Roadside Attractions

Nine

THUNDER BAY, ON

We follow along the outline of Lake Superior as day bleeds into evening. By the time we arrive in Thunder Bay, Wyatt proclaims that our first order of business is to find some real food to eat. Cruising through the streets, I watch the city out the window, admiring the reflection of the sunset on the water.

Thunder Bay isn’t all that big, but it’s the largest place we’ve been to since leaving Toronto, and I have to admit, it feels nice to not be in some random podunk town. Wyatt pulls over in the downtown core, suggesting that we walk around until we find something that looks interesting.

I have zero complaints—after our first full day of driving, I’m exhausted, but taking a walk and getting some much-needed fresh air sounds like a dream.

When I step out of the vehicle, my legs feel both stiff and wobbly, and I take a second to steady myself before slinging my purse onto my shoulder. On the other side of the car, Wyatt makes his way over the sidewalk, groaning as he stretches his arms over his head. The action causes his shirt to shift upward, revealing a strip of skin above his jeans. I avert my eyes before they can linger—I need to nip this thing in the bud. All forms of ogling are hereby outlawed.

After successfully stretching out his limbs, Wyatt swings his arms, gaze landing on me. “Shall we?”

I nod and fall into step beside him, and we begin to stroll down the sidewalk, passing boutique shops that have closed for the night and small restaurants. The air is cool, and I find myself drawn to the outline of the blue mountains in the distance, rather than keeping an eye out for food options.

Wyatt seems to sense my mind is elsewhere. He looks down at me, the breeze ruffling his hair under his signature cream ball cap. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation from earlier,” he says as we pass by a couple huddled close together, their heads thrown back in laughter.

I remember every little thing you do.

I’ve been thinking about it too. So much so that I’ve had to force myself to stop thinking about it, because when I do, my brain does all kinds of terrible things—like sending butterflies to my stomach, which has also recently been outlawed. Given that he definitely meant that statement as a threat, there is no reason for me to have this kind of reaction.

I frown and blink at him innocently. “What about it?”

“I’ve been thinking about how I’m most likely right about Tofino.”

Right. That.

“Oh,” I say. “And?”

“Maybe we should take our time getting there,” he says, sticking his hands into his pockets. “Say ‘fuck it’ and be tourists.”

I make a face. “ Why ?”

“Think about it. When else will you have an excuse to travel through five provinces? We’ll probably never do anything like this again.”

“After the way things have gone so far, you want to spend more time with me?”

“‘Want’ is a strong word,” he teases. “I’m in it for the entertainment.”

I give him a withering look. “What if I say no? Will you tell me to find a way to Tofino on my own?”

He rears his head back in offence. “You really think I’m some kind of monster, huh?”

“You’re just discovering that now?”

“Stella,” he persists, visibly irritated, “I drove you all the way here. If you wanted to leave, I’d help you find a way. But I’m not cruel enough to just abandon you.”

Despite the situations being wildly different, the word ‘abandon’ strikes a nerve within me, and I find myself thinking of Roman, swallowing hard and looking away.

Because I did get abandoned. Discarded. And what’s worse is that Roman isn’t even the first to do it. My mom left me alone constantly, and when she did come back, it certainly wasn’t for me. At this point, I’m starting to think I’m just an easy person to leave behind. Why wouldn’t Wyatt do the same? He doesn’t even like me.

“Are you sure about that?” I mumble.

“Look, if you want to get there as fast as we can, I’ll respect your wishes,” he concludes. “We’ll find Roman and get this whole thing over with. But I really think you’ll be missing out.”

I chew on the inside of my lip, considering.

His dark eyes pierce the side of my face for several moments while we walk. “Think about it,” he urges. “Decide by midnight.”

We stumble upon a burger restaurant near the waterfront, grabbing a couple of meals to go before walking the rest of the way to the boardwalk. Once there, we find a backless bench that faces the water. I take a seat, spreading napkins over the empty space between us as Wyatt straddles the bench, angled toward me.

For a while, we’re both content to eat in silence, people-watching as the sun slowly sinks closer to the horizon. It’s been so long since I’ve travelled anywhere. Roman and I managed weekend trips to Montreal every now and then, but I was always reluctant to take time away from work. When we did take a trip, we were two very different types of travellers—Roman was happy to sit in cafés and write poetry, to pretend to be a local for a few days, while I wanted to schedule our time to ensure we’d be able to see and do everything we wanted to. Visiting historic sites, checking out art galleries, taking guided tours, the works.

To be on this road trip for an indefinite amount of time, and to have no idea what’s coming next, is a struggle for me.

“Have you checked Roman’s location?” I ask, popping a fry into my mouth.

Wyatt swallows a bite and shakes his head, then wipes his hands on his napkins. He unlocks his phone and passes it to me. “Here.”

It’s a little shocking to me that he allows me free access to his phone. I’ve always thought men were overly possessive of their phones, secretive by nature, not wanting to be caught red-handed, whether they were actively cheating or just liking a few too many bikini pictures on Instagram. Roman would always keep his phone secured in his grasp when he showed me something. Maybe a na?ve part of me thought he didn’t want me to snoop at his unfinished poems.

I feel extremely foolish for that now. His secretive nature should’ve been a red flag.

Roman is in the same spot he was the last time I checked, close to Calgary. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to seeing my ex-boyfriend reduced to a spot on a map when he’s always felt so larger than life.

Pursing my lips together, I pass Wyatt his phone back.

“Any change?” he asks, watching my face closely.

“None.”

“Doesn’t seem like he’s in a rush,” he says lightly, though it’s obviously a hint he doesn’t think we should rush either.

I roll my eyes and eat another fry. “You just want to spend more time on your Tinder tour.”

“Have you seen me going on any dates?” he asks, gesturing to the area around us. “I’ve been with you the whole time.”

“I didn’t see what you got up to last night,” I tease, challenging him.

“Yeah, because you went on your moody little walk and didn’t even invite me,” he says, accusatory. Then, answering the question on my face, “I saw you from my hotel room. ”

“One of the main reasons I went on that walk in the first place was to avoid you. Why would you be invited?”

“Because I’m excellent company, always,” he says, as if it should be obvious.

“The jury’s still out on that one.”

He ignores me. “And anyway, I have no intentions of meeting up with anyone from Tinder on this trip. My profile isn’t even visible right now. See for yourself.”

Unlocking his phone again, he tosses it to me. I catch it, raising an eyebrow. Letting me go through his phone is one thing, but giving me unrestricted access to his Tinder is another.

“Are you sure?” I ask, giving him a chance to back down.

With the sunset casting an orange glow on his face, lightening his eyes, he shrugs, face impassive. “I’m an open book.”

“You know I’m about to ruthlessly make fun of your profile, right?”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Well, that was two chances, and he didn’t take either of them. I navigate to the Tinder app. He’s telling the truth about his card being hidden—I’m unable to see any nearby profiles. I go into his settings, feeling a little giddy at the thought of scoping out the infamous Wyatt Song’s dating profile.

The first photo is of him standing with his mother, his arm around her, a background of greenery behind them, wide grins on both of their faces. I can’t deny that it’s horribly sweet. She’s a small woman, sporting a black bob that’s steadily turning grey, with permanent laughter lines etched into her skin. Wyatt seems to get most of his features from her, judging by this picture.

I enter preview mode, swiping to the next photo. Someone must’ve snapped a picture of him at Tricky Trixie’s. His head is tilted back as he downs a beer, face stoic, looking at the camera. The photographer obviously knew which angle would be perfect to capture his sharp jawline and the playful look glittering in his eyes. I feel a twist in my stomach, quickly swiping to the next one. I haven’t seen these before; Wyatt doesn’t post much on Instagram.

At the sight of the shirtless mirror selfie, I let out an uncharacteristic screech before dissolving into a fit of laughter, clapping my free hand over my mouth. Wyatt is immediately defensive, snatching the phone out of my grasp.

“What?” he demands, bringing the phone closer to his face. “I look good here!”

While he’s not wrong—the photo does showcase his toned arms and mouthwatering abdomen—that doesn’t change the fact that it’s one of the douchiest things I’ve ever seen. “Oh my god!” I manage to say through my laughter, tears springing to my eyes. “You have to take that one down.”

“Why?” he protests, eyeing me incredulously.

“Girls hate these,” I inform him. “You look like the mayor of Douche City.”

A laugh bubbles out of him, though he still cradles the phone to his chest. “It’s all about balance. I know my audience.”

“I mean, if you want people to instantly label you a fuckboy, you’re doing great. No notes,” I say, making a futile effort to regain my composure.

“Well, you haven’t seen the whole thing yet,” he says, reluctantly passing the phone back to me. “You’re judging too quickly, as usual.”

I accept the device, doing little to smother my giggles. The rest of the pictures are relatively sweet and harmless—Wyatt on the baseball field or posing next to his roommate’s dog. His final photo is him after getting a baseball to the face last year, his eye stained black and purple, smiling and giving a thumbs up. I remember seeing that black eye in person.

His bio reads: Too slutty for Hinge. Too impatient for Bumble. Just right for being ghosted on Tinder.

That earns a snort, in spite of myself. If I were seeing his profile in the wild, he would’ve lost me with the mirror selfie, but he might’ve won me back with the bio.

“Well?” he says, sounding proud. “Would you swipe right?”

“Not a chance,” I respond, grinning. “I’m getting rid of that picture.”

“Don’t get rid of it.” He reaches for the phone again, but I scoot away on the bench. “That’s the best one.”

“I’ll take a better one right now,” I say, opening up the camera. “ The lighting is great.”

He sighs, and through the phone screen, I see him looking at me expectantly.

The lighting really is stunning, casting hues of gold across his smooth skin. A gentle breeze ruffles the ends of his hair, and his lips are pressed into a small smile of humour as he watches me. My eyes trail upward, looking at the real version instead of the one displayed on his phone.

My lips part, and my stomach flip-flops over itself, until I remember I am absolutely not allowed to indulge myself like this. I blink, clearing my throat.

“Well, don’t look at me,” I order, suddenly self-conscious. “Look out at the water. Contemplate life.”

Obliging, he angles his face toward the water. I lean back on the bench, capturing the water and the mountains behind him. After snapping a couple photos, I choose the best one, replacing the dreaded shirtless picture.

Based on the profile alone, if I had zero knowledge of the man in real life, I have to admit I would swipe right.

“There,” I remark, passing the phone back. This time, our fingers brush as he takes it, and I swallow, pretending not to notice the contact. “This will greatly improve your odds.”

“If you say so.” He slides the phone into his pocket, clearly not interested in testing it out. With our meals finished, he collects our garbage, dumping it into a nearby trash can before returning to the bench. “Now what?”

“I guess we should figure out where we’ll be sleeping tonight.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “That should be easy. This place isn’t exactly crawling with tourists. Besides, the night is still young. We should go out and have some fun.”

I make a face, not wanting to know whatever scheme he has in mind. “Hard pass.”

“That’s right,” he says emphatically, snapping his fingers. “I always forget you’re allergic to fun.”

“I’m not ‘ allergic to fun.’”

“Okay.” His eyes light up with mischief. “Prove it, then. ”

I grimace. “How?”

His gaze is locked on mine in challenge. “Let me dare you to do something.”

I laugh shortly. “Hell no. I’m not giving you that much power.”

Wyatt sighs wistfully, looking out at the water and shaking his head. “Rest in peace, Version of Stella Moore that Liked to Have Fun. We hardly knew ye.”

“Stop saying I don’t know how to have fun!” I cry, throwing my hands up in defeat. “I’m not a soulless robot.”

“Guilty until proven innocent. Boring until proven fun.”

I sit up straighter, pursing my lips together again. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to cave.

Closing my eyes, I exhale deeply. “What’s the dare?”

Wyatt’s mouth cracks into a grin. “So glad you asked.” He turns, gesturing to a building farther down the waterfront. “See that tattoo shop over there?”

Scoffing, I shake my head. “Dares aren’t supposed to be permanent , Wyatt.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“No, I’m not going to get a tattoo to prove that I’m fun,” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Fine. Stay boring forever.”

Folding my arms over my chest, I stew, eyes darting between Wyatt and the tattoo shop. He watches me intently, lips wobbling with the weight of holding back a smile. If this will shut him up about me being a buzzkill, honestly, it might be worth it.

I already hear Noor’s voice in my head, offering to drive me to the emergency room once more, because spontaneity is so not my thing. But here I am, on this godforsaken road trip, tracking down my loser ex-boyfriend. Maybe this marks the beginning of a new era. Maybe I’m the one finding myself.

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself before standing abruptly. “Fuck it.”

The expression of utter disbelief on Wyatt’s face spurs me onward, and I stalk toward the tattoo shop without looking back.