Roadside Attractions

Twenty-Three

CULTUS LAKE, BC

We arrive in beautiful British Columbia at nightfall, after a hellish amount of time in the car. Wyatt and I barely spoke, aside from when we stopped for gas and meals. It feels like we’re both mad at each other, God knows why. Regardless of the reason, it’s been an awful lot like torture.

I hate myself for it—for making things weird, for freezing him out, for the secret part of me that wishes I could wake up next to him for real and have it actually mean something. And for the fucking necklace. I’m hyper-aware of it now, as if it’s burning hot, scorching my skin through my t-shirt.

As we roll into Cultus Lake, I lift a tentative hand to fiddle with the pendant, thumb smoothing over the tiny S engraved into the back. It’s been a part of me for three years now. Roman gave it to me on our first anniversary. He sent me on another scavenger hunt, not unlike the one where we officially became a couple, and I’d gone all across the city to follow his clues until I finally found him.

He’d booked us a private table at a restaurant so fancy I don’t even remember the name of it now, and when I arrived—wearing the dress one of the clues had instructed me to—he was there waiting, donning a suit and a pleased smile when he saw the look on my face. It pains me to admit now, but I was blown away by the gesture—that someone would go through all that trouble for me . Planting clues all around Toronto, booking an expensive reservation with a special menu, asking the wait staff to light an array of candles. All of it left me breathless.

But Roman was what I really cared about, standing there like the prince in a storybook, jewellery box in hand. He’d whispered a happy anniversary against my cheek, then recited a new poem he’d written for me as he clasped the pendant around my neck. I haven’t taken the necklace off since.

Looking back, I know that none of it meant anything. He was playing a role, more interested in how he appeared to others than he ever was in me. I remember the starry-eyed looks of the servers, awed by his passion and grand gestures, inflating his ego. He’d posted the whole thing on Instagram with a sappy caption about the things love makes you do, and was promptly flooded with comments singing his praises.

At the time, I felt shy about our intimate moments being publicly broadcasted, but I tried to tell myself it was romantic. He was proud to be with me. I should’ve been grateful.

But it’s obvious now that I was never the thing he was showing off to the world.

All of those posts are gone, of course—I happened to see that before he blocked me. I was wiped clean from all his social media accounts, as though I never existed.

And now, I’ve been replaced.

So why am I clutching onto this piece of jewellery like it’s a lifeline? I should rip it off and hurl it into a large body of water. But deep down, maybe there’s a part of me that’s still in denial that Roman was able to cast me aside so easily. The necklace feels like tangible proof that, at one point in time, he gave a shit about me. That the past four years weren’t for nothing. It’s been a blessing to focus on this road trip, to feel propelled by the fact that I’m doing something. The thought of finding Roman, potentially seeing him in a mere couple of days, doesn’t feel real. It probably won’t even feel real when he’s standing in front of me. He’s always felt mythical, larger than life.

“Stella?”

Wyatt’s voice breaks me out of my Roman-induced trance, and I flinch, letting go of the necklace. He’s eyeing me strangely. I suppose it’s because we’re parked outside the hotel, and I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here, staring into space.

“Are you sleeping in here tonight?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I mumble, unbuckling my seatbelt and stepping out of the vehicle.

The night is quiet, save for the odd car driving past. The wheels of my suitcase rumble over the asphalt as we head inside the hotel. I picked one that’s practically a few steps away from where the music festival will take place tomorrow. The check-in process is simple—separate rooms this time, thank Christ—and it doesn’t take long before we’re handed our key cards and sent on our way upstairs.

We’re on the same floor, and it feels very reminiscent of our first night in Blind River, though this time, we’re on opposite ends of the hall instead of being right across from each other. Wyatt pauses when we step out of the elevator.

“Do you want to get something to eat after we drop off our stuff?” he asks.

I shift on my heels. Spending more time together in uncomfortable silence sounds painful. “I think I just want to get some sleep.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. “Should we just skip the festival tomorrow? Head to Vancouver?”

I blink at him, confused. “Why?”

“Just seems like you’ve changed your mind about this trip,” he says quietly. I meet his eyes, resisting the urge to squirm under his intent gaze. “We could get to Roman a day earlier.”

Anxiety twists in my stomach .

“I meant what I said before,” he continues. “If you want to get there as fast as we can—”

I shake my head firmly, cutting him off. “Let’s go to the festival.”

“All right,” he says, reluctant. The moment hangs in the air a second longer. “Goodnight, Moore.”

“Goodnight.”

Latching onto the handle of my suitcase, I head toward my room, and we go our separate ways. My eyes prick with unexpected tears, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to ward them off. I can feel myself doing it—putting up a wall between me and someone who might have the power to hurt me—but I can’t make myself stop.

I care about Wyatt more than I want to admit, even to myself, and maybe he cares about me, but even if he feels the same way, it will never happen. And now it feels like I’m taking a sledgehammer to what could’ve been a real friendship. Not to mention that I’m likely ruining the last of this time together before everything changes and we go back to our everyday lives.

Blinking rapidly, I let myself into my room. The second the door shuts behind me, loneliness creeps in. I don’t want to go back to being by myself, but it’s easier this way.

Sighing, I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of the bed. The room is quaint and homey. Cherry headboard, floral wallpaper, photographs of the lake on the walls. I think about calling Noor, but I’m not ready to tell her about everything that’s changed since the last time we properly spoke—the feelings I’ve developed—and I don’t want to lie to her.

Then, as if today needed to get just a tiny bit worse, my phone buzzes with a call from my mother. Letting out a groan, I flop onto my back, feeling the mattress shake beneath me as I bring the phone up to my ear.

“Hello?” I say, lacklustre.

“Stells,” she replies. “I just got off the phone with Roman.”

My heart sinks into the depths of my stomach.

Jesus fuck. She can’t be for real. But my mom wouldn’t lie about that .

The universe clearly wants to punish me today.

“Are you serious?” I say carefully, pulse kicking into gear.

“He explained the whole thing,” she says, and by her tone, I can already tell whatever bullshit he fed her absolutely isn’t the truth. “I hate to say it, but I told you so, Stella.”

I sit up and tighten my grip on the phone. “Told me what, exactly?”

“You’re too much of a workaholic,” she reprimands me, and I resist the urge to bark out a laugh. “Roman told me all about how he’d have to constantly fight for your attention, how you were always too busy for him. He did so much for you, and you gave him so little of yourself in return.”

Okay, not funny anymore. I can’t deny that the words hit a little too close to home. It’s no secret that I’m a hard worker, and more often than not, I take work home with me, in one way or another. That being said, I did my best to make time for Roman and his needs, to the point where I lost sight of my own sometimes.

I’ll never forget the time I stayed up with him all night while he was in the midst of a creative meltdown. He’d received a malicious comment on the latest poem he’d shared on social media and told me he was going to give up and destroy all of his work. I’d talked him down from the metaphorical ledge, held him, told him I believed in his words. The next morning, I was so exhausted that I completely bombed my presentation in front of one of Coates & Ferdinand’s most high-profile clients. Roman never even asked me how it went.

“I’ve told you time and time again,” she continues. “Men don’t want career women. It intimidates them. They need to feel needed, like they’re the provider in the household. Otherwise, you’ll lose them.”

I raise a dubious eyebrow. “Did you expect us to survive on his poetry?” I ask, unable to stop the bitterness from seeping into my voice. “I took care of him throughout our entire relationship, and he took advantage of me. He’s never even tried to be self-sufficient. He’s never had to. I found out recently that his parents are loaded.”

“You never gave him the chance,” she breaks in, ignoring her last sentence. “Honestly, Stells. It’s not rocket science.”

A scoff escapes my lips. All of my mother’s relationships have been absolute dumpster fires. She only got her act together job-wise a year ago thanks to a friend giving her a waitressing gig, and she spent a good chunk of my childhood on benders. And yet here she is, apparently qualified to provide me with life advice.

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Mom, I can’t talk about this with you.”

“Why not?” she questions, instantly defensive.

Because you don’t even like me. You never have.

The words are on the tip of my tongue, and I swallow them with great difficulty. This isn’t the time to have a conversation like this—when the exhaustion of travel and a hangover weigh heavily on my bones, when I’ve just found out that the ex-boyfriend who blocked me is still taking my mother’s calls, when I can’t stop thinking about Wyatt.

I’m reminded of how Wyatt and his mother mended their relationship, how his voice went soft when he talked about her. I’ll never have that, and this phone call only reaffirms that reality.

I take another second to settle the lump in my throat before answering. “Because we’re bad at this, Mom. We always disagree. And I really need you to listen to me on this one, just this once. But I know you won’t, so I can’t talk about it with you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s really kind of you, Stella,” she says frostily. “I’m trying to help you.”

“And I appreciate that,” I lie, trying to soften my tone. “But I don’t want Roman back, and I don’t need your help with this. I need your support.”

I hear her inhale shakily. “I just want things to turn out better for you than they did for me,” she admits. “You’ve always been my independent girl, but I want you to find someone who can take care of you. The way I. . . the way I should’ve.”

I freeze. She’s never said anything like that to me, and I have no idea how to take it. My throat becomes thick, vision blurring. “Mom,” I murmur. “Me being with Roman doesn’t make or break my future. He was never going to be that person. I can take care of myself.” I pause. “I always have.”

She’s quiet on the other end of the line. The silence goes on for so long that I start to assume she just won’t answer. But then she says, voice subdued, “I’ll keep trying to change his mind.”

There’s a resounding beep in my ear as she ends the call. One step forward, two steps back.

I toss my phone to the side, then rub a hand over my face, thankful I chose not to wear makeup today. All I want to do now is take a hot bath, turn off my brain, and sleep. I can’t believe Roman spoke to my mother and lied straight through his teeth. The lying isn’t a shock, but his unfailing audacity is.

Seconds later, there’s a knock on my door. I frown, standing up to answer it as footsteps retreat down the hallway. When I open the door, there’s no one there. I’m about to let it fall closed again, unsure if a hotel employee changed their mind about checking on me or if some kid is playing Nicky Nicky Nine Door. But then I spot something on the floor at my feet.

A tub of mint chocolate Ben & Jerry’s. There’s a scrap of paper on the floor in front of it with two words scrawled in sloppy, boyish writing: Peace Offering .

A smile tugs at my lips as I bend down to pick it up, feeling a swell of affection. It’s a small gesture, but it makes me realize how much I’ve truly missed Wyatt today, even though we spent the entire day together. I’ve missed his devilish grin, his teasing, his laughter. But there’s no one to blame but myself, because I’m the one who’s making us both uncomfortable.

I pluck the paper from the floor, about to fold it up and stick it in my suitcase for safekeeping until I see more words scrawled on the back.

Movie night at my place. Have more snacks. Would like some company, even if said company has been pissed at me all day. Promise not to bring up any forbidden topics like boats or dudes with buzzcuts.

Laughter escapes me, and my grin is so wide it hurts my cheeks. And then it fades, because I realize I’m totally fucked.

One gift from Wyatt Song and I’ve gone from a wilting flower to a blush-pink rose in full bloom.