Roadside Attractions

Thirty-Two

TORONTO, ON

Two weeks pass before I hear from Wyatt again.

Remarkably, life picks back up where I left it before I threw caution to the wind and embarked on a spontaneous revenge road trip. Who would have thought? The first day I head back into Coates & Ferdinand, I expect to be hit with a backlog of projects and a slew of questions from my colleagues, but it turns out Anjali was able to efficiently wrangle the other members of my team. There is more work than usual for me to catch up on, and my email inbox is a frightening sight, but for the most part, they did well to cover for me in the interim.

For the first day or so, I still feel disoriented, waking up from the dream, but the whole thing is rather anticlimactic. It doesn’t take long before things feel so goddamn normal and mundane that I wonder if I ever left.

After sorting out the situation with her apartment, Noor moves in with me. We spend a day clearing out my office, listing things for sale online, and moving her belongings inside. I’ve always had a general aversion to roommates, but our lives slot together so easily that it doesn’t even feel like an adjustment. Despite being an introvert to my core, I don’t feel drained after spending time with her. We have similar work schedules, and we spend our evenings sipping wine, watching reality TV, and dramatically recounting our day.

I never imagined I’d get the privilege of living in platonic domesticated bliss with my best friend, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Living with Noor helps to numb how much I miss Wyatt. He’s a constant thought in the back of my mind, from the moment I open my eyes in the morning to the second I close them at night. Where is he right now? What is he doing? Is he thinking about me too? I told him to let me know when he returned home, so he must still be in Vancouver with Jake, or on the road.

When I’m sitting at my desk, staring out the office window, I imagine falling out of a canoe in Blind River, sharing French fries on a bench by the water in Thunder Bay, standing under an overhang with rain-soaked skin, pulse thrumming as Wyatt kissed each of my fingers in Cultus Lake—and everything that happened after. His lips on mine, his hands everywhere I wanted them.

Those are the parts that both feel the most vivid, and the most surreal.

Every time I look in the mirror, I peek at my tattoo. Noor was ecstatic when she saw it. Whenever I let my eyes roam over the delicate stars, I feel phantom sensations of Wyatt deftly examining the ink, his breath on the back of my neck.

I’ve thought about reaching out several times to check in, but something stops me. I'm giving myself a chance to adjust to my new normal, and we agreed that we’d talk when Wyatt gets back. That being said, resisting the urge to call him has been a true test of my willpower. I spend most nights staring at his social media, scrolling through his old photos—he rarely posts, so there’s nothing new to look at—feeling a hollow ache in my chest at the sight of his smile.

And when I receive a text from him bright and early on Saturday morning, the vibration of my phone feels like a zap back to life.

I stop short in the middle of hanging my clean laundry in my closet, heart constricting. After two weeks of mutual silence, I don’t know what to expect. With bated breath, I pluck my cell phone from the surface of my bed, pursing my lips together. When I read the words on the screen, a swarm of butterflies awakens in my stomach.

Back in the city , is all it says, but it’s enough to send vibrant, buzzing energy across my skin.

He’s here. We’re no longer on opposite sides of the country. The thought of being in the same place again makes me want to drop everything I’m doing and jump in a car to wherever he is without a second thought.

And for a moment, it feels that simple.

Until those same old doubts creep back in like an ugly, insidious poison.

I’ve spent the last two weeks battling with them every time they arise, and while it is getting easier, they haven’t totally vanished. The fear of letting someone into my heart and having them destroy it. The fear of experiencing love only to lose it again. The fear of putting myself into a situation beyond my control.

Wyatt and I feel so strongly about each other, but life is unpredictable. All kinds of things can tear two people apart. I want to be brave, to plunge into the unknown, to channel the strength I felt during those two weeks on the road.

It’s still stirring inside of me, waiting to be drawn out.

I squeeze my eyes shut, take a seat on the edge of my bed, and sink into the mattress. Whenever I feel like I’ve disentangled my mass of insecurities, I find another knot. I want to be with Wyatt—a desire that burns so brightly it hurts—but my brain keeps getting in the way.

My phone buzzes in my hand again, and my breath gets caught in my throat. I sit up straight, clutching the device tightly, expecting more from Wyatt. But this time, it’s a message from my mother. We haven’t spoken since our last phone call in Cultus Lake. Dread swirls in my stomach as I read the text.

Can we meet for coffee? I’d like to talk with you.

I worry at my bottom lip, taking a moment to consider the offer.

Before the trip, I probably would’ve said no to meeting one-on-one. We never got together without Roman as a buffer. But meeting with her feels like another way of taking the plunge, of being brave. Another thread I can untangle.

So, despite my reservations, I say yes.

?

I sit at a table by the window in Pekoe, fingers curled around a mug of steaming milk and espresso. I’ve already burned my tongue on the vanilla latte, but I keep taking tiny sips every few seconds, my knee bouncing, unable to stay still.

Before I left the house, I changed from my loungewear into a sundress. It’s the dress. The one I was wearing in Cultus Lake in the rain. I thought it might bring me luck.

The coffee shop is packed, and I’m grateful for it. There’s a buzz of chatter in the air, accompanied by the intermittent swish of the steam wands and the whir of the blenders. It’s bright and open, light pouring in through the array of windows around the room, and I keep a vigilant eye on the street outside, watching for my mother.

I haven’t seen her in person for a couple of months. The last time was at a dinner with Roman at Dahlia.

I’m not sure what she wants to talk about today, but I’m expecting more reprimands for breaking up with Roman. Biting the inside of my cheek, I fire off a quick, panicked text to Noor. She replies instantly, letting me know I can do this. She’s right. It’s nothing I haven’t handled before.

“Stells?”

I freeze at the sound of my name. Bracing myself, I look up and spot my mother a short distance away. I was too distracted to notice her entrance. She’s already ordered a coffee, and she clutches a to-go cup as she approaches my table, then takes a seat.

Her dark curls are shorter than the last time I saw her, streaked with blonde. She’s dressed in her work uniform, her Pam nametag pinned to her black polo, an apron tied around her waist. She must have a shift after this.

“Mom,” I say, noting how timid she looks. Her lips pull upward into an uncomfortable smile. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she replies, and I scrutinize her face, trying to decipher if that’s true. There are bags under her eyes, and her smile lines are becoming crow’s feet, but she looks, for all intents and purposes, good . There’s colour in her cheeks, her face is full, and her eyes are clear. “What about you?”

I find myself thinking that if Roman were here, she’d have turned on her charm ages ago, laughing at all his quips, asking him questions, eating up his every word. But with me, she looks wooden.

“Good,” I answer. “It’s nice to see you.”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you face-to-face,” she says quietly. “See how you’re doing.” When she sees my stiff expression, she adds, “I’m ready to listen.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said I wouldn’t listen to you,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “But I’m ready now.”

I straighten in my seat. It’s not like my mother to admit her faults, even if she’s doing it in a roundabout way. I cross my arms over my chest cautiously. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

She sighs, brushing a curl out of her face. “I saw a couple of Roman’s social media posts,” she remarks. Apparently, he didn’t think to block his buddy Pam. “I saw him with that new girl.”

I remain silent, picking at my napkin, eyes on the table.

“I’m sorry, Stella,” she says, and I meet her gaze, gauging her sincerity. “I said some horrible things to you. I should’ve been on your side.” She pauses. “You’ve seen me go through a string of failed relationships. It’s embarrassing, but very few of those relationships ended because I wanted them to. It was usually the other person leaving me behind.”

I feel myself soften, all too familiar with being abandoned.

“I’m so used to blaming myself and working overtime to make people stay,” she says, eyes becoming shiny. “You’ve always been such a reclusive person, and I was so happy when you got together with Roman. I thought things would go better for you than they did for me. And when you told me it was over, I had a brief, horrible thought that. . . that maybe being unlovable was hereditary. God, what an awful thing to say. I know you’re so much different than I am.”

I’m bowled over by her statement, gaping at her in disbelief. “Mom,” I say firmly. “You are not unlovable.”

“Survey says otherwise,” she says wryly, before waving her hand dismissively. “Don’t try to make me feel better. I’m here because I want to comfort you .”

“Comfort can be a mutual thing, you know.”

She purses her lips, studying me. “I don’t know how you grew up the way you did,” she says, her voice soft. “It certainly wasn’t my doing. You’re so much stronger than I ever was.”

“You’ve had a hard life,” I push. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve learned a lot from you.”

She laughs shortly. “Yes, you’ve learned what not to do. But you were right on the phone. You’ve always taken such good care of yourself. I’m sorry I doubted that.”

“It’s okay,” I say, genuinely meaning it. I’ve seen more growth from her in this one conversation than I have in years. It feels like our relationship could finally be on the upswing, for real this time, not because of some guy she happens to like.

“Enough about me,” she says, fixing me with a determined gaze. “I’m here to listen to you. Tell me the truth about what happened.”

I spend the next hour telling her exactly what went down between Roman and me, sparing no details. Judging by the look on her face, you’d think she was a child and I just told her Santa wasn’t real. I tell her all about his lies, his theft, his cowardice. I tell her about the way Wyatt and I teamed up—to his dismay, at first—to track him across the country. I show her the handful of photos I took on the trip, spending extra time zooming in on each doll in Edith’s house.

It’s the most real and honest conversation we’ve had that I can remember. I feel like we’re seeing each other clearly for the first time, like she understands who I am—a daughter who’s afraid to follow in her mother’s footsteps, who fears abandonment, and who gives very few people access to her heart. And I understand who she is, a woman who made a few wrong turns, and has spent the rest of her life trying to find her way back.

There’s a lifetime of distance between us that can’t be undone in one day, but it feels like we’ve started building a bridge to meet each other where we’re at.

“So,” she says when I’ve finished, taking a sip of her coffee, “about this Wyatt guy.”

I immediately feel called out, leaning back in my seat. “What about him?”

“You’re in love with him.”

I open my mouth, prepared to deny it, but realize there’s no point. I can’t run from this truth. “I am,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve actually admitted it, and my heart expands.

“Does he know that?”

My face burns. “Not in those exact words, no.”

“Why not?”

“I asked him for space,” I scramble to explain. “I wanted a second to catch my breath. He just got back home today, so I thought he might need some time—”

Mom laughs once. “If he’s liked you since he met you four years ago, I think he’s had more than enough time.” She may have a point. “Are you the one who needs time?”

The question weighs on my shoulders and I take a moment before answering.

“I just want it to work,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to mess it up, and I don’t want to get hurt. I gave so much of myself to Roman. The thought of letting someone in like that again, of wearing my heart on my sleeve and trusting someone else to protect it. . . I hate it.”

“If you live by fear, you’ll miss out on your whole life, Stella,” she says. “You’ll shut yourself off from the good stuff too. Take it from me.”

“Is that how you feel?” I ask. “That you missed out on the good stuff?”

Her brown eyes grow faraway, looking wistful. “I was in love like you once. Real love,” she muses. “He treated me right, took care of me. We spent all of our time together. I haven’t felt anything quite like it since.”

My mind files through the men I saw my mother with over the years. None of them seemed all that great, so this is a surprise to hear. “What happened?”

“I thought it was too good to be true,” she says with a helpless shrug. “I ruined things before he had a chance to hurt me. But I still think about him all the time. Wonder how my life would be now if I hadn’t pushed him away.”

I feel a tug of sympathy in my chest. “Did you ever reach out to him?”

Mom shakes her head, smiling ruefully. “He moved on. Got married and had children. It would’ve been too late.” She pauses, giving me a careful look. “Do you understand why I’m telling you this?”

I relax into my seat, letting her words sink in. I know what I need to do.

If I wait too long, cowering in fear, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. At the thought of missing out on more time with Wyatt, I’m hit with a pang of longing so painful that I have to resist the urge to latch onto the table to steady myself. I couldn’t bear a future without him.

It would feel empty without his shit-eating grins, stupid jokes, ball caps, and barking laughter. The way he kisses me, the softness in his voice when he calls me Stella Jane. How it feels to be wrapped up in his arms, when he’s the only thing I can see.

“I need to take a leap,” I conclude, meeting her eyes. The confidence I’ve been missing the last couple of weeks seeps into my bones, reviving me.

“Before it’s too late,” she remarks. Then she pulls out her phone and glances at the time. “Speaking of, I need to get going if I don’t want to be late.”

We both rise from our seats.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “For listening. And for talking some sense into me.”

“We should do this again sometime.”

I smile, nodding. “I’d like that.”

She grips the strap of her purse, matching my smile. “Bye, Stells.”

Before she turns to go, I close the gap between us, pulling her into a hug. The action catches her off guard—we rarely show affection—and it takes her a second to return the gesture. But when she does, I shut my eyes, sinking into her embrace. She smells like coffee, cigarettes, and citrus leave-in conditioner. Like my childhood. When we pull apart, she squeezes my shoulder, giving me one last reassuring smile.

I watch her until she disappears around a corner, then reach for my phone.

No more wasting time. I’m going to take a leap.