and I’m more of a ‘go with the flow’ kind of guy.”

I laugh once. “Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me.” I pull out my phone and open my search engine. “How far do you expect to drive today? I’ll book us a hotel.”

“Moore,” he says. “We can’t exactly make concrete plans when we have a moving target.”

“Unless he suddenly starts moving backwards, we can at least plan a little bit,” I push. “When do we need to stop for gas?”

Wyatt sighs, leaning his head back against the seat. “I don’t know, in a couple hours?”

“Okay, and where are we stopping for the night?”

“I’m not gonna know until we get there. I don’t think you should book anything.”

I blink at him, lowering my phone. “What if wherever we end up has no place to stay?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“I’d feel a lot better if we made a solid plan and figured out our expenses so that—”

“Look, I know your whole thing is being ‘excessively prepared,’” he points out, removing a hand from the wheel to do finger quotes, “but this isn’t like that meticulous trip to Grand Bend you planned for Roman’s birthday last year. You ran that shit like it was the Navy. This is different. We don’t know where we’re going or how long we’ll be there. You’re gonna have to be a little more easy-going.”

My heart begins to beat faster. “You know I don’t work like that.”

He gives me a dubious look. “Try. Unless you’d like me to take you back home.”

If there’s a type that doesn’t even relax unless it’s been previously pencilled into their schedule way in advance, I’m definitely that. Going on a trip with no plan, no destination, and no idea how long I’ll be gone makes me want to pull out each of my hairs individually. I’ve dealt with enough spontaneity with my mother over the years. Moving house on a whim because we couldn’t pay rent, underprepared camping trips with her boyfriend of the week, having her gambling buddies spend the night on our couch. I don’t do well with having a lack of control over my circumstances.

But if the alternative is setting aside my pride, giving up on getting payback, and having Wyatt drop me home, I guess I have to suck it up.

“You look a little queasy,” Wyatt observes.

“Just remembered that I’m in the sex-mobile.”

He lets out a startled laugh. “You know, you have quite the impression of me,” he states, and I catch an undertone of curiosity in his words. “What kind of lies did Roman feed you?”

“I saw enough with my own eyes,” I tell him pointedly. “But Roman did supplement that information. ”

“And? What did he say?”

I blow out a breath, sifting through my dossier of Wyatt knowledge. I’d seen him around campus before Roman and I started dating—he’d always seemed like the stereotypical Casanova, romancing a new girl every week, charming the pants off all the professors. I can remember him sitting in the quad, golden light making locks of his black hair look coffee brown, lounging on a picnic blanket with a blushing beauty he’d be rid of shortly thereafter, despite how taken with her he’d looked. And as we got to know each other, I witnessed the parade of girls he brought to parties, board game nights, and group outings. I could hardly keep track of them. Roman had always claimed it was just his nature, something that would never change.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I say, as we reach the end of the traffic—thank fuck. “You’ve never had a real girlfriend, you rarely sleep with the same woman twice, you’re scared shitless of commitment, you jump into bed with anyone who gives you the time of day. Should I keep going?”

“Yikes,” he replies, face impassive. “That makes me sound awful.”

“It certainly doesn’t make you sound good.” I tilt my head, watching him carefully. “Am I wrong?”

His lips pull upward in a half-smile, ignoring my question. “I have to say, you seem very concerned with my sex life, Moore. That’s the third time you’ve brought it up.”

My whole body goes up in flames. I’m immediately thankful for the melanin in my skin—shoutout to my half-Jamaican heritage, thanks Mom—as it’s typically hard for the untrained eye to notice when I blush. If I were any lighter, I’m sure there would be a sweep of crimson from my hairline to my collarbone.

“You are severely overestimating my level of interest,” I say, working to keep my voice even.

“Am I?”

Pursing my lips, I reach for my bag, pulling out the case for my wireless earbuds. I’ve officially had enough of this. “Fine, if you won’t let me touch the music, I’ll listen to my own. ”

“That wasn’t a very subtle subject change.”

I pretend I don’t hear him, popping the earbuds into my ears.

“While we’re on the topic, I’m extremely curious about the logistics of this sex-mobile—”

“ Please stop talking.”

“—do the girls use something like the Bat-Signal, or am I just finding them on my own?”

“I’m not listening to you,” I say, pointing at the earbuds with one hand and starting up my audiobook with my other.

Wyatt makes a vain attempt to suppress his shit-eating grin.

As the narrator of the audiobook in my ear sets the scene for a grisly murder, I question what I’ve gotten myself into. We’ve still got at least another twenty-two hours in the car, and that’s if Roman stays in one place.

If not, who knows how long we’ll be stuck together?

?

I would’ve thought it impossible, but somehow, I manage to fall asleep in the car.

Apparently, spending the whole night tossing and turning tends to catch up on a girl. Much to my chagrin, I dream about my ex-boyfriend. In the dream, I find Roman, wherever he is, and as I predicted to Noor, I yell at him.

He laughs in my face, so I punch him in his.

And then I shoot awake, inhaling sharply.

It takes several moments of disoriented blinking for me to take in my surroundings. The road winds ahead of me, the voice of the audiobook narrator speaks gently into my ears, and Wyatt sits in the driver’s seat. The light outside has changed, the morning sun waning into late afternoon. According to the clock on the dashboard, I was out for over four hours.

Movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Wyatt looking at me, his lips moving. I hastily pause the audiobook, popping out an earbud. “Bad dream?” he repeats.

“Understatement,” I mutter, massaging my temple with my free hand.

“Shame that it woke you up,” Wyatt quips. “I was enjoying the peace and quiet.”

I blink slowly, looking around the vehicle as if caffeine will materialize in front of me. “Mm,” I mumble, not fully awake yet.

He peers at me. “You didn’t even wake up when I stopped for gas.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I say defensively. Though honestly, I’m surprised. I’ve always been a light sleeper, jolted awake by the slightest noise or movement, so this is kind of embarrassing. Being perceived when you’re sleeping is bad enough, but it’s even worse when you’re truly knocked the fuck out.

I reach for my phone, fighting off a yawn. “Let me pay for half. I can e-transfer you.”

Wyatt waves his hand. “Just get it the next time.” He pauses, fingers flexing on the wheel, then adds, “I got snacks.”

Without meeting my eyes, he reaches into the backseat, produces a plastic bag, and dumps it in my lap gently. I side-eye him, then peer inside. There are several small bags of chips, chocolate bars, trail mix, candy, and protein bars. He also purchased a couple bottles of water and two pre-made iced coffees.

“Oh,” I say, a little stunned.

“I can’t remember what you like,” he says gruffly. “And you weren’t awake, so. . .”

Part of me is kind of touched that he let me sleep, that he bought snacks for us to share. But the other part of me remembers who I’m dealing with.

“Thanks,” I say genuinely, though I do feel uncomfortable. Wyatt being a decent human kind of throws a wrench in our dynamic. “Just let me know what I owe you.”

I opt for the vanilla cold brew, eager for caffeine in whatever form I can get. It’s my favourite brand, but there’s no way Wyatt would remember that. Happy coincidence. I’ve just gotten the top open when a gut-wrenching sputtering sound causes me to flinch, nearly spilling the drink all over myself. My eyes widen as the vehicle jerks, continuing to wheeze like it’s coughing up a lung.

I shoot Wyatt a look. “What the hell is that? ”

His features pull together in anguish. “ Fuck .”

Seconds later, smoke rises from the hood.

Wyatt groans miserably, turns on his signal light, and pulls onto the shoulder of the highway. He parks, turns the car off, and faces me with a bitter smile. “You see, Moore? This is why we don’t make plans. You never know what the road will throw in your goddamn face.”

I hate to admit it, but I see his point.

Six hours into our road trip, and we’re officially stranded in the middle of nowhere.