Roadside Attractions

Twenty-Four

CULTUS LAKE, BC

I knock on the door, feeling stupidly timid as I stand in the hallway, resisting the urge to fidget with my fingers.

Moments later, the door swings open, and Wyatt greets me. I don’t miss the hopeful expression on his face, like he thought there was a good chance I wouldn’t show up and he’s grateful I’m here. It makes my traitorous heart flutter.

“I brought the peace offering.” I hold up the tub of ice cream and the two spoons I’d asked the front desk for. “I thought we could share it.”

He nods once, mouth twitching, his tall frame still blocking me out of the room. “Thanks.”

Even though he’s seen me all day, I still felt the need to make myself slightly more presentable before heading to his room; I pulled my hair out of its messy bun and twisted my curls into two long braids, then swiped some mascara across my eyelashes. Small enough changes that it doesn’t seem like I made an effort, but enough to feel just a bit prettier .

Wyatt reaches out, fingers hesitating before he gently lifts one of my braids, then lets go of it again so it falls back against my chest. “I like these,” he murmurs.

My mouth dries. Noted. “Do I have to watch the movie from out here?” I quip, trying to change the subject.

At that, he takes a gallant step backward, gesturing for me to enter. I walk into the room, careful not to brush against him. He lets the door fall shut behind me, and I take a delicate seat on the edge of his bed, crossing my sleep-short-clad legs. His eyes linger on the exposed skin for the briefest of moments, and it sends heat rushing to places it has no business being right now.

“What are we watching?” I ask, feigning nonchalance as he sits on the opposite side of the bed. I kind of forgot that a movie night would entail us sharing a mattress again, but I suppose I don’t mind this time.

“Well,” Wyatt says, reaching for the remote and flipping through the channels, “it looks like we can watch this low-budget biopic about a D-list celebrity, or this horror movie that started twenty minutes ago. I think I can guess which one you prefer.”

“The biopic.” I shift into a more comfortable position, leaning back against the pillows as I dig into the ice cream.

He shoots me a surprised frown. “Really? That feels like a betrayal to your murder books. I thought you’d be a major horror fan.”

I shrug stubbornly. “Reading stuff like that is different than watching it play out on a screen.”

Wyatt narrows his eyes. “Stella Jane,” he chides. “Are you scared of horror movies? I’d be more than happy to hold your hand if you need.”

I glower at him, grabbing a spare pillow and tossing it in his direction, feeling triumphant when it smacks him in the face—and even more triumphant when it makes him laugh. “Shut up,” I say.

He holds the pillow in his lap, grinning. With his grey sweatpants and comfy-looking white tee, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to lean against his chest, have him wrap his arms around me. “I’m being serious,” he protests.

“You’re being facetious. Is that your go-to move for getting all those girls? Taking them to horror movies and holding them when they get scared? I think it’s time for some new material.”

The grin doesn’t leave his face. “She’s back.”

I give him a confused look. “Who’s back?”

“Bitey Stella.”

My lips press into a smirk. “She never left.”

“Good,” he replies, eyes holding mine.

“Seriously, though,” I say, looking back at the TV mounted to the wall, where Wyatt has left the horror movie playing. The woman on screen goes to retrieve something from the basement, a dark figure visible behind her in the periphery of the shot. I suppress a shudder, snatching the remote from his grasp and switching to the biopic. “If you’re going to win over this girl you’re hung up on, you’re going to need to switch up your technique.”

The moment the words leave my lips, I regret them. Why the fuck did I bring that up? The last thing I want to talk about is the object of Wyatt’s affection, but my subconscious apparently can’t tamp down its masochistic curiosity. I can tell the statement catches him off guard from the way he hesitates. I keep my gaze glued to the TV, trying to appear unaffected.

“Do I?” he says, his voice light. “And what do you suggest I start doing?”

I shrug, sparing him a glance. “Well, I don’t know. What is she like?” It’s obvious that I’m fishing for more information, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. I take a bite of ice cream in an effort to remain nonchalant.

He drags his fingers through his hair as he lets out a startled laugh. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, annoyed. “You’ve supposedly been pining for this girl for ages, but you don’t even know what she’s like?”

“I know what she’s like,” he says defensively. He grabs the spare spoon, and I offer him the tub of ice cream, even though I know it’s a procrastination tactic. I look at him expectantly. He exhales, then side-eyes me before he brings his gaze back to the movie. “She’s. . . smart. Driven. A spitfire. Pointy around the edges, but incredibly soft underneath it all. Fiercely loyal. Funny, even when she’s not trying to be.” His lips pull upward. “She probably has the best laugh of anyone I know.”

As he speaks, I can feel his care for this person embedded in his words. His voice is soft and affectionate, and my throat tightens. I want to look away, to change the subject, but it’s like watching a car crash. I’m rooted in place, unable to tear my eyes from the wreckage.

“And she’s beautiful.” He shrugs helplessly, as if that fact is a source of frustration. “More beautiful than anyone has a right to be, really.”

“Wow,” I force myself to say. “She sounds like a keeper.”

“She is.”

I turn my attention back to the TV, swallowing another mouthful of ice cream. I haven’t paid any attention to this movie so far. It’s just background noise at this point. “How’d you meet her?”

He adjusts his position, crossing his arms over his chest. “Bumped into her on campus.”

“Would I know her?”

His lips twitch into a smile. “Perhaps.”

I’m silent as I rack my brain once again, thinking back to the constant stream of girls Wyatt used to parade around with. I never really knew any of them personally.

“So,” he presses, looking back at me expectantly, “how do I win a girl like that over?”

Fortunately, I’m not masochistic enough to help him date someone else, tentative friendship be damned.

“I don’t know,” I say, blinking innocently. “It doesn’t sound like you’d be her type.”

Wyatt throws his head back in laughter, and the sound warms my insides. “Ouch,” he says, but his eyes twinkle. “Damn. Okay, then. Guess I'll give up.”

I bite down on a smile. “Yeah, you should probably just forget about her.”

“Why?” he asks, a challenge in his voice, an intrigued look in his dark gaze. “You jealous?”

Excruciatingly so.

“Why would I be jealous?” I snap, face flaming.

“Maybe you enjoy my company a little more than you’d like to admit.” His eyes are focused on me intently, completely ignoring the movie. “Maybe I’ve grown on you.”

I huff, not liking the way we seem to have shifted closer to each other during the course of this conversation—a conversation that I also do not like. “Yes, Wyatt, you have grown on me. Like a tumour that I need to get surgically removed.”

“Whatever you say, Moore. I know the truth.”

I glower at the screen, digging my spoon into the tub. God, I’m so transparent. Wyatt’s eyes burn on the side of my face every so often as we watch the movie, but I pretend I don’t notice. It’s agonizing. I’m aware of it now, the way every nerve ending in my body comes alive when he’s close to me. The way my heart rate increases whenever he so much as inches in my direction.

If I’m truly being honest, I think those feelings have always been there, dormant, maybe even before we embarked on this trip. It could be the root of all our problems, the reason why we never got along in the past. We’ve always been polar opposites, thrown together by our relationship with Roman, and because of that relationship, our simmering attraction has been buried, shoved down, never to be acknowledged.

But it’s more than an attraction for me now. And if I don’t manage to get a handle on these feelings, to redirect them elsewhere, the fallout could be catastrophic.

Wyatt is the one to break the silence.

“Stella,” he begins quietly. When I look at him, his face is somber, gaze intense. My stomach does a freefall. “I think we should talk. All day, it’s been killing me not to know where your head is at, because last night, there was a moment where it felt like you wanted something that I’ve been—”

“Wyatt,” I blurt, stopping him in his tracks. My pulse thunders violently. He waits, watching me with rapt attention as I fumble for a follow-up. “I thought we were done talking about last night. I don’t remember what happened, and at this point, I don’t think I want to.”

He looks at me for a beat longer, then exhales a quiet laugh, looking resigned. “Right.”

“Can we just go back to watching the movie?”

“Sure.” Wyatt swallows, smothering whatever he was about to say, and I let out a subtle breath of relief.

I have a pretty good sense of where that was going. I’m positive he can see straight through me, to the feelings I’ve been trying to suppress all week that are now bubbling to the surface like molten lava from a volcano. I’ve never been a good liar. And if he knows how I feel. . . that can only mean he feels obligated to let me down easy. To tell me that, sure, maybe things have felt different between us recently—and perhaps he’s even very attracted to me—but we can never actually happen. At the end of the day, I’m still Roman’s ex. And he’s still Roman’s ex-best friend.

Having that conversation sounds humiliating, and there’s no need for it.

I’m fully aware that Wyatt and I will never be anything more than this —awkward friends with a bit of sexual tension and a lot of history. I can make peace with that. And even if he hypothetically did reciprocate my feelings, I don’t know what I’d do, if I’d be able to make that leap again. Because the last time I allowed myself to fall, it completely blew up in my face. I’m not prepared to open myself up to heartbreak once more.

So, regardless of how either of us might feel, this is where we’ll stay.

?

The Wandering Souls Music Festival is in full swing when we make our way over the following evening. I could see them setting up from my hotel room window and hear their soundcheck before we headed out for the day. Now, as I draw closer, I can make out the shapes of the stage and hear the music clearly flowing from beyond the fence of the park it’s being held in .

Aside from the festival, there isn’t much to do in Cultus Lake, but we spent some time on the beach and found a nice café for lunch. We’d sat outside on the patio, figuring out the logistics of getting me home in time for work on Monday. There isn’t enough time for us to drive back together, so I’ll have to fly home alone. Wyatt has been speaking with his friend who lives in Vancouver, Jake, and the two of them worked out a plan. After I leave, Jake will head to Toronto with Wyatt, so he doesn’t have to do the drive on his own. Apparently, they’ve been meaning to visit each other, so it will all work out in the end.

It was nice to have a laid-back, easy day, especially after all the weirdness from yesterday. I’ve done everything in my power to try to ignore my feelings and go back to enjoying this budding friendship with Wyatt, rather than worrying about ruining it.

This is our last official stop before Tofino. Before everything changes. I don’t want to spend it being caught up inside my head.

Wandering Souls is a family-friendly event, judging by the number of children, chasing each other between the crowds, dancing to the folk band currently playing their set. The stage is near the edge of the treeline, just before the beach begins. People have set up camp on the grass and in the sand, sitting on lawn chairs and picnic blankets, some standing up to dance.

The event has a big turnout, but still feels very small-town. There’s a sense of familiarity and camaraderie in the air, and it makes me feel welcome, but also like an outsider. Concerts in Toronto are a lot less low-key—waiting ages in line to get into the venue, having people step into your space, not being able to see over the head of the egregiously tall person who just stood in front of you. This is much nicer.

Threatening clouds have rolled in overhead, betraying the predicted forecast, letting us know that the clear skies earlier today were just a tease. Of course the weather gets shitty right before the big event.

“I think I see a spot over there,” Wyatt says, bending closer to my ear in order to be heard as he points to an open space beneath the trees .

I follow him in that direction, trying not to lose him in the crowd, staring at the back of his head, at the curls beneath his ball cap. I wonder what it would feel like to loop a lock of his hair around my finger, if the skin on the nape of his neck would rise with goosebumps under my touch.

It’s safe to say I haven’t exactly been successful at ignoring my feelings.

He looks over his shoulder then, and my face burns, as if I was thinking too loudly. But instead, he extends a hand back toward me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Despite my thundering heart, I play it cool and take his hand, not wanting him to know how much I’m affected by this small gesture.

Holding hands can be friendly. I hold hands with Noor all the time.

But it doesn’t feel friendly as he laces our fingers together, tugging me along behind him, only letting go when we’ve reached the open pocket of space beneath the trees. It’s on a slight hill, so we have a great view of the stage and the crowd below. I’m about to sit down when Wyatt instructs me to wait. I do as I’m told, blinking as he pulls his hoodie over his head. His t-shirt shifts in the process, and my eyes dart to the patch of exposed skin above the waist of his jeans, catching a glimpse of the V that points to his most prized possession. I swallow, looking away.

“Here.” Wyatt splays his hoodie on the green, gesturing for me to sit. “Save yourself from the grass stains.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, tucking the skirt of my sundress beneath me as I take a seat. It gets significantly harder to ignore my feelings when he keeps doing boyfriend-like things. I pull my cardigan tighter to protect myself from the cool air, glancing up at the sky. It looks like a downpour could unleash at any second.

Wyatt sits next to me, stretching his legs and leaning on his palms, his fingers inches from my thigh. Even outside, I catch hints of his cologne on the breeze, tantalizing my senses. I have a hard time focusing on the music. Everything feels miles away while Wyatt is in hyper-focus. I can’t even look at him.

He touches my leg lightly, and my breath hitches. I glance at him, seeing the grin stretched across his face as he stares at something near the bottom of the hill, gesturing with his chin for me to look too. An elderly woman dances with a little girl, their hands locked together, both of them beaming from ear to ear. I smile. The sight makes me long for my own grandmother, reminding me of the times during my childhood when I had the chance to be an actual kid, instead of feeling like I needed to be the adult.

When I look back at Wyatt, his eyes are on me. “Thanks for coming here with me,” he murmurs.

I lift a shoulder. “Better this than being in my hotel room all night.”

“No,” he says. “I mean here . On this trip.”

I can’t stop the surprised laughter that bursts from my lips. “I never expected you to thank me for joining you on this trip that I strong-armed my way onto. You didn’t even want me to come,” I point out.

“I know.” Something simmers beneath his gaze. “Because you torture me, Stella Jane. You always have. I feel like I’m on fire when I’m around you.”

My breath leaves me and never comes back. “What are you talking about?” I whisper, heart in my throat. I feel a sudden urge to self-evacuate from this situation, to hide myself in my hotel room, to keep running from everything I’m feeling. But there’s no escape from this moment.

His eyes burn me alive like the blazing sun, despite the storm brewing above us. “Moore. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

I’m stunned into silence, searching for a playful retort, something to dispel the tension, but the universe does it for me. It’s at that precise moment that the heavens unleash with no warning, torrential rain surrounding us in seconds.

I gasp in shock as we’re immediately drenched, the leaves on the tree above offering no coverage. Cold sweeps my body, the water coating my skin and soaking straight through my dress. The band onstage comes to an abrupt halt, though we can barely hear them over the rain anyway. Wyatt springs to his feet, extending a hand to help me up, squinting beneath the downpour.

“Come on!” he shouts .

Latching onto his hand, I allow him to pull me to my feet, snatching up his hoodie in the process. He holds it over my head as we run, but it does little to protect me. We huddle together, blindly running back toward the hotel through the field, avoiding the scrambling crowd. Adrenaline thrums beneath my skin, hung up on Wyatt’s last comment.

Don’t pretend you don’t know.

Don’t know what?

We reach the hotel’s parkade first, ducking beneath the concrete roof, and I can breathe better once I’m no longer being pelted with raindrops. I try to self-regulate, adjusting to the temperature, and Wyatt does the same, wiping his face with his bunched-up hoodie. For a moment, we stand in silence, watching everyone try to find shelter in the distance, hurriedly packing up lawn chairs and blankets as they dart into vehicles.

I laugh as I watch the spectacle. “So much for that,” I say.

Beside me, Wyatt laughs too, joining my hysteria. The rain lowers the visibility, but the lush green of the forest and the dark blue of the mountains across the lake stand out, making for mesmerizing, moody scenery. My hair sticks to my face and every inch of my body is soaked.

It takes me another second to realize that during some point in our mad dash, I managed to lace my fingers through Wyatt’s again. I glance down at our interlocked hands, then up to his face. Judging by his expression, he must have noticed long before me, but he makes no move to let me go.

Instead, his eyes track a raindrop that I feel course down my neck and continue to my chest. My breathing stalls. He takes a step closer, letting his hoodie fall to the ground, and I move back with him until I’m pressed against the frigid concrete behind me. I swallow, my heart threatening to break free from my ribcage.

Wyatt lifts our interlocked hands to his lips. With slow precision, he presses a soft kiss to each of my damp fingers, and heat pools in my belly. I nearly melt beneath his touch.

“Wyatt,” I whisper. His name is the only thing I can manage.

“Stella,” he murmurs, like I’ve asked him a question, and this is his answer.

He releases my hand, and it falls back to my side helplessly. His eyes never leave my face as he takes a step closer, reaching up to cup my cheek, his touch making goosebumps rise on my skin. He searches my expression, looking for any sign that he should stop, that I don’t want this. But I can’t pretend around him anymore, my feelings are practically screaming to be acknowledged. He bends his head until his forehead is pressed against mine.

My heartbeat stutters. I let my eyes fall closed, my hands making their way to his chest. His warm breath fans across my lips, and I feel his heart pounding beneath my fingertips. Seconds later, his lips graze mine, barely there, teasing me.

Panic sweeps in, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m clutching his shirt tightly. “This is a bad idea,” I blurt.

“On the contrary,” he counters, voice gruff, “I’m pretty sure this is the best idea we’ve ever had.”

The words nearly break my resolve.

But my guard has been raised, and I can’t let it down now. It takes an unbearable amount of self-restraint to pull back, leaning away from him. Instantly, I’m cold without his warmth. “We can’t.”

He keeps his eyes closed a second longer, wincing like I’ve just told him something horrible. When he opens them, there’s a different kind of fire in his eyes—a challenge. “Why not, Stella? Why can’t we?”

I scramble for something to say, a reason to justify denying myself what I want most right now. Because I don’t want to get hurt again. Because I don’t know if his attraction to me is more than skin-deep. Because he makes me feel a kind of way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before, and it scares the shit out of me.

But instead of any of that, what comes out of my mouth is, “Roman.” I immediately cringe internally.

Wyatt’s head rears back, irritation flashing over his features at the sound of his former best friend’s name. He laughs once without humour. “Are you hoping to get him back? Is that why you came along?”

“What? No !” I protest, disgusted by the thought. “I just—it wouldn’t be right—”

“We don’t owe him anything , Stella,” he says fiercely. “Not a single, goddamned thing.”

My voice gets trapped in my throat. I can’t bring myself to meet the hurt look in his eyes as he steps closer to me once more.

“Look, if you really don’t want to do this, then that’s fine,” he says. “I can live with that. But if you’ve felt anything like I’ve felt in the last ten days, don’t let him be the reason you want to stop.”

I know he’s right. But my fight or flight response has kicked in, and using Roman as an excuse is the easy way out. I do my best to ignore the guilt flooding my body as I edge away from him, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, Wyatt. I just can’t.”

The anguish on his face in response makes tears spring to my eyes.

“Stella,” he urges, voice cracking. “Don’t do this.”

But I don’t stop. Instead, I give him one last pained look before darting back out into the rain, ignoring his calls for me to stay and feeling like the worst person in the world.