Roadside Attractions

Thirteen

WINNIPEG, MB

At long last, we’ve made it out of Ontario.

I can’t say I’ve ever had a burning desire to visit Manitoba, but here we are. In the grand scheme of things, an eight-hour trip feels like a somewhat lighter day of driving, and for the most part, it’s uneventful. I do my absolute best to rid myself of the weirdness from the past few days and just be fucking normal .

Wyatt still hasn’t revoked my music selection privileges, but when I brought up the fact that I’m getting a little tired of his collection, he surprised me by purchasing an AUX cord at one of our pit stops, a gesture that thawed my icy heart more than I’ll ever fully admit.

Then he asked me to put on one of my “murder books,” and we listened to It Lives in the Attic —less of a mystery, and more of a slasher film in book form—for the rest of the ride.

We arrive in the city after nightfall. It’s massive compared to Thunder Bay, with its busy streets, historic architecture, and modern high-rises. Though it feels weird to be in a city where you can still have a good view of the sky at all times. I’m used to looking up and seeing endless skyscrapers back home.

After checking into our hotel, we sit in the parking lot, the Toyota idling. Wyatt turns to me expectantly and lifts an eyebrow.

“All right, Moore,” he begins. “We agreed you’d get to pick what we do at our next stop. So, what are we going to do tonight? Stay in and watch horror movies?”

I roll my eyes. He’s been bugging me about my interest in some of the more gruesome things in life since a particularly graphic scene in It Lives in the Attic . “Hm,” I hum, leaning my head back against my seat. “I think I want to have a drink.”

Wyatt makes a face. “That’s it? We can do that anywhere.”

I match his energy, shrugging. “That’s what I’m in the mood for.”

He blows out a sigh, adjusting the brim of his ball cap. “Roman seemed to find something to occupy him for a while when he was here, I’m sure we could find something more unique.”

I feel myself stiffen at Roman’s name, at the thought of him being here. Realistically, he could’ve also been at one of our other stops in Ontario, but this is the only place we’ve had concrete proof of him being. He’s in British Columbia now, according to the Roman map.

Clearing my throat, I reach for my phone and keep my eyes on the screen. “I just want a drink. You should rest your leg, anyway. I’ll look for a place we can go.”

“If that’s what you want.”

I open up Google, starting a search for interesting bars to go to in Winnipeg when my phone pings with a text. My mom, again. I didn’t hear from her after our phone call a few days ago, but now here she is with a message that sets my teeth on edge.

Can’t get a hold of Roman… Strange… Will keep trying…

Exhaling through my nose, I swipe up at the message to clear it away. Of course she can’t get a hold of him. It’s almost as if the guy left me with nothing but a note and fled the province, just like I told her he did. Weird. Honestly, it’s humiliating that she even tried—and offensive. She still doesn’t believe what I told her on the phone, despite having some time to think about it.

My fingers grip the phone tighter, my eyes unfocused as I scroll through the search results. I still see her text in my mind, with all of its unnecessary ellipses.

“You’re really taking your time,” Wyatt says.

My head snaps up, distracted. “Huh?”

“Overwhelmed by choice?” he continues, jerking his chin toward my phone.

“Oh, uh, let’s just go here.” I pick one at random without reading anything more about it, then plug the address into Wyatt’s phone, propping it up against the dash.

“You got it, boss.”

I gaze out the window as he follows the GPS, doing my best to shove away all thoughts of my mother’s message, but the whole situation makes my blood boil. The fact that she reached out to him in the first place, the fact that he was always so sweet to her, but he doesn’t even have the decency to tell her what he did to her daughter.

He’s truly a certified piece of shit.

We head downtown, where traffic thickens, even at this time of night. Wyatt locates the bar, making a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, leaning forward to read the sign as we drive past, though I barely notice. He finds a parking spot around the corner, and we step outside into the humid air. I take a moment to stretch my limbs and back, feeling sore.

I’m looking forward to taking it easy tonight.

I don’t register the intense thumping of a bassline until we get closer to the building, and it takes me another second to see that all of the people on the sidewalk are actually waiting to get into the bar. I spot a group of drag queens chatting excitedly. My pace slows to a halt as I look up at the name, written in rainbow letters: House 204.

Turning on my heel, I glance at Wyatt and point at the building. “ Did I—”

“Yes,” he replies, reading my mind. “You brought us to a gay bar.” He points at the large sign on the sidewalk. “And it looks like there’s a drag show tonight.”

I laugh shortly. Of course the one time I’m not paying attention, I bring us to what appears to be the hottest spot in town. Noor and I love going to a drag show every now and then, but I was looking for a more lowkey night after a day of travelling. Somewhere quiet and simple, where I could unwind.

“I thought it was an intriguing choice,” Wyatt quips, folding his arms over his chest, looking amused. “But I’m certainly not opposed.”

“I wasn’t paying attention when I picked,” I admit, turning to walk down the sidewalk. “I’m sure we can find somewhere quieter.”

I take a few steps, scanning the names of the nearby buildings, before I notice Wyatt hasn’t followed me. His eyes are on the entrance to House 204, shifting his weight as he watches people trickle inside. I suppress my smile.

“You want to stay, don’t you?” I say, levelling him with a knowing gaze.

He meets my eyes, looking sheepish. “Kinda. Looks like fun.”

I debate for a few moments before sighing, lifting my shoulders in a shrug. Maybe fate brought us here for a reason. “All right, what the hell?”

?

After what feels like an eternity, we reach the front of the line. Wyatt gestures for me to go in first, holding the door open. Someone else tries to squeeze through the entrance at the same time as me, and I end up much closer to Wyatt than I intend to be—close enough range to breathe in the remainder of his cologne, my shoulder brushing against his chest. I swear he tenses beneath me, but I ignore it, pushing my way into the building.

My senses are immediately overloaded.

The smell of booze is strong, and the room is dark, save for the flashing strobe lights overhead. There’s a DJ across the room to my left, his head bobbing as he grips his headphones with one hand and moves the turntable with the other. A group of young people crowds the bar, eagerly awaiting their drinks as others dance, laugh, and chat. Tables are clustered around a small stage that awaits the drag queen as the staff tests the sound equipment.

Wyatt steps ahead of me, holding out a hand. “You’re small,” he shouts over the music. “Don’t want you to get lost.”

I stare at his outstretched fingers. My worries from yesterday echo in my mind—the ones about Wyatt potentially having ulterior motives. But the truth is, he can only play me if I let him. Would holding his hand really be such a big deal?

And you totally want to hold his hand, a tiny voice whispers. Admit it.

After a moment of hesitation, I curl my hand into his. It feels like flames are kissing my skin, starting at my fingertips and spreading throughout the rest of my body. We push our way through throngs of people, toward the tables. As soon as we reach an empty one, I slide my hand out of his, suddenly wanting to pretend like that never happened, but my heart still pounds in my chest. I straighten out my romper, feeling grateful I wore something mildly cute today, and take a seat facing the stage.

Wyatt sits next to me and leans his elbows on the table, looking as though he’s eagerly anticipating the show. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and types something into it. “According to their website, Lola Maxxwell is performing tonight. She’s a local. Looks like she won’t be on for another fifteen minutes,” he says. It’s a little easier to hear him on this side of the room. He glances up. “What are you drinking?”

“I’ll have an espresso martini,” I say. “Thanks.”

“On it.”

With a resolute nod, he rises to his feet and heads toward the circular bar. My eyes linger on him as he waits patiently for the bartender to become available. When he gives them a charming smile, saying something to make the bartender laugh, I feel a pinch of nerves in my stomach, suddenly feeling like I’m on a date. I guess it’s because Wyatt is sort of acting like we are on a date.

Holding my hand, even if it was just to guide me through the crowd, ordering my drink. They’re bare minimum things, but paired with the words he said yesterday, the ones that kept me up last night— I’m more into women who can’t stand me —it feels. . . intimate. I can’t let my guard down.

After he recites our drink order, he leans against the bar languidly, surveying the crowd with a relaxed smile. I envy his ability to be comfortable and treat every place like home, no matter his environment. I tear my gaze away, not wanting him to catch me staring, and take my phone out to give me something else to focus on.

Moments later, I catch the scent of that familiar amber wood cologne as he returns, making me stiffen. He slides my martini in front of me and sits down. Sighing in relief, I take an eager sip. Hopefully it will be enough to shake away these unwanted feelings.

“Thanks,” I say again, after the liquid courses its way down my throat.

Wyatt tips his beer bottle in my direction before tossing some of it back. For the past five days, we’ve spent nearly every waking moment together in close proximity, but now, sitting next to him in a dark nightclub, I feel like the space between us is a tangible thing, shrinking and growing marginally as we adjust our positions.

I avoid looking at him, not enjoying how I’m getting the perfect angle of his face. Or maybe I’m enjoying it a little too much. Every day, it gets harder to enforce my anti-ogling policy. Straightening my posture, I focus on the empty stage, taking small sips of my martini.

Thankfully, it isn’t long before Lola Maxxwell takes to the stage. The dancing on the other side of the club halts as everyone gathers around to see the show. She’s wearing a full-length denim bodysuit with intricate floral sequins that shimmer under the lights, unzipped just enough to have an exorbitant amount of fake cleavage. Her blond wig is teased to high heaven beneath her white cowboy hat, and her over dramatic makeup is so perfect it looks airbrushed.

The crowd erupts in applause and drunken hollers as Lola basks it in all, welcoming the praise. I can’t help the grin that takes hold of my face as I sit back and clap. The joy of seeing a drag queen has always felt so infectious. Wyatt cups his hands around his mouth, letting out a whoop, his knee bouncing in anticipation. His excitement is palpable.

“Howdy, y’all!” Lola greets cheerfully as she grips the microphone and removes it from the stand. She introduces herself, and by the response she’s met with, it’s clear that she’s a local favourite.

As she begins her first lip-sync, a stirring performance of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 with plenty of crowd work, the audience claps in time with the beat, and I find myself bobbing in my wooden chair, the energy in the room seeping under my skin, reviving me. I’m glad we decided to stay. A quiet drink somewhere else would’ve been nice, but the good vibes of a drag performance are truly unmatched.

The show goes on like this, and Wyatt finds some cash in his wallet to tip Lola when she walks by our table. She accepts it gratefully, fanning herself with the bill before stuffing it into her cleavage with a wink in Wyatt’s direction. He pretends to look scandalized, placing a hand on his chest.

There’s a brief pause in the show as Lola announces it’s time for an outfit change, and Wyatt springs up from his seat, ducking his head to say, “I’m going to use the restroom.”

I nod absentmindedly, taking the opportunity to check my phone as he walks away. I snap a picture of my surroundings, sending it to Noor. Knowing my best friend, she’ll be pissed I went to a drag show without her. Her response comes as a string of exclamation points.

My lips pull up in a smile as we text back and forth for a few minutes. She bitches about her office admin job, and I update her on the trip. It feels like no time has passed before Lola returns in a flared skirt that twirls when she moves her hips, followed by Wyatt sliding back into his chair.

“Hey,” he says, sounding out of breath. I give him a questioning look at the amusement in his eyes, but he just makes a suggestive face at the stage.

“All right,” Lola says once the crowd dies down. She removes the mic from the stand once more, strolling across the stage. “This next number is a special audience request. So I’m hoping to get some participation with this one.”

My phone nearly falls out of my hand at the sound of the punchy synth notes that ring throughout the club, followed by Gwen Stefani’s voice. Bubble Pop Electric.

I grit my teeth and shoot Wyatt eye-daggers. He’s in his seat, a hand over his mouth to undoubtedly hide his shit-eating grin.

“What did you do?” I seethe.

He shrugs innocently, but is laughing too hard to answer. I blanch as Lola heads in our direction, her gaze locked on me as she approaches with a big smile. Swallowing, I hope fervently that she’s looking at someone behind me, but then she raises her finger and points, erasing any doubt.

I smile nervously, tilting my head in Wyatt’s direction before threatening in a low voice, “I am going to kill you.”

His only response is to give me a challenging look, as if this is one of his dares.

“Come on up here, sugar,” Lola encourages, holding out a hand. “I heard this is your song.”

I shake my head frantically. “Oh, no, I really—”

“Don’t be shy! Your fella told me this one always makes you dance.”

I resist the urge to stomp on Wyatt’s foot under the table.

Face flaming, I hesitate. Every part of me wants to keep myself firmly planted in my chair to prevent anyone from dragging me on stage. But two things in particular are making me reconsider—firstly, I don’t want to kill the vibe of the show, and secondly, I want to prove Wyatt wrong. He thinks I won’t do it, that I’ll vehemently resist until the bitter end.

And it’s for that reason that I accept Lola’s hand, letting her pull me to my feet as the crowd erupts in cheers, egging me on. She sways her hips as she guides me toward the stage, and my pulse thrums in my throat. I feel like there’s a giant spotlight over my head. When I catch Wyatt’s eye, he looks pleased as punch, face splitting in a grin, pure delight in his eyes .

I brush some of my hair behind my ear, using it as an excuse to subtly showcase my middle finger, aimed in Wyatt’s direction. He laughs before he reaches for his beer, lifting it as if to toast me with his own middle finger out.

Bastard.

Taking a deep breath, I try to rid myself of every last shred of my dignity. Realistically, I will never see anyone in this room again—save for Wyatt—so why should I care what they think of me? It’s something I’ve told myself time and time again when trying to loosen up, and it’s never seemed to work. But in this case, it’s probably more embarrassing if I don’t commit.

So, pretending to be anyone other than present-day Stella Moore, I shimmy my shoulders, moving my hips in time to the beat, doing my best to keep up with Lola and channel the drunk girl Wyatt remembers from the grad party. Might as well give him a show. I let Lola take my hand, spinning me around as she lip-syncs. It’s hard to ignore all the eyes on me, but I remind myself that most of these people are extremely drunk anyway. They’re arguably the best audience I could ask for during a performance like this. I could dance like a complete idiot, and most of them would think it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen.

“Look at you go!” Lola remarks appreciatively, pleased that I’m attempting to pull off some moves after my initial refusal to join her. She’s the star of the show here, and I’m more than happy to let her have the spotlight, but she’s been kind enough to let me share the stage, so I don’t want to disappoint her.

I flip my hair over my shoulder with a toss of my head, my eyes finding Wyatt’s in the crowd. His gaze is focused on me, and it’s as if I can see the mischief in his dark eyes from here, a smug smile etched onto his face. He claps his hands over his head enthusiastically when he catches me looking, enjoying this way too much. Normally, this would piss me off, but I might be having fun. Maybe.

I place my hands on my thighs, slowly dragging them upward over my hips as I sway them, then up my torso before bringing them over my head and back down again. I’m not sure what compels me to pull such an overtly sensual move—but I think a part of me believes it will wipe the smug look off Wyatt’s face.

Lola pauses her lip-syncing, placing a hand on her hip, then says into the mic, “You better work, bitch!”

Her comment is met with drunken echoes of similar praise. Heat engulfs my cheeks as I smile, suddenly shy again. My eyes flicker in Wyatt’s direction, and this time, there’s a little something other than mischief burning in his dark gaze. It breaks me out of this moment, out of whatever confidence I just had, snapping me back to the reality of dancing in front of a bunch of strangers. What the hell am I trying to do? Suddenly, I’m in my head, my movements becoming awkward and disconnected.

Mercifully, the song ends, and after accepting Lola’s praise and the cheers from the audience, I hurry back to my seat, out of breath. Wyatt watches me, looking incredibly proud of himself.

I slide into my chair, slapping a hand on the table, making both of our drink glasses jump. “I’m going to murder your entire family.”

“You looked great up there.”

His eyes linger on my face, but I don’t let the moment hang for long as I snatch my martini. “I was absolutely not drunk enough for that. You’re evil.”

Wyatt laughs. “You totally killed it!” When my response is nothing but an eye roll, he leans forward, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually get up there. But you looked like you were having a good time. Do you want to leave?”

“No,” I snap, chugging from my glass. “Now I need to get drunk enough to forget what just happened.”

He fights a smile and springs to his feet. “In that case, I’ll go get us another round.”