Roadside Attractions

Twenty-Two

HARVIE HEIGHTS, AB

I wake to the feeling of something on the back of my neck.

My head is full of rocks, my mouth drier than the Sahara, but I frown at the sensation of whatever’s touching my skin. There, and then not, in a gentle, rhythmic pattern.

Air.

No. Breath —warm breath fanning across my skin.

My eyes fly open.

I’m about to sit up—to scramble from the bed—until I realize I’m trapped. Wyatt is spooning me. His arm is slung over my waist, something my subconscious self was apparently a fan of, considering I’ve laced my fingers through his, tucking our hands against my chest.

Holy fuck.

I feel the heat of him behind me, inches away, and it’s like I’ve gotten stuck somewhere between dreaming and waking up. Inhaling shakily, I try to focus, to think of what to do, but my hungover brain has the capability of a crashing computer. I swallow hard, my palms clammy.

There’s no way I can get out of bed without waking him up, and having Wyatt awake and aware of our current predicament sounds like a complete nightmare.

Shit, shit, shit.

Wyatt hasn’t shown any indication that he’s not asleep, but somehow, I feel like he’ll notice the shift in my breathing pattern—from steady to erratic. I’ll never live it down if he knows I managed to snuggle up to him during the night.

God, I don’t even know if I remember what happened last night.

But if my pounding head and general lethargy are anything to go off, I didn’t make good decisions. I’m having flashbacks of the morning after the grad party.

As delicately as I can manage, I disentangle our fingers like I’m in the middle of a game of Operation, and one wrong move will make a blaring buzzer go off. I exhale in relief after I’ve slid my hand out of his. But now what? I have to get out from under his arm. I give it a few moments, listening for any changes in Wyatt’s breathing, but it stays the same.

With a feather-light touch, I grip his wrist with my thumb and forefinger, slowly lifting his arm. Rolling my lips in, I inch away and set his arm down behind me.

Wyatt exhales deeply, a disappointed sound, but he doesn’t wake. Heavy sleeper.

“Moore,” he mumbles, eyebrows furrowing. My heart clenches. For a moment, it sounds so much like he’s scolding me that I think he has to be awake.

I wait, counting to ten in my head, and when his eyelids don't even flutter, I figure I’m in the clear.

We’re still too close, but I don’t have enough room on my side to move. If he woke up now, it would be incriminating. Heart pounding, I roll over so I’m facing him. His one arm is stretched toward me, the other tucked beneath his head, dark waves falling into his eyes, peaceful.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I push his shoulder gently, and he rolls onto his back with another sleepy breath. Not far enough. Wincing, I push him a little more. When he still doesn’t wake, I give him one final shove.

Wyatt slides off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump.

I stifle the strangled noise that tries to rise from my throat, scooting to the edge of the mattress, as far away from the scene of the crime as possible. Wyatt shoots upright, so I quickly squeeze my eyes shut, feigning sleep and trying not to laugh. Then I slowly open them again, making a face of what I hope to be disoriented confusion, and push myself up by my elbows.

Wyatt blinks rapidly. “The fuck?” he utters, voice raspy.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my hangover contributing to the grogginess in my own voice. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“No clue.” He pushes himself into a sitting position. “I must have been having some wild dreams.”

I think of him saying my name moments ago and my stomach flips.

He nods in my direction with a bleary look. “How are you feeling, sport?”

“Like I’m in purgatory,” I say honestly. Now that the adrenaline of waking up to Wyatt spooning me is wearing off, the full force of my hangover comes crashing in. I scrub a hand over my face, expecting to smear yesterday’s makeup, but my face feels surprisingly clean. Huh. When did that happen?

“I guess that’s better than feeling dead?” Wyatt offers. He stands, then flops onto the bed beside me, a chaste distance away. “You really went hard last night.”

Our eyes meet, holding for a few seconds. His face changes, suddenly looking a lot less tired and a lot more amused. “How much do you remember?”

A wave of embarrassment hits me as I consider the question. Not much. “Very little,” I admit with a grimace, reaching for my water bottle on the nightstand. “I feel like I need a lobotomy, but I suppose water will have to do for now. I assume I made a fool of myself. I can only hope there was no karaoke machine.”

Wyatt barks out a laugh. “Not this time. But you were definitely something. ”

I don’t like the mischievous look on his face. “Do I even want to know?”

He folds his arms over his chest, and the action makes the mattress shift beneath us, reminding me that we’re still sharing a bed. I clear my throat, inching away.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks, his voice measured.

My heart tugs with longing.

The last thing I remember is the burning desire to kiss Wyatt, then the realization that he’s in love with someone else.

“Going outside with Owen,” I say carefully.

An unreadable expression darts across his features. Disappointment? He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “Yeah, you still won’t tell me what happened with Lover Boy. But it must’ve been something , because when I came to find you, it was like you’d had a personality transplant.”

I drop my gaze.

“Stella?” he says, voice quieter.

I fidget with the comforter between my fingers before meeting his gaze again. “We kissed,” I admit.

Wyatt’s lips part in surprise. “Oh.”

The silence in the room suddenly thickens.

“I guess I should’ve expected that.” He laughs shortly. My gaze is glued to his face now. “So, what happened? Was he an awful kisser or what?”

“No,” I mumble. “It just made me realize that wasn’t what I wanted, and I didn’t want to lead him on.”

Wyatt offers a strained smile. “Nice of you.”

Awkwardness settles over us. I clear my throat again, throwing back the covers and sliding out of bed before realizing I’m still in last night’s clothes: a ruffled sundress, the straps falling down my shoulders.

“I feel disgusting, so I’m going to go take a shower,” I announce, heading for my suitcase. I rifle through it for a new outfit and my shower supplies. My makeup wipes are in the wrong part of my suitcase. I must’ve tossed them inside carelessly in my drunken haze last night.

I rise to my feet, grab my phone, and am about to go into the bathroom when Wyatt’s voice stops me.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks, face impassive. “Do you want to go to Banff, or should we keep moving?”

I take a moment to consider. Visiting Banff would be beautiful, but it’s close enough that we’d likely come back here for another night. And after what happened this morning, I don’t think it would be wise for us to share a bed again. The memory of Wyatt’s breath warming my skin sends tingles down my spine.

Going to our next destination means we can go back to bunking in totally different rooms.

“Let’s keep moving,” I say definitively. “We’re on the last leg of the trip before we find Roman. I don’t think we should waste any more time.”

He gives me an absent smile. “Right.”

I hesitate by the bathroom door. “So, we’ll just get ready and go?”

He grabs his phone from his nightstand, focusing on the screen. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Okay.” I give him a quick smile, then duck inside the bathroom. Once the door shuts behind me, I lean against it, taking a deep breath. A wave of nausea passes over me, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I really did go hard last night. Stupid idea.

I wish I could remember more.

How did we get back up to the room? When did we fall asleep? More importantly—at what point in the night did our bodies think gravitating toward each other would be an acceptable thing to do? Thank God he didn’t wake up for that.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, about to fire off a text to Noor before seeing that, apparently, I already did. In the late hours of the night, I sent her a string of drunk bathroom selfies. They’re blurry and entirely ridiculous. I resist the urge to facepalm.

After dealing with the barrage of unsolicited pictures, Noor had replied, bitch, go to BED .

I wince, nose scrunching, before sending off an apology.

I’m so sorry about last night.

I’m never drinking again.

it was nothing if not entertaining. but very un-stella of you. what happened??

Girl, I don't even know.

Strange things are happening.

tell me more??

Later, when I'm alone.

oooo so it involves wyatt?

if only u could see my evil smile right now.

I can feel it all the way from here. Stop.

did you finally seal the deal? if u know what i meannnn.

Later!!!

Exhaling sharply, I set my phone on the counter. In hindsight, involving Noor is probably a bad idea. I can tell her everything when I get home.

Under the hot stream of water from the shower head, I close my eyes, trying to bring last night into focus. I think about the things I remember with relative clarity first—meeting Astrid, Owen, and Mei-Lien. Dancing with them. Dancing with Owen, thanks to Wyatt’ s encouragement. Kissing Owen, then being smacked in the face with my feelings for Wyatt. Then. . . ?

Drinking. A lot.

But I must’ve been with Wyatt the rest of the night. I doubt he would’ve left me alone in that state. I massage my temples against a pounding headache. I see brief flashes of moments, but they feel like dreams. Nothing is concrete. I have a vague memory of being carried up the stairs.

God, how embarrassing. I must’ve been such a mess.

There’s something else, though. Wyatt, crouched in front of me, touching my face while I tilted my head back lazily. I bring my fingers to my cheek, trying to make sense of the memory. The makeup wipes in my suitcase.

I remember now.

Wyatt cleaned my face last night before I fell asleep.

Fondness unfurls in my chest at the unexpected gesture. I didn’t think he was the type of guy who’d think to help a drunk girl take off her makeup at the end of the night. A soft smile crosses my lips. He really is full of surprises.

Stop , a tiny voice whispers. I wipe the smile from my face. We’re ten days into this trip, and we’ve established that we’re kind-of-friends now. What Wyatt did last night is something you’d do for a friend, nothing more. I shouldn’t read into things, to find hope where there isn’t any. Wyatt is harbouring some huge, unrequited crush on a mystery girl. Besides, I just got out of a relationship. With his best friend . Well, former best friend. Either way,I’m an idiot for developing feelings for Wyatt while we’re on a trip that was only ever supposed to be about revenge.

I release a heavy sigh, splashing my face with water. This is precisely the kind of thing I don’t need—and why I avoided relationships before Roman. At least when I fell for him, it was simple. Everything with Wyatt feels so complicated. Going forward, the only thing that should be occupying this much brain space is what I'll do to Roman when I find him.

As difficult as it might be, I need to keep my feelings in check.

?

“So,” Wyatt says when we’re back in the Toyota, leaving Ramble Ridge behind, “it’s a bit of a trek, but I had an idea for our next stop.”

I’m doing my best not to sulk in the passenger’s seat, but I feel like absolute shit. It’s bad enough that I’ve forgone makeup and slapped my hair up into a messy bun, sunglasses perched on my nose. The Hangover from Hell continues to batter my brain. Paired with the fact that last night’s revelation means I have no idea how to act around Wyatt anymore, today is shaping up to be a real treat.

“Oh?” I say distantly.

Wyatt ignores my lack of enthusiasm. “I was checking to see if there were any events happening tomorrow, and I saw that there’s going to be a music festival in Cultus Lake in the evening. It’s small, but it looks like it will be a good time.” He glances away from the road to look at me. “Interested?”

Going to a public event where we won’t have a chance to be alone together is probably for the best. “Sure.”

He pauses. “Great. Do you want to pick where we’ll be staying tonight at some point today?”

“Okay.”

Out of the corner of my eye, he peers at me again. He reaches for the AUX cord, holding it out in my direction. “What’ll it be today, maestro? Music or murder?”

I take it from him, then set it back in the cup holder. “Actually, I think I’m going to get some more sleep. I still feel like death. You can play whatever you want.” To further emphasize my point, I use my sweater as a makeshift blanket, reclining my seat a little and closing my eyes.

Wyatt is silent for a few moments. “Moore,” he says, and the low timbre of his voice makes my eyes pop open again. “You’re not telling me something.”

I feign ignorance. “What are you talking about?”

“Something is bugging you,” he pushes, keeping his eyes forward. “Did something else happen last night? Because you’re still acting strange.”

“Did I miss the part where we suddenly agreed to tell each other everything?” I retort stubbornly. “And anyway, there’s nothing to tell.”

Wyatt exhales quietly, his hesitation a palpable thing. “Are you sure a kiss was the only thing that happened between you and Owen?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as my face heats. “ Yes . That’s it. He kissed me, I changed my mind, and he was a perfect gentleman about it. We don’t need to discuss it.”

“It’s just. . .” he trails off, dissatisfied with my answer. “You were completely fine, and then you went outside with him, and you didn’t seem fine anymore. And then with me, you. . .” He laughs humourlessly. “Well, you were different.”

Biting the inside of my cheek, I do my best to save face. Am I really that transparent? Or is he just getting a little too good at reading me? “Look, Wyatt,” I say quietly, “we’re only a couple of days out from finding Roman. Owen was a. . . distraction. This whole trip has been a big distraction. But I think we should focus on why we’re here.”

Wyatt doesn’t say anything for a while. I assume the conversation is finished, so I try to get comfortable in my seat. “You still wear his necklace,” he murmurs finally.

I freeze. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Just an observation.”

The words stab me with guilt, and I don’t know why. Refusing to dignify his comment with a response, I turn away, wondering if I can spend the rest of this drive pretending to be asleep.