Roadside Attractions

Fourteen

WINNIPEG, MB

Things mellow out after Lola’s show. The dancing resumes on the opposite side of the club, but we find a quieter table on the second floor, where the volume is low enough to have an actual conversation.

I’m a few drinks deep now, and I’ve got enough alcohol in me to laugh about my humiliating performance on stage earlier, rather than dying from shame at the thought of it. Noor is going to be even more crushed that she missed out tonight.

Brushing my hair behind my shoulders, I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table, peering over the railing beside me. Below us, the party rages on, but it feels as though I’m watching it on a TV screen rather than witnessing it happen in real-time. I much prefer observing from the sidelines to being in the thick of it all.

Across the table, Wyatt leans forward too, mirroring my pose, and the movement draws my eye. Again, I become aware of the physical, pulsating distance between us, somehow magnified in my muddled haze. It wouldn’t take much to close that gap. If I wanted to, I could slide my hand forward, and it’d only be a matter of seconds before our fingers grazed.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, scrutinizing my expression, and I do my best to maintain a poker face.

“Revenge,” I lie, lifting an eyebrow. “How I’m going to make you pay for bribing a drag queen to pull me up on stage.”

Wyatt smirks. “I already paid for it. Literally. That’s what a bribe is.”

“Yeah, well, I still deserve some sort of compensation.” I swirl what’s left of my latest martini. “I’ll get you when you least expect it.”

“Oh?” Wyatt remarks, and the intrigued tone of his voice makes a flicker of desire burn in a completely unacceptable area of my body. Maybe drinking was a bad idea. “Will you now?”

I give him a stony glare. “Don’t sound so excited. I’m going to give you hell.”

His dark eyes sear into mine, happily accepting my challenge. “Looking forward to it. I’ll sleep with one eye open.”

We fall into one of our many staring contests before I break it, downing the last of my drink. I think back to Wyatt’s words when he first brought up the infamous grad party, citing it as the first time he understood why Roman was dating me, and the way he’d called me. . . magnetic . The way his eyes had lingered on my waterlogged form when I dragged myself out of the water in Blind River. It’s clear that he gets a kick out of watching me make a fool out of myself, but maybe there’s more to his decision to get me up on stage for an encore.

Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Without hopping onto Tinder or chatting up a stranger, I’m the only option Wyatt has at the moment. And as long as I’ve known him, he hasn’t ever seemed able to keep it in his pants for very long. I’m confident our current proximity is the source of whatever attraction he may be feeling towards me right now. I don’t know whether this information makes me feel relieved or hurt.

Now that I’m no longer dating his best friend, being considered a viable option for Wyatt is uncharted territory. As always, Noor’s voice is floating in the back of my head, urging me to make mistakes. Because that’s what this would be—a huge fucking mistake. I have no plans to find myself a rebound, but regardless, Wyatt would be the messiest choice.

I mean, my ex-boyfriend’s best friend? Come on. Being abandoned by Roman may have screwed me up, but I still have some sensibilities. Besides, despite Wyatt’s womanizing ways, he’s followed the infamous bro code as long as I’ve known him.

My mouth seems to be on a different page than my brain, even after that inner monologue. “Tell me about the girls you dated,” I blurt, resisting the urge to facepalm. My last martini broke my filter. Why am I asking him this?

Wyatt tilts his head and eyes me quizzically. “Are you about to grill me on my dating history?”

My brain’s response time is much slower than usual as I scramble for an answer. “No,” I say defensively. “But the last time we talked about it, you seemed to disagree with my categorization of you. Though I will point out that you also didn’t offer a rebuttal.”

Wyatt folds his arms over his chest. “All right, what do you want to know?”

“All of those girls. . . do they even mean anything to you?” I ask, intending for my voice to sound playful, but it comes out much more serious than I hoped.

He presses his lips together, watching my face intently. Then he lets out a bitter grunt, shaking his head. “Fuck that guy,” he mutters under his breath, before resuming his normal volume. “Of course they do, Stella. I’m not a total dickhead.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, picking at my napkin. “But they must not mean that much if you feel the need to keep dating around.” An offended look darts across his features, but I can’t stop my drunken word-vomiting. “You’ve had a revolving door of women around you ever since I’ve known you. I just find it hard to believe you don’t think they’re disposable, given your track record. How could any of those relationships be meaningful?”

He bristles visibly at my words. “Well, I certainly get why you’ve hated me all this time if this is what you’ve believed,” he remarks, his voice low and angry. “It feels great to know my supposed best friend shit-talked me to his girlfriend for four years straight.”

Shit. He’s pissed. Guilt swirls in my stomach—I’ve gone too far .

“Wyatt,” I say, shoulders drooping. His gaze flickers to mine reluctantly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why Roman chose to talk about you the way he did. But it wouldn’t have been so believable if you weren’t with a different girl practically every time I saw you.”

He leans back, removing his ball cap to run a hand through his dark waves before putting it on again. “I’ve dated around,” he says simply. “I’m not denying that. I like meeting people. I like connections and romance. I won’t pretend I don’t like the physical aspect too. It’s exciting.”

I bite the inside of my lip and brace myself. I don’t know why I care about his reasoning so much. Maybe because I’m starting to hope Wyatt isn’t the kind of guy I’ve always believed him to be.

“But I never promised anybody a future I didn’t give them, Stella. All of those girls knew exactly what they were getting with me from the jump. I’m not in the business of treating women like they’re disposable. Despite what you may have heard about me, I do register that the women I’ve dated are fully fleshed-out human beings.”

I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, I’m just. . . trying to understand.”

“When was the last time you even saw me with someone else? I took a break from dating a while ago,” he admits.

The words hit me squarely in the chest. I realize it has been a minute since he brought someone around, but I guess I just figured he hadn’t deemed them important enough to tag along. I feel another stab of guilt.

“What made you take a break?” I ask cautiously.

“It was fun, but nobody felt. . . right .” His voice softens. “Nothing ever sticks. It started to feel a bit lonely in the end.” He pauses and shoots me a suspicious look. “Why the sudden interest, anyway?”

I maintain his gaze, because looking away would feel like defeat. But his words have caught me red-handed. It sounds like I’m trying to vet him, to see if I can trust him, and I’ve just mentally established that I’m not going down that road.

I sigh. “I already told you, I’m just trying to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You,” I say. “I want to know the real truth, not what Roman told me.”

Wyatt blinks, something unreadable sliding over his expression. He rests his elbows on the table again. “The truth is,” he murmurs, “I met this girl a long time ago, and I’ve been trying to find someone who makes me feel the way she does ever since.”

Surprise washes over me at the unexpectedly sweet response. “Why not just go for that girl, then?”

He smiles as if laughing at some private joke, but it looks sad. “It’s complicated. I don’t think she’ll ever see me the way I see her.”

I lift a shoulder. “Since when are you so easily defeated? I thought you were unflappable. You never know unless you try.”

His dark eyes seem to spark, lips twitching. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

My brows pinch. I should be indifferent toward this development—relieved, even. Wyatt being emotionally unavailable makes him even less appealing—but instead, something foreign and ugly twists in my stomach. I find myself trying to call forth images of what his roster of girls looked like, wondering which one this extraordinary girl might be, because she has to be extraordinary if she can make the infamous Wyatt Song consider settling down.

Between us, Wyatt’s phone lights up on the table, drawing both of our eyes. I can’t read it from where I’m sitting, but the amusement slowly fades from his face. Sobering himself up, he flips the phone over, expression rigid.

I give him a look, jerking my chin in the direction of the phone. “What was that about?”

He hesitates, seeming to war with himself for another few beats. “A notification. Roman just posted a photo on Instagram.”

It takes a moment for me to process the words. I blink, waiting for my brain to catch up. When it does, I feel my pulse spike, sitting up straighter in my seat. Wyatt watches the change in my demeanour, his expression unreadable.

“Don’t you want to see what it is?” I ask, unable to hide the eagerness in my voice. “Maybe he’ll mention Tofino.”

“I’ll look later. We’re having a good night; I don’t want him to get in the way of that.”

“What?” I say, making a face. “I want to see it now.” I fumble for my own phone. But when I open the app and search Roman’s name, I get zero results. Days ago, I was able to see his profile. It’s such a minor thing on top of everything else, but it still manages to feel like a major slap in the face. Worse than the way I’d felt when I saw that he’d removed all traces of me from his page. “Oh my god. I think he blocked me.”

“Maybe it’s for good reason,” Wyatt replies, voice somber.

“Why are you acting weird?” I stretch my hand across the table. “Give me your phone. We should look at it.”

Wyatt leans back, out of my reach, and I huff in annoyance. “Fine,” he says. “But let me look first.”

“You’re not even the one who wants to see it,” I grumble, folding my arms over my chest.

Ignoring me, he holds the phone close to his face so I have no chance of catching a glimpse. I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for him to screen the post, but I cease my movements when his expression goes slack, skin paling under the dim lighting.

“What is it?” I slowly uncross my arms.

Wyatt’s dark eyes flicker to my face. “I. . . I don’t think you should see.”

I laugh nervously, dread forming in my belly. “What do you mean? Show me.”

He continues to stare at me, pity on his face. My agitation grows. I reach forward again, wanting to rip the Band-Aid off, but he refuses.

“Stella,” he warns.

“ Wyatt . Give it to me.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then drops the phone into my palm. I clutch it with both hands tightly, squinting at the screen with bleary, drunken eyes. But as soon as I catch sight of the photo, it’s an electric shock to my system, a bucket of ice water over my head. My vision clears.

It’s a selfie. Roman stands in front of what looks to be Calgary Tower, the phone angled to show the top of it stretching toward the sky. His brown hair is ruffled and wind-blown, a bright smile on his face. A woman stands next to him, kissing his cheek, her blonde hair blowing in his direction. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the caption makes it all worse.

My travel buddy. Every day is an adventure with you.

I blink at the picture, unable to process it. Before I can stop myself, I’m tapping on her profile. Margot. She’s a painter. She wears long, flowy skirts, forgoes makeup, reads Tarot, makes her own oat milk. She’s worldly, free-spirited, and smiley. My polar opposite. All the things I felt like Roman was missing out on by being with me.

Worst of all is the photo of the two of them together with the caption loverboy , posted exactly one week before he left me.

Bile rises in my throat. The sounds of the club fade into the background as cold sweeps through my fingers, spreading up my arms and then into my heart. I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen, even as my vision blurs again.

This whole time. This whole fucking time he’s had someone with him. He didn’t just leave me behind, he actively ran away with someone.

I’m going to be sick.

“Stella?” Wyatt’s voice breaks through the white noise in my brain, and I blink, looking up. The rest of the world comes into focus again. His face is creased with worry, his voice gentle. “Are you okay?”

I stare at him another moment, vacant, before setting down the phone and sliding it across the table. As if in a trance, I rise from my seat, ignoring him as he calls after me. I storm toward the stairs, down to the main floor, and then out into the cool, night air. Once outside, I find myself struggling for breath, my chest contracting tightly.

I place my hand against the brick wall of the building, using it to remain upright as I stumble down the sidewalk, willing myself not to shed another tear for a man who never loved me. A man who left me, stole from me, cheated on me. But saltwater presses against the backs of my eyelids, threatening a downpour.

“Stella.”

Wyatt materializes seconds later. I hadn’t even realized he was following me. Pressing my back against the wall, I reluctantly meet his eyes. He steps closer, ducking his head, eyebrows furrowed tightly, examining every inch of my face.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he murmurs. In my periphery, his hand twitches, fingers flexing, though he doesn’t make any moves toward me.

“I’m not crying,” I say stubbornly, though by the sound of my voice, we can both tell I’m close to it.

“He’s a piece of shit,” he announces firmly. “A fucking bastard.”

I let out a short, warbled laugh. “We knew that already.”

But Wyatt remains serious, gaze burning into me. It makes me realize how close we’re standing. To any passersby, we must look like a couple, stealing a moment together outside of a nightclub. A shiver skates down my spine.

“I hope you also know that he never deserved to be with you,” he says, voice low. “Not for a second.”

My eyes well, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek, my throat feeling too thick to speak. I can only continue to stare at him as if he’s a lifeline, as if his words are the buoy that will keep me from being dragged into a tumultuous sea.

“I’m serious,” he continues fiercely. “He didn’t deserve even a moment of your time. Stella, you’re so much better off without him.”

I swallow as my face threatens to crumple. Don’t you dare cry. “Then why do I feel like this?” My voice is barely above a whisper—I don’t know how he even hears it over the music thumping through the wall.

Wyatt’s lips pull upward in a rueful smile. “Because you loved him. Even though he wasted it. So. . . mourn that feeling, if you need to. But don’t mourn him .”

I search his face, looking for any insincerity, any traces of humour, any ulterior motives. But all I find is sympathy and simmering anger—anger for me . This close, he’s all I can see, shutting out the rest of the world. It makes it easier to focus on his words, to believe them, even though I’m still tipsy and on the verge of a total mental breakdown.

He swallows, gaze heavy on mine, placing a hand on the wall near my head. An electric current pulses through me. “Don’t waste any more of your love on him,” he murmurs. “Save it for someone who will know how goddamn lucky they are to have it.”

My lips part, heartbeat thundering violently. I don’t know how to respond. My entire body has become engulfed in heat. His words feel like a command, a promise. I want to believe him—believe that those who receive my love are lucky to have it, but when people keep throwing it away, what am I supposed to think?

A large group flows out of the building, their shouts and laughter disrupting the silence, and Wyatt breaks my stare. But he takes his time lowering his hand.

The pressure behind my eyelids eases and my face feels dried out, even though no tears actually fell. I sniffle and blink rapidly. Some of the tension seems to leave Wyatt’s body when he realizes I’m not about to start sobbing.

“Did you know?” I ask, fearful of the answer.

Wyatt’s lips press into a firm line. “I had a gut feeling something was up,” he admits, after a pause. “He started being flaky with me before he left. But I didn’t know why until now.”

“What are we going to do when we find him?”

“Ask me again when I’m feeling slightly less murderous,” he quips bitterly.

A smile tugs at my lips, though I fight it, along with the unfamiliar feeling that blooms in my chest. Wyatt has his own reasons for being upset with Roman, but I can’t deny a part of me feels a thrill at the thought of him being upset on my behalf.

He gives me a once over, as if checking for any visible cracks. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Absolutely,” I say. But we linger a moment longer, the distance between us smaller than ever, before I break the spell, pushing off the wall and heading toward the Toyota.

If Wyatt hadn’t been here to pull me from the depths of my pain, I probably would’ve drowned in it.