Roadside Attractions

Four

MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, ON

As the sun begins to dip toward the horizon, Wyatt pries open the hood of his Toyota, waving the smoke out of his face to peer at the engine. I maintain a safe distance, standing closer to the treeline on the edge of the highway.

“Is it going to explode?” I ask.

“ No , Stella, it’s not going to explode.”

Over the past ten minutes, I’ve been reminded of Wyatt’s obsession with his car. He’s had the damn thing since he was a teenager, and has clearly formed an emotional bond with it. I’ve never seen him this agitated. With how desperate he is to diagnose the problem, you’d think he’s just been told some horrible news about a loved one, and he’s in denial of the severity of the situation.

Despite his assurance that the Toyota won’t spontaneously combust, I take another step backward. The air is sticky and hot, the sun a few hours past its peak. A fly buzzes near my face, and I wave it away impatiently.

Ugh .

I’m probably the furthest you could get from an outdoorsy person, and it feels even more apparent when standing near Wyatt. The difference in our attire is almost comical. With his army-green cargo shorts and cream-coloured ball cap, he looks like he’s ready to embark on a week-long camping trip. Meanwhile, I look like I just came out of Aritzia in my Wilfred tank top.

I pull out my phone to check the time. It’s been fifteen minutes since I called the tow truck; judging by their estimate, they should arrive relatively soon. My eyes fall back on Wyatt. His brows are pulled together in the late afternoon light, and his shoulders are tense.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” I ask, skeptical.

He waves a hand in my direction as if to silence me, and I stifle an eye-roll. Men have such big egos about their cars, and their (in)ability to fix them. After several more beats of gazing under the hood hopelessly, Wyatt slams it shut with a mighty sigh, ripping off his ball cap to drag a hand through his hair. He stalks a little ways down the road, back in the direction of the car, then does it all over again.

“You okay there, sport?” I ask slowly after his third repetition.

“I’m having the best day of my life,” he says. “Clearly. Don’t know why you’d even ask. Everything is sunshine and roses.”

“All right, then.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Forget I asked.”

To my surprise, this seems to be what makes him slow to a stop, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He leans against the passenger’s side of the car, facing me while I continue to stand at the treeline.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, shocking me once again. “I’m just frustrated.”

“The car breaking down is out of your control, Wyatt.”

“I know, but it sets us back. It’ll take even longer to catch up to him now.”

Pursing my lips together, I abandon my position of safety, taking tentative steps toward the car until I’m leaning against it, a couple feet away from Wyatt. Another car whirs past, as several have so far, but nobody seems to pay us any mind .

“Do you know where he’s going?” I ask, watching his face closely.

“I have a hunch,” he admits, eyes darting to mine briefly, before jumping away again. “He always talked about moving to Tofino someday.”

News to me.

I always pictured Roman settling down somewhere more stereotypically romantic, like Amsterdam, or a small town in Switzerland. And if he were going to stay somewhere in Canada, I would’ve assumed Montreal would be the best bet. A small, surfing town on Vancouver Island doesn’t match up with the image of himself he showed me the past four years.

Apparently, my silence is telling.

“You didn’t know that?” Wyatt asks, eyebrows raising.

I bite the inside of my cheek, averting my gaze. “I’m starting to gather that there’s a lot I didn’t know about Roman. Or a lot that I didn’t see.”

Wyatt nudges a small rock with his shoe, seemingly unsure what to say.

“Why Tofino?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, really. I don’t think he’s ever surfed a day in his life. My best bet would be because of the tourists. He’s always loved meeting new people, but he gets bored of them easily. Doesn’t let most people stick around long enough to see the real Roman. Honestly, I’m surprised the two of you lasted as long as you did.” He pauses before his eyes slide back to mine, studying me curiously. “There was something different about you.”

The words hit me oddly in the chest, and I’m unsure how to take them. “But not different enough ,” I conclude.

His expression softens. “Don’t say that.”

An unexpected lump forms in my throat at his sympathetic tone. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Wyatt opens his mouth to respond, but the rumbling of the tow truck cuts our conversation short before he can answer me.

?

Minutes later, we’re crammed together in the truck.

Wyatt opted to sit in the middle next to Marty, the driver, so I’m pressed against the car door with my purse on my lap and my knees tucked tightly together. Wyatt’s legs are ridiculously long, leaving little room for anything else, and I try not to think about the fact that our thighs are currently touching, thankful I chose to wear a pair of pants today, rather than the romper I’d been eyeing. In such close proximity, there’s no escape from his woodsy cologne, and I hate to admit it, but I like the smell.

Sade’s Kiss of Life plays on the spotty radio station Marty picked—an objectively good song, but in this case, it’s the equivalent of awkward elevator music. The harmonies cut in and out as we wind down the road, heading toward the closest town: Blind River, according to Marty. At any rate, I’d gladly take this music over Wyatt’s song choices. The lush green trees turn into blurs as we speed past them, backed by the steadily waning sunlight.

Wyatt looks awkward and boyish in the middle seat, unsure of what to do with his hands without a steering wheel to hold. He fidgets with his fingers, twiddles his thumbs, adjusts his ball cap. It’s kind of entertaining to witness.

“We’re not going to make it to Jim’s before he closes up shop for the night,” Marty explains. He has a habit of looking at us every time he talks, taking his eyes off the road in a way that makes me incredibly nervous. “I’ll drop your car off, and you can leave your keys in the Dropbox. I’ll give him a shout to let him know what’s up.”

I exhale slowly, trying to focus on not melting into a pool of sweat. Marty’s truck does not have air conditioning. I’m beginning to worry that I’ll need a crowbar to separate myself from Wyatt once we reach our destination. Wanting to avoid that nightmare, I crank my window down. Immediately, I regret it, because now I have to focus on not letting my hair blow into Wyatt’s face.

“You guys picked a good place to break down,” Marty continues, raising his voice to be heard over the rush of wind coming through my window. “This area is beautiful! There’s lots to do if you’re stuck for a few days. Hiking, canoeing, fishing, you name it. And you’re here just in time for Blues Fest.”

“That all sounds lovely, but I hope that won’t be the case,” Wyatt says lightly.

Marty gives us a helpless look, lifting a shoulder. “You may not have a choice, pal. I took a look at your engine, and I’d bet my bottom dollar you’re gonna need a replacement part that might need to get ordered in. Could take a day or two.”

My mouth pulls into a perma-scowl.

We don’t speak for the rest of the ride, which is only about another twenty minutes, until we reach the sleepy town of Blind River. I catch glimpses of Lake Huron through the trees, sparkling beneath the golden sunlight. Marty unloads the Toyota at the automotive shop, and we grab our things from the trunk. Wyatt leaves the keys in the Dropbox, and then we all pile back into Marty’s truck, securing our bags in the back.

Our next destination is an inn. I feel exhausted as I hop down from the truck, wheeling my suitcase behind me, and Wyatt follows, dragging his feet. After we thank and say goodbye to Marty, paying via e-transfer, we head inside. The air-conditioned lobby is charming and beachy, all pale blues, sandy beiges, and framed seashells on the walls.

I approach the middle-aged woman behind the desk, plastering my friendliest smile onto my face.

“Hi there,” she greets me, matching my smile. Sticking true to the inn’s nautical motif, she wears a blue polo with an embroidered anchor on her front pocket. “What can I do for you folks?”

“Do you have anything available for tonight?” I ask as Wyatt leans on the counter next to me.

“We do,” she chirps brightly. “I can get you two booked into a suite right away.”

Panic sweeps into my chest. I hold up a hand. “Oh, uh, we’ll actually need two rooms.”

The woman, whose name tag reads Carol , pauses, eyes flickering between the two of us, before they widen exaggeratedly. “I’m sorry, I assumed. . . never mind that. I’ll get you set up in another suite.”

As she types away on her computer, Wyatt cocks his head in my direction playfully. “Aw, you don’t wanna share a room with me?”

“No thanks. I’ve already inhaled far too much of your cologne,” I remark.

“Ouch,” Wyatt mutters, then ducks his chin to catch a whiff of himself. “I like this one.”

Carol glances at us, clearly trying to make sense of our dynamic, but she doesn’t comment. The rest of the check-in process goes smoothly, and she provides us with two sets of room keys. After thanking her, we make our way into the elevator, and Wyatt presses the button for the third floor.

“You sure you’re not gonna get too lonely in a room by yourself?”

“I think I can handle it,” I say flatly. “Would it kill you to not be the most annoying person on earth?”

He gives me his trademark impish grin. “Probably, yes.”

I bat my eyelashes at him. “All the more reason to try.”

“That reminds me,” he says, snapping his fingers. “I have something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and digs around before pulling out his hand to flip me the bird.

“Clever,” I say, returning the favour.

The elevator door dings as it slides open, and we exit onto the third floor. Our rooms are across the hall from each other—too close, in my opinion. If we’re going to be stuck here, I would’ve much preferred to be on opposite ends of the inn, only meeting up again when it’s time to leave.

We unlock our respective doors and step into our rooms.

“Bye, Stella,” Wyatt calls, and I look over my shoulder in time to see him flipping me off once more before he closes his door.

A part of my soul dies. I can’t believe this is who I’ve volunteered to spend my time with for the foreseeable future.

When my door falls closed behind me, I can breathe properly for the first time today. I close my eyes for a second, leaning against the door, before depositing my suitcase on the floor and setting my purse on the bed. The room has a musty smell, and the furniture is all from decades ago, but it looks clean and comfortable. I’m surrounded by blue and white pinstripe wallpaper and artificial seashells, paired with a plethora of ocean photography on the walls.

After doing a thorough check for bed bugs, I flop backwards onto the mattress. I breathe deeply, enjoying the quiet.

It only lasts a few seconds before my phone buzzes. I fish it out of my pocket, reading the name on the display. Noor is calling me. I’d texted her earlier to give her an update on what a major failure today has been.

“Hey,” I answer glumly, running a hand through my hair.

“How’s it going?” she asks, voice eager. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “We just got to the inn. The mechanic is closed, so there’s nothing we can do until tomorrow morning.”

“Shit,” Noor says, out of breath. Distantly, I can hear the sounds of the city in the background, and I feel a tug of homesickness. We didn’t even make it very far today, but I still feel worlds away from home. “That’s terrible.”

I let out a half-hearted grunt. “Yeah, not the most ideal way to start our big trip.”

“How’s Wyatt so far?”

“Insufferable, as always,” I tell her, eyes falling closed again. “Please pray for my sanity. He’s going to drive me up the fucking wall.”

“Up the wall,” she says mischievously, “or against it?”

My eyes fly open. I shoot into a sitting position, face flaming. “ What ?”

“I’m just saying!” she says quickly, and I imagine her holding her hands up in defense. “He may be annoying, but he is gorgeous. At least you’ll have something nice to look at when you’re cruising through the flatlands.”

I’m not swayed. I pause, analyzing her tone, the slight slur of her words. “Noor Fadel, are you drunk ? You’re the one who tried to stop me from going on this trip, and now you’re acting like you want me to sleep with him.”

“Guilty as charged,” Noor replies, giggling. “I might be a little hammered. I went to trivia at The Flask, you know how I get. But you have to admit, if you’re looking for a rebound, he’s not a bad option. Roman would lose his mind.”

“He’s not an option at all!” I cry. My eyes flicker to the door, wondering if he can hear me on the opposite side of the hall. I lower my voice and say, “Never in a million years.”

“Fine, fine,” she concedes. “Shack up with one of the locals instead.”

I toy with the ends of my hair, sighing. “Noor, I’m not. . . ready for a rebound. It’s been less than a week.”

“I know,” she says, sympathetic. “I’m just teasing. Take all the time you need. As much as we might totally hate Roman now, you loved him for a long time. I understand that.”

“Yeah,” I say weakly, swallowing. “Yeah, I did. But that’s over now.”

“You can’t magically switch it off, Stells. Go easy on yourself.”

“I’ll try,” I murmur.

We end the call shortly after, and then the room is quiet again, and I’m alone. I used to prefer solitude, until Noor came along and showed me that life doesn’t have to be a solitary experience. And then Roman crash-landed into my world and made me feel like I would never be alone again. Until, of course, he left me.

Being alone feels a lot different now.

I sit on the edge of the bed, gripping my phone, feeling rudderless. My vision blurs, and I try to quell the rise of emotion building inside of me. It doesn’t work, and soon, tears are spilling from their ducts with nothing to stop them. Every time I cry over him, I tell myself it’ll be the last, that I’ll never do it again. But here I am once more, a steady flow of saltwater streaming down my face.

What am I even doing?

Why am I wasting my time going after him?

Hours away from home, the whole situation feels completely ridiculous. Here I am, stranded in a strange town, stuck in an inn with a guy I can’t seem to go two seconds without arguing with, chasing my piece of shit ex-boyfriend.

I barely even recognize myself. This isn’t me .

A knock sounds on the door, saving me from diving headfirst into a pool of self-loathing.

I swipe at my cheeks, sniffling and doing my best to regain my composure as I head to the door. Hauling in a deep breath, I open it.

Wyatt leans against the doorframe, looking down at me. “Hey, neighbour.”

“What?” I say, voice thick.

The smug expression melts away as he takes in my appearance, straightening his posture. His dark eyes dart over every inch of my face, eyebrows furrowing. “Have you been crying?” he asks, softer now.

“No,” I lie. There’s no reason to—we both know the answer is yes.

But he doesn’t call me out, pursing his lips together instead. “Okay,” he says, unconvinced. “Listen. Since we’re stuck here, and it’s basically dinner time, I thought we might as well get something to eat. I saw a burger place down the street on the way here. Interested?”

I want to say no, to stay in my room and wallow, watching whatever shitty movie they have available on cable, but I realize I haven’t truly eaten a proper meal today. The mention of food reminds me that I am indeed hungry. I guess I’ll suffer through more time with Wyatt if it means I get to have some French fries.

“Sure,” I say, sniffling once more.

Wyatt blinks, most likely surprised that I’m being so agreeable.

After plucking my purse from the bed and ensuring I have my room key, I follow Wyatt into the hall. Our footsteps pad on the carpeted floor, but we don’t speak, an air of awkwardness filling the space between us. I assume it’s because he doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he just caught me crying, and I would like nothing more than to move on from it.

As we pass by the front desk, I spot Carol eyeing us, taking note of the way Wyatt holds the exit door open for me, and I cringe internally.

It totally looks like we’re going on a date.