Roadside Attractions

Eight

MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, ON

We’ve outrun the rain by noon, though heady, grey clouds continue to linger, hinting that more could be on the way. For the past few hours, we’ve been mostly silent, apart from Wyatt continuing to let me play maestro, something that still makes me highly suspicious. But I flip through his collection of CDs anyway, picking out the least offensive options.

He hasn’t objected to any of my choices, though his fingers drum on the steering wheel incessantly, restless. He fidgets with the temperature in the car every ten minutes or so—too hot, then too cold, then back again. I do my best to ignore him, averting my gaze to the window, but he’s proving to be very distracting.

“I don’t think we need air conditioning right now,” I say when he reaches forward to turn the dial again.

Wyatt freezes, then retracts his hand, returning it to the wheel. His fingers begin to fidget. “Sorry.”

I watch him, bemused. “What’s wrong with you?”

He presses his lips together as if thinking deeply. Then, his voice tight, “Gotta piss.”

“Oh my god,” I say. “Just pull over!”

Wyatt shakes his head vehemently, gesturing to his phone, propped up against the dash. “We’re almost to the nearest gas station. I can make it.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying to smother a laugh as I take in his agitated appearance and the faint crease between his eyebrows. “You don’t look like you can make it. Seriously, just pull over.”

“Contrary to what you might believe, Moore, I’d prefer not to whip my dick out on the side of the road.”

“Isn’t that one of the main perks of having one in the first place? Nature is your bathroom.”

Wyatt remains silent. I tilt my head, studying him closely. He swallows. I narrow my eyes, working extra hard to keep the laughter out of my voice. “What, are you scared I’ll take a peek?”

“No comment.”

At this point, there’s no stopping the incredulous laugh that balloons out of me. “Contrary to what you might believe, that is not something I want to see.”

“Maybe I’d believe that if you hadn’t been giving me eyes all day yesterday.”

Not the response I was expecting.

My mouth falls open, eyes widening as the familiar burn hits my cheeks. I scramble for something to say to tamp down my humiliation. Wyatt flirts with anything that has a pulse, but he’s not supposed to be flirting with me . And he certainly isn’t supposed to be calling attention to the fact that I’d basically eye-fucked him after catching him coming out of the shower. And then did it again on the beach.

I think I even did in my dreams last night.

Too late, I let out a short, irritated laugh. “That’s not—”

“Jesus, Moore,” Wyatt blurts, mouth cracking into a grin. “I’m joking. You should’ve seen the look on your face.”

I roll my eyes in a futile attempt to hide my embarrassment. “You’re hilarious. ”

“Don’t worry, I know damn well that the longer you stare, the more it means you want to strangle me. In the least sexy way possible.”

“This conversation is officially over,” I say hotly.

“A conversation doesn’t just end because you say so,” he counters.

I press my lips together, lifting an eyebrow as he meets my stare.

He waits a few moments for me to speak before shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not afraid of a one-sided conversation,” he says. “You underestimate how much I talk to myself on a regular basis.”

Reaching forward, I turn up the volume of the stereo, making a valiant effort to drown him out.

“Bad move,” he shouts, grinning. “I can get louder.”

Sighing begrudgingly, I turn it back down. “Just pull over and relieve yourself.”

“Stop talking about it! I was just starting to forget.”

“You are a child.”

“And you are by far the worst travel companion I’ve ever had,” he says simply. “So much attitude, even after I let you choose the music.”

“That’s quite literally the bare minimum,” I remark. “If you want to go back to controlling the music, I will happily go back to my audiobook.” I grab my bag to rifle through it for my earbuds.

“Don’t,” Wyatt says. “You need to distract me. Twenty more minutes until the next gas station. I checked.”

Blowing out an exhale through my nose, I resist the urge to demand he pull over yet again. “I don’t see how it’s my job to take your mind off your own bladder. Distract yourself.”

He ignores my statement. “Let me try to guess what kind of book you’re listening to,” he quips, then hums under his breath. “Something. . . boring. Self-help? Business?”

“Not even close. But it’s great to hear you think so highly of me.”

“Wait, I’ve got it,” he says, snapping his fingers. “A memoir.”

“Still no.”

“Hm.” He frowns. “Smut? ”

I scoff in disbelief. “Those are your only options?”

“Okay, fine, I give up. Enlighten me on what Stella Moore likes to read in her spare time.”

Fiddling with my earbud case, I delay answering. Somehow, telling him about what I typically read feels personal, like letting him in on a secret. “It’s a thriller,” I admit. “About a cult. And people dying under suspicious circumstances.”

“Murder!” he exclaims. “I should’ve guessed.”

I fire him a skeptical glance. “Why should you have guessed murder?”

A smile toys around his lips, though he keeps his gaze on the road winding ahead of us. “You’re a very hateful person, Moore. Don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

My mouth spreads in a sardonic smile as I lean against the headrest. “Only when I’m around you.”

He rests his elbow on the driver’s side door, peering at me with mirth glittering in his eyes. “Lucky me, then. I must be special.”

Our gazes hold for a few moments, and a tingling sensation spreads across my skin. The spell is broken when I look away, clearing my throat. I don’t know what’s going on with me. I thought I was over the weirdness from yesterday, but it’s like seeing him in that context reminded me that he’s capable of being desirable. And now that I’m newly single after four years, there isn’t much to stop me from indulging my lustful thoughts.

It doesn’t help that Noor has planted the idea of finding a rebound in my head. I was a bit of a late bloomer; my aversion to romance meant that I didn’t so much as kiss anyone until my third year of university, a year before Roman. Even then, it was a shitty first kiss with some stranger in a crowded bar, and I was so humiliated that I swore off alcohol for three months.

It wasn’t until my last year of university, when Roman found me—cornered me, love-bombed me, relentlessly pursued me—that the thought of a relationship even crossed my mind. I haven’t been with anyone else. I haven’t even considered being with anyone else.

My knowledge of hook-ups and one-night stands is restricted to what I’ve heard second-hand. The idea of approaching someone with the sole purpose of having sex makes me have to physically suppress a shudder, because I can’t fathom having the confidence. More power to the people who do.

But I have to admit, part of me wonders if maybe being with someone else will shake Roman out of my system entirely. Because as hateful of a person as I am—according to Wyatt—he’s still lingering inside of me, refusing to get out. Unease twists in my belly as my fingers fiddle with my pendant, and I try to push it aside.

Could I be that person? Find someone in one of these random pit stops and fall into bed with them? Probably not. Regardless of whether or not I’m looking for my next fling, Wyatt shouldn’t even be a whisper of a thought. He may be more attractive than anyone has a right to be, but there’s a long list of things—and people—I would do before ever tangling in the sheets with him.

We’re only three days into this road trip. I’m not that desperate. And I’d be na?ve to take Wyatt’s flirting seriously. Even with Roman’s betrayal, I highly doubt Wyatt would go for his best friend’s ex-girlfriend.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, eyeing me curiously. His gaze dips to my fingers, and I slide them away from my necklace.

“Oh, you know,” I say, sighing wistfully. “Just thinking about Niagara Falls. The ocean. Running water, things like that.”

With each sentence, his expression grows tighter, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. “Fuck you, Stella.”

This time, my burst of laughter is genuine, spilling out of me. It shouldn’t be this entertaining to watch him suffer. Wyatt blinks at me.

“What?” I ask, smile falling.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve made you actually laugh,” he says. “Even if it was at my expense. Are you feeling okay?”

His admission catches me off guard. Suddenly self-conscious, I cross my arms over my chest. It’s only been a few days, but he keeps having these moments—moments where he feels like less of a nuisance than he’s always been, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get used to it. I feel like we’re in a play, and he keeps forgetting his lines .

“Clearly, there’s something wrong with me,” I quip. “I don’t typically experience any forms of joy when you’re around.”

“That’s not true,” he says, pointing at me. “Remember our grad party?”

Hardly.

That was the last time I’d gotten well and truly shit-faced, and it was embarrassing enough that I haven’t done it since then. I was flooded with dopamine, coming off the high of finishing my degree in communications and finally feeling confident in my brand-new relationship with Roman. Alcohol isn’t one of my mother’s vices, but drinking that much made me feel like her. While I’ve proven to myself that I’m not her and don’t have her addictive traits, I typically enjoy things in moderation. But I’d gone a little overboard at that party—in the metaphorical sense, as opposed to yesterday.

“We really don’t need to revisit a night from four years ago.”

“That was a whole new side of you.” Wyatt laughs boisterously, as if envisioning the memory, and I sink further into my seat. He removes a hand from the wheel to briefly place it over his heart. “Your rendition of Bubble Pop Electric will always stick with me.”

“Oh, god,” I groan, assaulted by a barrage of mental images I’ve long tried to suppress.

Me, drunk beyond belief, hopping up onto a bar table with Noor, karaoke mic in hand. Followed by a mortifying display of hip thrusts, hair tosses, and gyrating as I serenaded Roman about what I’d do to him in the backseat. I forgot how many people were witnesses.

Shoving aside the temptation to fling the car door open and throw myself outside, I bury my face in my hands. “Erase that from your memory immediately, or I will give you a lobotomy myself.”

“ Never .”

I massage my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“How could I forget?” he says incredulously. “Deep down, beneath all of your unpleasantness, I have hope that there’s still a girl who knows how to have a good time.”

“I know how to have a good time,” I say stubbornly .

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Without me noticing, we’ve rolled into the outskirts of a small town. Wyatt slows down, pulling into the parking lot of the first gas station we see. He barely takes the time to put the car into park before shutting it off.

“Thank God,” he says under his breath, opening the door and hopping out of the driver’s seat.

I hold back another laugh as he stalks inside the building, the door swinging shut behind him. Wanting to stretch my legs, I exit the Toyota at a much more reasonable pace. The sun pokes out from behind the clouds, and I feel a rush of heat, overdressed in my sweater and leggings. The rain made it seem like it would be much chillier today. I place my hands on my hips, arching my back and exhaling.

This place feels significantly smaller than Blind River, which was already small to begin with. The buildings are dated and rundown, and the street is eerily empty. I take a few long steps, enjoying the feeling of not sitting in the car, but also not wanting to stay outside too long. Wyatt returns, his posture looser, relaxed.

I fight off a smirk. “Feeling better?”

“I have a new lease on life,” he says, exhaling and placing his hand on his hips. “I’m going to get gas. You need anything before we go?”

“Guess I might as well use the restroom too.”

I trudge into the gas station as Wyatt gets in the Toyota, pulling it up beside the pumps. Inside, the radio seems to exclusively include hits from the 2000s, and the shelves are collecting dust. There’s a bored high schooler behind the counter, floppy hair hanging over his forehead as he types away on his phone.

Aside from him, the store is empty. I make my way to the back of the building, down a short hallway that kind of gives me the creeps, and locate the women’s restroom. I’m greeted by a single toilet, a dirty-looking sink, and wads of soggy paper towels littering the ground near the overflowing trash can. My nose crinkles in disgust. I hate public restrooms.

The radio’s volume seems to be cranked to the maximum in here, and I can barely hear my thoughts over the sound of Rascal Flatts’ Bless the Broken Road. It makes this whole thing feel more melodramatic than a trip to the bathroom ever needs to be. With a sigh, I do my business, trying to touch as little as possible. When I’m finished, I wash my hands, using my elbows to turn on the sink, grateful that I bring hand sanitizer with me everywhere I go. I’m gonna need to bathe in it after this.

I let out a breath, all too eager to get out of here. But when I try the door, twisting the doorknob and pulling, it doesn’t budge.

Blinking, I try again. When that doesn’t work, I try one more time, leaning against the door with my shoulder, pushing with all my might. The door bows slightly but doesn’t open.

Fuck me. This isn’t happening.

I am not trapped in a gas station restroom while being forced to listen to Rascal Flatts against my will.

My mind flashes to the teenage boy behind the counter. I don’t think he even registered my presence. And with the ungodly volume of the music, I highly doubt he’d hear me if I shouted or banged on the door. Not that I want to do that anyway, because being rescued from a bathroom by a high schooler is not something I want for myself.

Which only leaves one option.

I pull my phone out of my purse and unblock Wyatt’s number. Before I can overthink this decision, I give him a call. When he doesn’t answer, I go from stressed to straight-up pissed. Does he think calling him wouldn’t be my absolute last resort, no matter the scenario? This is a dire situation.

I huff out a breath of exasperation, shoving the door again. My phone vibrates in my hand with a text.

You finally unblocked me??

I stifle an eye roll.

I need your help.

With what?

I’m stuck in the restroom.

?????

The door won’t open.

What the fuck??

Can you please just stop texting and come help me?

Being locked in a gas station restroom while Bless the Broken Road plays so loudly everyone in space can fucking hear it is my definition of hell.

He sends back the saluting emoji.

I shove against the door impatiently. Wyatt must be having the time of his life on this trip. He’s seen me fall out of a canoe, be forced to relive one of my most embarrassing, drunken moments, and get trapped in a bathroom.

At the sound of pounding against the door, I straighten up.

“Moore?” I hear, though his voice is muffled, barely audible over the speaker directly above my head.

The doorknob jiggles. Wyatt’s voice comes through again, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Against my better judgement, I press my ear against the door, straining to listen. “What?” I shout.

Oh, god, what if he can’t open it either? What if nobody can, and it’ll take a couple of firefighters to break me out of here? At that point, I might just have to go full on The Cask of Amontillado and build a brick wall around myself out of embarrassment.

The door jerks as Wyatt tugs on it, continuing to put up a fight. I push against it at the same time, hoping we can force it open. Finally, after several tries, it flies open, and I have to make a conscious effort to skid to stop and save myself from colliding with Wyatt.

His face is a mixture of bewilderment and humour.

I blow some of my hair out of my face, giving him a warning look. “Don’t,” I say simply.

“I wasn’t,” he replies.

“Good.” I square my shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. I set off down the hallway, eager to get the hell out of here, and Wyatt follows.

“What’s wrong with Bless the Broken Road ?” he asks innocently. “It’s a timeless classic.”

I ignore him. We exit the building, and the high schooler is none the wiser, head still bent over his phone. Outside, I turn to Wyatt, heat invading my cheeks. “Thank you for helping me,” I say. “But we are going to pretend this whole situation never happened. Just forget about it.”

“You can pretend all you want, Moore,” he says, grinning as he pulls open his car door. “But I remember every little thing you do.”