Roadside Attractions

Seven

BLIND RIVER, ON

Daylight begins to fade, and, after taking a long, hot shower, so does my anger.

I avoid Wyatt for as long as I can, launching into my hair care routine before twisting my curls back into a claw clip. My lengthy skincare regime is up next, and I continue working away at myself until the bathroom smells like citrus instead of lake water, and some of my humiliation melts away.

Despite how much I don’t want to think about Wyatt at all, I find my brain stuck on the image of his eyes on me before he caught himself staring. I pause, biting the inside of my cheek. I’m sure it’s nothing. He’s a heterosexual male who’s always been promiscuous—he’s bound to stare when there’s a waterlogged woman in his vicinity. That being said, the memory feels like a sunburn on my skin, red hot.

I’m blaming Noor for this too. She planted all of these unsavoury ideas in my brain.

I try to distract myself, listening to my audiobook while I hand wash my dress before draping it on the balcony to dry in the last remaining rays of sun. There’s a whirring sound overhead as a plane flies past, and I take a deep breath, feeling refreshed. The air feels so. . . woodsy. I might complain about the heat, and the bugs, and the nature of it all, but I have to admit, being out here feels awfully rejuvenating.

Since we’ll be leaving in the morning, I decide to do a little more exploring. I slip on my sandals and creep down the hallway, as if Wyatt might sense me and come barging out of his room.

Carol is at the front desk, and we exchange polite smiles as I move through the lobby and out of the inn. The temperature has cooled significantly, making it approximately a million times more bearable to be outside. I head to the beach, listening to the cry of the gulls, hoping to catch the sunset.

I’m used to the bustling streets of Toronto, the thrum of a city where there’s always something going on. In Blind River, the activity is sparse, and no one seems to be in a rush, but I think I like it. Aside from that one week of childhood summer camp and failed trips with my mother’s flings, I haven’t spent much time out in the sticks. Back home, all I ever think about is what’s next on my schedule: meetings, emails, presentations, product launches, catch-ups with Noor, Roman. Maybe getting stuck here isn’t such a bad thing after all.

It’s a reminder to take it slow, exhale. Quiet my racing thoughts.

The beach is empty now, and I take a seat on a log bench, staring out at the water, absorbing the sound of the waves lapping against the shore. I close my eyes, attempting to channel my inner zen, or whatever much more level-headed people typically channel.

All is peaceful until my phone vibrates, breaking the spell.

I pull it out of my pocket, expecting Noor. Wrong. It’s my mother. Shit.

Bracing myself, I answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Stells,” she says cheerfully. “What are you up to?”

I wince at the question. Stalking my ex-boyfriend doesn’t feel like a good answer. “Laundry,” I lie smoothly. Technically true? My sundress is drying on the balcony .

“Oh,” she replies. “Well, if you’re not busy, I wanted to invite you and Roman out for dinner. It’s been so long since the three of us caught up.”

Double shit.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Mom—”

“I was thinking we could go to Dahlia,” she continues. “My treat.”

“Mom,” I try again, but she talks over me.

“I know it’s not the fanciest, but Roman liked it the last time we went to Dahlia, didn’t he?” she muses. “I’m sure he did.”

“Mom,” I say, forcefully this time. She stops. “I’m not even in the city right now. We broke up.”

The other end of the line is quiet.

I watch the waves crest, then fall, waiting.

Finally, she sighs, the cheerful act dropped. “Oh, Stella,” she says, sounding weary with disappointment. “What did you do?”

I feel myself bristle. “Nothing.”

“Well, you must have done something ,” she concludes. “He talks about you like the sun shines out of your ass. He wouldn’t break up with you for no reason.”

I exhale sharply. “How do you know he’s not the one that did something? Maybe I broke up with him .”

“Because you’re smarter than that,” she says, sounding irritated. “You know you won’t find someone like him again.”

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I attempt to bring back that calm I was feeling before she called, but rage creeps into my chest like an infection. We’ve always had a strained relationship. She had me too young and by accident, and as a result, I grew up too quickly, surpassing her. But somehow, Roman had made us a little less estranged. She adores him. She tolerates me at best.

Clearly, he’d had both of us fooled.

Despite all this, I can’t deny that her reaction to the news stings, the way she’s immediately taken his side without even asking me—her own daughter—for mine. This is exactly why I haven’t told her sooner. I knew she wouldn’t listen to me.

I breathe out through my nose. Maybe it’s the physical distance between us, or maybe it’s the fact that the breakup has hardened me, but something makes it easier for me to be honest with her.

“Good,” I say shortly. “I hope to God I never meet someone like him again.”

She tuts disapprovingly. “Don’t be dramatic, Stella. Maybe I can talk to him, convince him to give you a second chance.”

I let out an exasperated breath, tempted to run my fingers through my hair before remembering I pulled it back. “Just for the record, Roman didn’t even have the decency to break up with me in person,” I tell her, not bothering to sanitize the truth and make it more palatable. “Instead, he stole from me, and left the province with no warning. All I got was a note.”

Mom hums thoughtfully. “No, that doesn’t sound like him. He wouldn’t do that.”

The words feel like a slap to the face.

I stand up on shaky legs. “Are you serious?”

“Stella,” she chides. “He wouldn’t have done something like that without a reason.”

A humourless laugh bursts from my lips. This conversation is already well past its expiration date. “All right, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Stells—”

She’s mid-sentence when I end the call. I take another few minutes at the beach as night begins to fall, breathing deeply. Only when I feel like I can speak without screaming in frustration do I head back to the inn.

?

I sleep like shit that night, rattled by dreams about Roman and my mother staying close, acting as though I never existed. In the morning, Wyatt knocks a pattern on my door.

He’s remarkably chipper, visibly excited about the impending reunion with his beloved Toyota. I am remarkably sour, unable to shake the agitation left by the phone call with my mother last night and my piss-poor sleep. We are not on the same page .

He clocks my mood instantly. “Morning, sunshine,” he says for the second time, oozing sarcasm.

I grumble something that could pass for a greeting, brushing past him into the hallway, my suitcase wheeling behind me. We still have a few hours before we technically need to check out, but both of us are eager to get back onto the road. It somehow feels like both an eternity, and five minutes since we left Toronto.

“Sure, let’s skip the pleasantries,” he says, trailing behind me, voice echoing off the walls. “Who needs small talk?”

I roll my eyes. My ponytail swings behind me as I walk, heading toward the elevator. It opens immediately upon pressing the down button, already waiting on our floor, so I enter without checking to see if Wyatt has caught up.

He slips in at the last second before the doors close, slightly out of breath. He stares down at me and cocks his head. “You’re even more unpleasant than usual.”

“Wow, nothing gets by you.”

His eyes narrow—it’s the same scrutinizing look he gave me at Tricky Trixie’s, the one that makes me want to cover my face to smother the heat blooming in my cheeks. But I hold his gaze, my hand resting on the extended handle of my suitcase as the elevator whirs quietly, bringing us to the main floor.

“Are you still upset about the canoe?” he asks as the elevator dings, announcing our arrival. “I promise I will never ask you to canoe again as long as I live. Cross my heart.”

The canoe. Ugh.

Images of ice-cold water glistening in the sunlight and Wyatt’s forearms spring to mind. The warmth threatens to spread, until I remember the laughter on his face after I fell overboard. Even though he specifically assured me he wouldn’t laugh.

“Don’t even say that word around me,” I remark as I exit the elevator. “I am officially blacklisting all forms of watercraft from your vocabulary.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, Moore,” he says, his lips quirking upward, keeping pace with me this time. “I’m the only one who saw.”

“ Please stop talking.”

Surprisingly, Wyatt obeys, keeping his mouth shut throughout the entire check-out process. Then, outside, he dutifully scrolls on his phone while we wait for a cab to take us to the mechanic. Above us, thick clouds of grey have rolled in, and the air is heavy with the threat of a downpour. It gives Blind River a starker feel, a contrast to the welcoming atmosphere from yesterday.

The beach is barren as we drive past; it’s as if the whole town has packed up and gone inside. Rain begins to trickle from the sky as we hop out of the cab. Jim hands Wyatt his keys, and we amble toward the Toyota. I never thought I’d be relieved to see it.

Once we hit the road, I feel a tug of longing as Blind River retreats in the rearview mirror. It’s strange to leave a place knowing I’ll likely never visit again. I could’ve done without the whole “falling overboard” thing, but the town certainly has its charms.

I flinch as something drops into my lap. Wyatt’s CD storage case rests on top of my thighs. I blink at him in confusion. “What is this?”

“What does it look like?” he asks, glancing at me, then back at the road. He increases the speed of the windshield wipers as the rain becomes heavier. “Pick something.”

I turn it over slowly in my hands. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch the stereo.”

“I’m making an exception.”

I look down again. “I didn’t even know people still owned CDs.”

“Don’t make me revoke your privileges.”

Clamping my mouth shut, I open the case, examining the discs slotted inside. Somehow, it feels intimate, which is stupid. They’re just CDs. But it feels like a glimpse into Wyatt’s brain—from ten years ago. What a frightening place to be. These are clearly the purchases of a sixteen-year-old boy. I’m unsurprised to see that he has a shit-ton of punk rock music, so I skip over those, looking for something that won’t give me a headache, and that I might even like a little bit.

I finally settle on The Killers, ejecting whatever CD was already in the player and sliding in their debut album. At the sound of the first track starting, Wyatt turns the volume up a few notches, bobbing his head appreciatively.

“Hell yeah,” he says. “She has taste. Who knew?”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek to hold back a smile, remembering the band merch he was wearing yesterday. Stupid.

For the first few songs, we don’t say much. I stare out the window, watching the blur of green, grey, and blue. I text with Noor a bit, letting her know we’re back on the road, en route to Roman. Then Wyatt turns down the music a little.

“Time for a Roman update,” he says. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and passes it to me, unlocking it in the process. “Check his location?”

I take it from him, navigating to the Roman map. I spot his ever-familiar contact photo in all its pretentious glory. “Looks like he just made it into Alberta. You could be right about Tofino; he’s clearly headed West.”

Wyatt settles his arm on the centre console. “Well, at least he’s still semi-predictable.”

My teeth worry at my bottom lip. I pass the phone back. “This could end up taking a lot longer than we expected.”

He glances at me. “How soon do you need to be back at work?”

“I’d already planned to take two weeks off before Roman ditched me,” I remind him. “We were supposed to spend it together.”

He grimaces. “That’s right. What an asshole.”

“What about you?”

“I was doing software development for that finance company, Fundify, but my contract just ended. I’m a free man now. I put my job hunt on hold for this.”

“How noble,” I say flatly. “You really are willing to track him indefinitely.”

“If it means I get that money back? Sure,” he teases. “Seriously, though. I don’t want him to feel like he can pull this shit with anyone else.”

“How will he even pay us back?”

“He’ll have no choice but to ask his parents. ”

I let out a soft laugh of disbelief. I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything Wyatt told me the other night. “What happened with them, anyway? Why did they fall out?”

“They weren’t on the same page about Roman’s future,” he explains, absentmindedly glancing in the rearview mirror. “Roman was determined to be the next great poet, and they supported that dream, but they wanted him to get a more lucrative career in the meantime and start earning his own money. Somehow, he got it in his mind that this meant they didn’t believe in him. No matter what they say, he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t understand just how privileged he is to have grown up the way he did. And to have parents that will unfailingly bail him out, no matter how much he pushes them away.”

The words needle at my heart, poking holes in the affection for Roman that still lingers. “Must be nice,” I mumble. I lean my head against the window, staring at the stretch of highway in front of us.

“No kidding,” Wyatt agrees.

If I’d known this about Roman when we met, I’m not sure we’d have ever started dating. Because how could I fall for someone who was so out of touch? I’d kill to have parents that took care of me and loved me unconditionally, regardless of whether I deserved it, or what I did to piss them off that day. I would never take that for granted.

Learning about his history is allowing me to understand exactly who he is: someone who has never known struggle, who doesn’t take life seriously because he’s never had to face any real consequences.

Someone who can leave at the drop of a hat, without a second thought about everything—and everyone—he's leaving behind.