Roadside Attractions

Seventeen

ELBOW, SK

I don’t sleep a wink.

Whether it’s due to feeling surveilled by both the plethora of lifeless Victorian children and Jesus Christ himself or the fact that Wyatt is in the next bed over, something has my skin buzzing, electric. My heart races as I stare up at the ceiling. Moonlight streams in through the window, and I’m on red alert, aware of the slightest noise—the house shifting, the creak of the mattress as Wyatt rolls over, the sighs he releases in his sleep.

I reach for my phone to distract myself, turning the brightness all the way down and shifting onto my side to shield the glare with my body. The Wi-Fi at George and Edith’s B it had been his dream to make it into an issue someday. Is this truly the way the world works? He gets to dump me, ditch his lifelong friend, steal from both of us, and run off into the sunset with a beautiful woman while all of his dreams come true?

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I resist the urge to hurl my phone across the room. I settle for tossing it onto my pillow instead, pulling the covers over my head. Fuck everything.

My rage keeps me taut like a live-wire for the remainder of the night, and shortly after the sun finally makes an appearance, I sit up in bed slowly, glancing over to where Wyatt is still sleeping soundly, his lips parted, hair mussed. He sleeps on his stomach, one muscled arm hanging over the edge of the bed.

It’s endearing to see him this way, face clear of any impish expressions. He looks younger and more boyish. Totally harmless.

I creep out of bed, tiptoeing to the bathroom. I can’t pretend to be asleep anymore. Doing my best to be as quiet as possible, I get ready for the day, releasing my hair from the high ponytail I threw it into last night. It’s mostly dry now, and I reach for my flat iron, but pause as soon as my fingers make contact with the cool surface.

I like your hair like that.

My eyes flicker up to the mirror, to the cascade of thick curls in my reflection. It feels foolish—and awfully revealing—to do something to my hair based on a compliment from a man, especially when it’s a supposedly reformed womanizer like Wyatt.

But I put the flat iron down. At the very least, my hair could definitely use a break from the barrage of heat I’ve been subjecting it to. I tell myself that’s the only reason I spend time manicuring my curls today.

After doing my makeup, I step back to appraise my reflection again. I look softer, somehow. My skin is sun-kissed, my hair framing my face in a way it hasn’t in what feels like ages. I get dressed in the bathroom, slipping on a pair of pleated shorts and a cropped t-shirt, and by the time I’m done, I hear the sounds of Wyatt waking up in the next room.

Bracing myself before opening the door, I put on a mask of complete composure and step back into the bedroom. The mask slips the second I cross over the threshold.

Wyatt is in the midst of changing his shirt, giving me full view—for the second time on this trip—of his abs. My gaze lands on his exposed skin, and I feel a swell of exasperation course through me, because it’s getting ridiculous at this point. There should be regulations to prevent certain people from being exceedingly attractive. It’s starting to feel like an overkill.

He finishes pulling his shirt over his head, straightening out the hem, and noticing me hovering in the doorway with a death grip on the doorknob for the first time. Once again, I’ve been caught ogling him. But it takes him a second longer to notice this time. I watch as his eyes sweep over my appearance, lingering on my hair, an unreadable look within them.

For a brief, merciful moment, I think I’ve gotten away with it. But then his face changes, his mouth sliding into an all-knowing smirk, and those dark eyes spark as though they’ve been lit by a flame.

“Good morning, Stella Jane,” he remarks smoothly. The flame in his eyes works in tandem with the way he says my name, resulting in me feeling like I’m burning alive. “You look a little tongue-tied.”

“I’m—good morning,” I stammer. The lack of sleep has made me jittery.

His lips twitch. “Be careful,” he says, gesturing to one of the portraits. “He knows when your thoughts are impure.”

I glower at him to cover my blush, and it helps break the spell. “Fuck off. My thoughts are impure because I’m contemplating ways to murder you.”

Wyatt grins, running a hand through his hair absentmindedly, and I hate myself for wondering what it would feel like between my fingers—and what his fingers would feel like between my thighs.

Jesus Christ.

Literally.

This morning is off to a horrible start. I feel the intense and immediate urge to stick my head into the freezer or spritz myself in the face with holy water. I’ve never been into religion, but it feels exceptionally blasphemous to have these kinds of thoughts in this bedroom.

Scowling, I storm toward my suitcase, tucking my pyjamas inside. “Edith said breakfast would be served around eight,” I say, pointedly changing the subject.

“About that. . .” Wyatt trails off. “ What if we skip it?”

I glance at him over my shoulder. “You mean you don’t want to enjoy another meal with Edith and George? I’m shocked.”

“I know,” he says, sighing wistfully as he plays along. “But I just enjoyed it too much. I don’t want to ruin the memory by doing it again.”

I resist a smile and watch him carefully. “What about Hannah?”

He blinks as if it takes him a second to recognize the name. “What about her?”

Stupidly, I feel a wave of pleasure. “Nothing, I guess.” I straighten out, rising to my feet and folding my arms over my torso. “So, what do you suggest we do instead?”

His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long, enough for me to realize his mind has gone to a wicked place. Heat spreads through my body like wildfire once more. “I did some research, and I say we check out the golf club. We can have breakfast overlooking the harbour,” he says.

Getting out of this stifling, creepy house is the only thing I want at the moment, so I’m not about to turn down the opportunity to explore. “Sounds good to me.”

“Perfect,” he chirps, eyes sparkling. “It’s a date.”

?

The harbour is surprisingly charming, a channel of water leading out to the enormous expanse of blue that makes up Lake Diefenbaker. It’s filled with sailboats and lined by a winding walking trail along the rolling hills that border each side.

Overhead, the sky is grey, and the air feels thick and muggy from an impending thunderstorm. Out here, with nothing obstructing my view, I can see dark clouds in the distance, but we’ve still got time before it hits us.

Surprisingly, Wyatt is obeying my rules and hasn’t even joked about hopping into a sailboat or any other form of watercraft once. I follow him as he climbs up a hill, high enough for a great view of the lake and all of the boats waiting to be taken out.

“I have to say,” I begin once I’ve caught my breath, “I wasn’t looking forward to this stop. I’ve never had much of a desire to visit the prairies. But this is not what I was expecting.”

“See what happens when you try new things?” Wyatt teases. “There’s a whole world out there waiting for you.”

I roll my eyes, though the action feels more amicable than it has in the past. “Who would’ve thought,” I say flatly. “Life is magical.”

“And wait until you hear about what comes after death,” he continues, then stops short. “I won’t spoil it. I’m sure Edith would be more than happy to explain it to you.”

I sputter a laugh, and Wyatt smiles victoriously. “We’d never get out of there if I asked her about that.” I pause. “That’s right, I didn’t tell you what she said to me last night.”

He lifts a thick eyebrow in intrigue. “I’m listening.”

“She purposely gave us the twin beds because she knew we weren’t married,” I remark, and Wyatt’s eyes brighten with amusement. “Apparently what consenting adults do on their own time is totally her business.”

“Well, I do have some sympathy for her,” he offers, “since they would be doing it in her business.”

I snort at the thought of sweet, old-fashioned Edith having to hear her guests going at it. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Wyatt steps forward, leaning on the railing at the edge of the hill, watching me with great scrutiny. “Are you offended?”

“About?”

“Edith thinking we’re a couple,” he says lightly.

The question catches me off guard, and I have nowhere to hide beneath Wyatt’s careful gaze. “I mean, she’s not the first one to think that,” I say, brushing a curl out of my face to distract from the heat in my cheeks.

“That’s not what I asked.” ?

I look at him suspiciously. “Why are you asking me that in the first place?”

“You’re being awfully evasive,” he accuses, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I’m not offended,” I huff. “Most people with heteronormative brains see a man and a woman together and automatically assume they’re a couple. Are you offended?”

“Not in the slightest.” Before I have a chance to contemplate what that means, he adds, “Besides, I get a kick out of how you react.”

“Glad I provide you with so much entertainment,” I mutter, focusing on the expanse of blue below us. “I’m ecstatic that some random couple in Saskatchewan will forever think their bed and breakfast was part of our elopement.”

Wyatt perches on the railing, the breeze ruffling his hair. “All right, then,” he says. “I’ll stop letting people think we’re together. How should I introduce us?”

I shrug and throw up my hands in exasperation. “You don’t need to give people our life story. Just clarify that we’re not together, then move on.”

An unreadable look passes over his face. “And when people follow up by asking what we are to each other?”

“Why does it matter? Our mission with this trip is too weird to explain. Anyway, it’s none of their business. Just say we’re. . . acquaintances.”

“ Acquaintances ?” he repeats. “After four years of seeing each other all the time and a week crammed together in a car, you think we’re still just one step above strangers?”

My frown deepens when I detect the hint of hurt in his voice. I’m not sure what he wants from me. But even as I said it, acquaintances didn’t feel like the right word. It’s too cold, too informal. Wyatt has felt like the thorn in my side for years, always popping up when I didn’t want him to, purposely trying to aggravate me and get under my skin. But I can’t deny that these past eight days have been wildly different.

This should be the most heartbreaking time of my life, coming off the heels of a four-year relationship, discovering the man I thought I loved stole from me and cheated on me. I should be a crying heap on the floor right now. But I’m not. And it’s all because of Wyatt, even if I don’t want to give him that credit.

“I guess we’re. . .” I begin, trailing off. “Becoming friends. I never thought I’d say that. ”

He smiles, though my answer doesn’t seem to appease him. “I don’t know if I want to be your friend, Stella.”

I feel myself recoil, and the air shifts around us, as if the storm has arrived, even though it’s still far off. “What do you mean?” I ask slowly, searching his eyes.

He purses his lips, searching mine right back. The moment is charged, like when we were standing on his porch, and I persuaded him to bring me along. Like when I took his photo at sunset in Thunder Bay, or watched him in the crowd while I danced next to Lola, or stood outside the pulsing nightclub with Wyatt creating a physical barrier between me and the outside world. It’s a challenge, a burgeoning feeling. Something that activates my fight, flight, or freeze.

And then Wyatt blinks, and the thick atmosphere eases. My pulse returns to a regular pace. “I mean, I prefer friends who don’t fantasize about killing me in my sleep,” he teases, though it feels weak.

“Fine, then we’re back to being acquaintances,” I say, following his lead.

“Yeah, you were right the first time. That sounds better.”

He stands, heading back down the hill. It takes me a second longer to follow him. Despite the light-hearted tone of his voice and the smile on his face, something about the words feels off, disjointed. Displeasure follows me like a storm cloud.

Acquaintances . The word tastes ugly in my mouth.