Roadside Attractions

Twelve

THUNDER BAY, ON

The past few days have already made me feel like there’s something truly wrong with my brain, but recent events have confirmed that I’m absolutely certifiable.

Since when does someone placing their fucking hand on my back in the friendliest of gestures make me forget how to breathe? Especially when that someone is Wyatt Song? It’s deeply unsettling. And I can’t even blame Noor this time.

We sit across from each other at a table in one of the picnic areas, finishing up the sandwiches Wyatt purchased for us earlier. In the shade, the air is damp and cool, a break from the unbearable heat of the sun. I’m not enough of a curmudgeon to be totally blind to the beauty surrounding us, so I take the time to appreciate the scenery, the deep greens and browns of the trees along the trail, the steady flow of the creek that runs parallel to it.

But it’s hard when I feel like a frightened rabbit, tense, and on edge, like if Wyatt makes the slightest move in my direction, I’ll bolt. Still, my eyes are drawn to him, to the long, slender fingers that were placed against my back, the sharp curve of his jaw, the full lips that are so often pulled into a shit-eating grin.

Get a fucking grip . These feelings are simply my way of processing that I’m newly single, and Wyatt is the only man around, the only person I’ve been seeing, day in and day out. That must be it.

Because it’s certainly not that he’s always been shockingly attractive, nor is it the way he’s been looking at me or the words he spoke earlier in his low register: I’m more into women who can’t stand me .

Surely, he was just teasing me.

Wyatt takes out his phone, checking the time and snapping me out of my reverie. “We should get going.”

“Sure,” I mumble, rising to my feet.

Discomfort hovers over me like a raincloud, and I’m sure that it must be obvious to Wyatt with the way he keeps eyeing me. We abandon the picnic area, and I head toward the trail, but Wyatt takes the scenic route, edging closer to the stream of water that runs between the rocks and courses toward the river. He hobbles his way along the stones, arms out for balance.

“What are you doing?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Lightening the mood.” He quickly glances at me before looking back down at his feet. “It feels like you’re mad at me.”

A flush creeps into my cheeks. “I’m always mad at you.”

“Right,” he agrees. “But I didn’t do anything this time. I thought we were getting along well.”

A little too well.

“You know I don’t like being outside,” I say, scrambling for something other than the truth. “I just want to get back to civilization. I’ve hit my quota for the day.”

He scoffs. “Who needs civilization when you have—”

The sentence morphs into a yelp as Wyatt slips, landing on his ass on the slippery rock beneath him. I flinch, then surge toward him. That looked painful as hell.

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

Wyatt gives me a smile, but it looks like more of a grimace. “Great.” He attempts to rise to his feet before wincing and crouching down again. “Shit. Okay. Not going to put pressure on that. ”

“Did you twist your ankle?” My heart clenches with concern, immediately forgetting all the previous tension and awkwardness. I step into the shallow water with my white sneakers and extend my hand. “Let me help.”

“I’m fine, Stella,” he reassures me. He tries to stand, but winces again, exhaling sharply through his teeth. “Fuck.”

A sheen of sweat has formed on Wyatt’s forehead as he gazes back at me. He concedes, fingers enclosing around my hand, and I use all of my might to get him to his feet—or foot, rather, since he keeps his left one in the air. He loops an arm around my shoulder, and I brace his weight as I guide us back toward the trail.

“This embarrassing enough?” he mutters. “Just as I was trying to sell you on the whole outdoors thing.”

I let out a breathy laugh. He’s clearly not in enough pain to completely lose his sense of humour, a fact I’m unexpectedly relieved to discover.

“That’s true,” I say, trying to hide how winded I am. “This wouldn’t have happened inside.”

“Point for you,” he grunts, voice strained.

We make our way to the car slowly, before a shock of red catches my eye, my body stiffening. I pause, peering at the back of Wyatt’s leg, practically feeling my face pale. “Oh, god.”

Wyatt cringes. “That bad?”

A gnarly gash runs down the length of his calf, rivulets of red trickling down toward his sock. He must’ve sliced it open at some point during his fall. The sight of it makes my stomach churn.

“Okay,” I say firmly, “we’re going to the hospital. You need stitches.”

“So it is that bad,” Wyatt confirms, averting his gaze. “Felt pretty fucking bad, but I wasn’t sure. Good to know.”

“Hold on,” I say, guiding him toward a large rock and gesturing for him to take a seat.

He breathes in sharply as he does so, glancing at his wound. “Yikes.”

“No kidding,” I murmur, untying my cardigan from around my waist .

I crouch down with a grimace, wishing I had brought along my first aid kit, but it’s back at the motel. I’ve always brought one on big trips because you never know, but I curse myself for not having it on me right now, when I actually need it. I scrunch the cardigan into a ball, blotting at Wyatt’s leg gently in an attempt to clean up the blood, trying not to press down too hard. I’m not a nurse by any means, but I learned how to patch up my own wounds as a kid, and my mother’s too, on the days she was so high she barely knew her own name.

Wyatt keeps his mouth shut, and I feel his stare intent on my face. Once I’ve cleared away most of the blood, I apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding.

“I didn’t expect you to sacrifice your cardigan,” Wyatt says softly.

My eyes flit to his face, caught off guard by his gentle expression, before they dart back to his leg again. “I didn’t like it that much anyway.”

That’s a lie—it was my favourite.

I tie it around his leg in a makeshift tourniquet, then help him to his feet again. He smells like a mixture of spicy cologne, sweat, and sunscreen, masked with the tinny scent of blood as we hobble the rest of the way. It feels like a century before we finally reach the parking lot, spotting Wyatt’s Toyota, and a new thought occurs to me.

Wyatt can’t drive right now.

My heart rate kicks up as we near the vehicle, my palms becoming sweaty. Swallowing, I let Wyatt prop himself up against the door, turning to face him, holding my hand out. “Give me your keys,” I demand.

“I think I can manage—”

“ Give me your keys .”

Wyatt blinks, unused to the sharp tone of my voice. Without another word, he fishes them out of his pocket, and they jingle as he drops them into my palm. I exhale shakily, nodding to myself as Wyatt hops around to the passenger’s seat, and I climb into the driver’s side .

For a few beats, we sit there in silence, my heart pounding, fingers clutching the steering wheel. Wyatt watches me curiously.

“Moore,” he begins, his voice slow, “you do know how to drive. . . right?”

I peek in his direction. “I know the gist.”

“The gist ?” he exclaims, dark eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“I never got my driver’s license,” I admit. “I never needed to. All of the places I typically go are accessible by public transport, taking a rideshare, or walking.” My grandma didn’t have a driver’s license, and my mother sure as hell never taught me how. She wasn’t around enough for that. “Noor gave me lessons when we were in university, but it’s, uh, been a while.”

“I’d much rather call an ambulance than let you risk getting us both killed,” Wyatt reasons, reaching up to grip the handle on the roof, even though we haven’t started moving yet.

“You’re being dramatic,” I say, still making no move to turn on the vehicle. “Put the location of the nearest hospital on your phone.”

With a sigh, he does as he’s told, propping the phone up where I can see it. “I never should’ve given you the keys.”

I check all the mirrors, a white-knuckle grip on the wheel. The parking lot has thinned out a fair amount, thank God. The less cars there are, the lower the chance of me hitting one on my way out.

“You know you have to turn the car on in order for it to move, right?” Wyatt asks.

“Of course I know that,” I snap, turning on the ignition.

The Toyota roars to life, making me flinch, though I try not to show my apprehension on my face. Wyatt needs to see a doctor as soon as possible. This is necessary. I’m doing a good thing.

He gives me a strained smile and a thumbs up. “Just take it slow. Please.”

I ease us out of the parking spot at a snail’s pace. The car is silent, save for my ragged breathing as we creep toward the exit.

“All right, you can go a little faster,” Wyatt says after a moment.

While driving may not have been a necessity for me, not knowing how to do it felt like another thing that was out of my control. I hadn’t known if I would stay in Toronto forever, if my life would ever become stable. After my grandma passed, I’d worried that I would end up somewhere miles away from everything I’d ever known, and have no way to get out.

When I’d mentioned my childhood fears to Noor, told her I’d always wanted to learn to drive, she took me up to her brother’s place in Barrie. She persuaded him to lend us his car, and officially became my driving instructor. Once I’d gotten behind the wheel, I’d been a nervous wreck—not unlike now—but Noor was gentle, and patient. After many similar weekends, I got the hang of it. But I didn’t have much of a reason to do it again until now.

Focus. Breathe.

With a touch more confidence, I get us out of the parking lot, then signal to turn right onto the highway. And then I wait. A steady stream of cars flies past us, and I resist the urge to gulp. It’s fine, I’ll just wait until there’s an opening.

My finger taps impatiently on the steering wheel, and I chew the inside of my lip. It’s fine. Everything is fine .

“Moore,” Wyatt says, “you need to breathe. You’re gonna turn blue.”

My exhale comes out in a shaky burst, the pressure in my chest easing a little.

“You’ve done this before,” he coaxes. “You know how. I bet Noor was a great teacher.”

I meet his eyes. He looks surprisingly patient, considering he’s likely in a great deal of pain and his best chance at getting medical attention is a woman with apparent driving anxiety taking him to the hospital. There’s still a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he’s still gripping the handle on the ceiling tightly, but there’s something beneath all of that. Belief in me.

So I nod, steeling myself. “She was the best.”

“You’ve got this.”

Finally, the universe shows mercy on me, and there’s an opening for me to safely turn onto the highway. We glide down the road with ease, my arms still rigid, fingers locked around the steering wheel, and I feel a burst of laughter building inside of me .

I manage to hold it back, though a smile of relief makes its way onto my face, and I risk the briefest of glances at Wyatt, long enough to see his knowing smile. “I’m doing it!”

“You’re doing it.”

“I’m driving !”

“You are.”

I make a noise of disbelief in the back of my throat, feeling giddy before remembering why I’m behind the wheel in the first place. Wyatt needs to see a doctor. This is no laughing matter. But I’m driving . Growing up, I’d been envious of those who had the freedom to jump into a car and take themselves anywhere, because I didn’t have that luxury. My lessons with Noor gave me a small taste, but this feels different.

In the past few days, I’ve done more unexpected things than I have in the last four years . Hopping into a canoe, getting ink permanently injected into my skin, skinny dipping, hiking, driving a car when it actually matters.

They’re small, insignificant things, but they’re new . I forgot how good it feels to forgo routine and, for lack of a better term, live a little. But day by day, this trip is reminding me.

?

I sit in the waiting room, knee bouncing.

Thankfully, Wyatt didn’t have to wait long before seeing a doctor—he’s with them now while I’m stuck here. I don’t know why I’m so on edge. It’s not like he’s getting life-threatening surgery. I should be curled up in my seat comfortably, reading a paperback I snagged from the hospital shelves, but all I can do is sit and stare at the hallway, not wanting to miss when he returns. Something about waiting rooms makes everything feel so dire. I’d spent a lot of time in them when my grandma’s health began to decline.

The fluorescent lights are harsh overhead, and I maintain a safe distance from the man who keeps hacking into his jacket across the room. There’s a little boy playing with a well-worn wooden race car, driving it along the empty seats while his mother scrolls on her phone. I think of calling Noor, but then again, she’d probably tease me for being so worried.

I catch a glimpse of Wyatt’s dark hair, and I immediately spring to my feet, clutching my purse. The rush of relief I feel at the sight of him surprises me. He walks with a slight limp, grasping a small, white bag, and wears a sheepish smile as he approaches me.

“They threw out your cardigan,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

When he gets closer, he tilts his head, eyes narrowed at the look on my face. “Were you worried about me?”

“I hate hospitals,” I say stubbornly, ignoring the heat in my face once again before peeking around him to take a look at his calf. It’s covered by a large bandage. “How’d it go?”

“All stitched up.” He shakes the bag in his hand, rattling the pill bottles inside. “And they gave me a goodie bag. Come on, let’s get out of here.” He holds out his hand. “I’ll take my keys.”

I pass them to him slowly, dropping them into his palm. “Are you sure you’re able to drive?”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, heading toward the exit. “I’m not in as much pain anymore. Besides, I don’t think my blood pressure can handle another round of your driving.”

I fold my arms over my chest, following behind him. “I thought I did well.”

“You did,” he agrees. “Under the circumstances.”

“Under any circumstances,” I argue.

We exit the building into bright sunlight and blistering heat. My eyes find the dark blue Toyota, and I’m hit with a tidal wave of embarrassment. It’s parked at an odd angle, across two spaces. Wyatt shoots me a look, lifting an eyebrow, as if to prove a point. Maybe I didn’t do as well as I thought.

When we’re back in the car, with him behind the driver’s seat and me reclaiming the passenger’s side, I have to admit, it feels right. I don’t think I need to drive again anytime soon.

It’s silent as we make our way back to the motel. When we arrive, I carry Wyatt’s backpack to his room as he limps forward to unlock the door. He steps inside, taking the backpack from my hands, then hesitates.

“Do you. . . want to come in?” he asks.

“Why?” I blurt, then remember some semblance of tact. “Do you need help?”

He laughs shortly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “No, I just. . . there’s a while until dinner. I’ll get bored.”

There’s a quip on the tip of my tongue about not seeing how that’s my problem, but I hold it back. “Okay,” I say instead, feeling timid all of a sudden.

Wyatt moves out of the way to let me inside. We’ve been in each other’s rooms before on this trip, but I don’t know why it feels different to actually be invited in. The door falls closed behind me, and Wyatt takes a seat on the edge of his bed. I lean against his desk, fidgeting with my fingers.

When I look up, his eyes are steady on me, thoughtful. “You know,” he begins, voice feeling loud in the quiet of the room. “You’re surprisingly nurturing.”

The comment catches me off guard. I blink, unsure of what to say. “What do you mean?”

“You. . . you kind of took care of me today.”

It feels like someone turned the thermostat up by a million degrees. My fingers grip the desk beneath me as I sputter a laugh. “I mean, I am capable of sympathy from time to time.”

“I know that,” he says, brushing me off with an eye roll. “But it felt like more.”

The words feel loaded, and my mouth dries. What does that mean?

“Like you’ve had to do it before,” he clarifies. “For other people.”

Understanding settles over me, making my limbs relax. I look down, scraping my shoe across the outdated carpet gently. “When you grow up with a mother like mine, you learn how to take care of people from a young age.”

After the statement leaves my lips, I realize it could be misinterpreted as a compliment, a testament to my mother’s character—like she was so lovely and maternal that it immediately got passed down to me. But Wyatt seems to understand my tone .

“Tell me about her,” he urges, his voice soft and careful. My eyes flicker up to his face, and there it is again—that patience. Somehow, this room feels like a safe space.

I push off the desk then take a seat on the edge of the bed, a short distance away from Wyatt. With a sigh, I lean back, feeling the mattress dip beneath me as I stare up at the ceiling. The new tattoo on my shoulder blade feels tender.

“She had me when she was a kid,” I say, “and she never grew up, never learned how to take care of me properly. My grandma looked after me when I was younger, but then she died, and it was just the two of us.”

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt murmurs.

I feel his eyes on me, but it’s easier to keep staring at the ceiling. I lift my shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “It’s just the way it is. My mom’s always had substance abuse problems. I’ve helped her nurse many a hangover, taken off her heels and makeup when she’s coming down from something, reminded her that bills were overdue. She had trouble with gambling too. I think I parented her more than she ever parented me.”

When Wyatt speaks again, his voice is low. “That’s awful, Stella.”

Unexpected tears spring to my eyes at the sound of his sympathy. I don’t know why I’m sharing all of this with him, but it’s almost as if I’d had too much to drink, and the words continue to spill out of me with little resistance.

“I had no choice but to be independent,” I admit quietly. “I know how to take care of myself and look after my mother. I always felt like it was just me against the world, because if I wasn’t taking care of her, she just wasn’t around. She was at work, or with a random guy, or on a bender. I was always alone. Meeting Noor changed my life. She was the first person who broke through my walls, the first person I let in.” My lips curve upward in a rueful smile. “I thought it was safe to let other people in too. Then Roman happened. For years, they were both my people. But. . . well, we both know how that’s turned out.”

My throat becomes tight. I hate being vulnerable—I typically avoid it as much as I can. But Wyatt has proven that he’s willing to open up to me, and I guess that makes it easier to do the same.

There’s more on the tip of my tongue, things I’ve been wanting to say since our first night at the busy restaurant in Blind River, like the fact that the demise of my relationship with Roman has made me feel used, the way I loathe myself for falling for his charms. The way I’m scared, petrified , of getting hurt again. The way I can’t trust people, because if Roman left me, and my mother left me, time and time again, why would anyone ever want to stay?

But I swallow it down, because telling him all of that would feel like laying my soul out in the open for him to poke and prod. Clearing my throat, I push myself back into a sitting position, straightening out my hair.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

Wyatt’s eyebrows pull together. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because you didn’t ask to hear all of my unresolved trauma,” I say dryly. “You only asked me about my mom.”

“I knew what I was asking,” he says, voice gentle.

Our eyes meet, and it feels as though he can read my every thought. Like it doesn’t matter that I chose not to share more of myself with him, because my past is written all over my face in permanent marker. I blink, looking away.

Silence hangs between us, and it makes me squirm. But before I can scramble for something to say, Wyatt beats me to the punch. “I think you’re strong, Stella,” he admits, and I go still. He keeps his focus on the backpack next to his feet. “Incredibly strong. But that doesn’t mean you have to act like you’re not affected by what’s happened to you.”

My eyes linger on the side of his face, following the line from his nose to his lips. I watch as they press together, and then he meets my gaze again, catching me off guard. A tender feeling grows in my chest at his kindness, at his praise.

Until a memory snags loose. Something from a couple of years ago.

A scene of him and a girl he’d brought along to the bar with us, huddled together in a booth. I’d been within earshot while I leaned against the bartop, waiting for my drink. She was upset about something, tears streaming down her cheeks. Wyatt was angled toward her, his hand on her back. You’re so strong, I’d heard him say. Shortly after, the two of them ditched us, leaving the bar hand in hand, and he’d sent a wink in the direction of our table before the door fell shut behind him.

I inhale sharply, rising to my feet.

This is the Wyatt that charms his way into bedrooms. I have to stay focused, to remember who I’m dealing with. I may be warming up to the idea of Wyatt, but there’s no evidence to prove these aren’t just. . . moves . Letting me choose the music in the car, remembering my middle name, picking out a meaningful tattoo, calling me strong, flirting with me.

So far, he hasn’t given me a clear reason to doubt his kindness, but that doesn’t mean he can’t also be playing me. He can be nice and still be trying to get into my pants at the same time. He’s done it with other girls before.

“Thanks for letting me spill my guts,” I say abruptly, taking a step toward the door. “I should go.”

Wyatt looks puzzled at the sudden change in my demeanour. “Oh.”

I ignore the tug of disappointment in my chest as I touch the door handle. “See you at dinner?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Sure.”

With one final nod, I leave his room. After the door clicks shut, I can finally breathe again.