Roadside Attractions

Epilogue

TORONTO, ON

Six Months Later

Today’s the day.

The January air is brisk, and I shiver, dipping my chin under the collar of my parka. Normally, I can’t stand the cold. But not even the frigid chill can dampen my mood, because today is the day . After months of persuasion and scheming, it’s finally arrived.

Wyatt blows out a breath, emitting a tiny puff of condensation as he drags his gaze from the shop sign in front of us to give me a dubious look. I bounce on the balls of my heels, suppressing a grin.

“Maybe we can reschedule,” he mutters, sticking his hands into his coat pockets.

“No way,” I protest, nudging him with my elbow. “Don’t be such a baby. If I can do it, you can do it. You once told me you were unflappable.”

“I was trying to impress you. You’re more of a badass than me.”

“Well, yes,” I say simply, batting my eyelashes. “But you can still do it.”

His mouth twists into a frown, and he looks back at the shop. People weave between us on the sidewalk, slip in front of us to enter the building and escape the cold. I hear the whir of the streetcar behind me, the honks of impatient commuters, the snatches of conversation from passersby.

I keep my gaze glued to Wyatt’s face expectantly. He takes a deep breath, nods once, and opens the door. I practically skip inside, letting it fall closed behind me.

Orchid Ink is calm and welcoming. Far less intimidating than Inkjection. The interior is a pastel purple. There’s abstract art on the walls and large, leafy plants interspersed between the tattoo beds. All the artists here are women, and soft, indie music floats down from the overhead speakers.

The receptionist glances at us when we enter, rising to her feet behind her desk. “Welcome in,” she says brightly. “Do you have an appointment?”

“We do,” I say, placing a hand on Wyatt’s arm and tugging him closer. “I’m picking out a tattoo for my boyfriend.”

Wyatt smiles tightly.

The idea occurred to me not long after we got together last summer. I thought it was only fair, considering he got to pick one out for me, but he’d argued that I’d already dared him to go skinny-dipping. I’d countered that by reminding him that he had then dared me to join him, which I did, so technically, we still weren’t even.

Despite this, he’s been vehemently against it for our entire relationship, and I don’t bring it up all that often. But last week, after consuming a couple glasses of wine and watching several early-2000s rom coms, we cuddled on my couch, and he traced the tattoo on my shoulder with his finger.

“If I get this tattoo,” he’d said out of the blue, “what happens if you break up with me? I’ll think about you every time I see it. Well, I guess I’ll already be thinking about you.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to break up with you, Wyatt.”

“But what if you do?”

Lifting my head from his chest, I’d given him a deadpan look. “Okay, how about this? If you get this tattoo, I will legally not be allowed to break up with you. ”

He’d squinted, amused. “Promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

We locked our pinkies together—it was a binding contract.

And now, here we are. It’s finally happening.

The receptionist perks up. “That’s right, the surprise tattoo,” she remarks. “You’re here to see Frankie.”

At the mention of her name, Frankie appears from the hallway, grinning. She’s a curvy brunette with a wolf-cut and a slew of traditional tattoos, and she’s been dating my best friend for the past five months. Noor and I met her at Tricky Trixie’s shortly after we moved in together, and they’d been obsessed with each other immediately. It seems like Noor has finally found The One .

Next week, they’ll be moving in together with two of Frankie’s friends, and I’ll move in with Wyatt. After a beautiful six months, our time living in the Queen West apartment has come to an end. I think that’s part of the reason Wyatt is getting this tattoo—as ecstatic as I am to be living together, he knows how bummed I’ll be to no longer live with Noor.

Frankie was the first person to come to mind when Wyatt agreed to do this. It’s very convenient to have a tattoo artist friend.

“I’ll take it from here, Mel,” she says to the receptionist, before clapping Wyatt on the shoulder. “Are you ready for this, Wy-Guy?”

He grins back at her with false bravado. “Let’s do this.”

After we hang our winter gear on the coat rack, Wyatt signs the consent form, and we head over to Frankie’s station. I’ve picked both the tattoo and the placement. It will be on the back of his shoulder, just like mine.

“All right, where do you want me?” he asks.

“Take a seat on the bed, and I’ll put on the stencil,” Frankie instructs, scooting closer to the bed on her stool.

Wyatt does as he’s told, and I sit in the empty chair across from them, a flutter of nerves in my belly. This was my plan, and I picked something I’m certain Wyatt will like, but it’s still a little scary. I don’t know how he was so calm when the roles were reversed. Thankfully, I’ve adored my tattoo ever since I got it, so I hope today will have a similar outcome .

Frankie places the stencil and gets my approval. I hug a throw pillow to my chest, resisting the urge to bounce my knee.

“Stella,” Wyatt laughs as he lies on his stomach. “You look more scared than me.”

“I don’t know,” I counter, lifting an eyebrow. “You were pretty spooked outside.”

Frankie snorts, preparing her tattoo gun.

“You’re right, I’m terrified,” Wyatt admits, peering at me out of the corner of his eye. “Hold my hand?”

Grinning, I lean forward to intertwine our fingers and squeeze his hand. He visibly relaxes, then closes his eyes. “Is it a dick?”

I shake my head. “Not a dick.”

“Damn.”

I choke out a laugh.

Frankie begins the tattoo, and I watch the lines become permanently etched into his skin. After adjusting to the feeling, Wyatt admits that it’s really not that bad. The tattoo I picked is not quite as delicate as mine, but it’s still fine-line. Subtle, easy. It doesn’t take long before Frankie finishes, and we appraise her work.

“I love it,” I say genuinely.

“Right?” Frankie agrees. “So cute.”

Wyatt grimaces. “Cute?” He takes his time sitting up, blinking as if disoriented. I take his hand again, pulling on it until he stands, then guide him over to the mirror.

“Any guesses?”

“Hm,” he says, meeting my eyes in our reflection. “Your name?”

“Absolutely not.”

“A heart with the word ‘mom?’”

I laugh again. “Not even close.”

Unable to take the anticipation any longer, I turn him so his shoulder faces the mirror. His expression goes slack with surprise, then softens. A small sun now sits on the back of his shoulder. The wiggly rays are vibrant, stretching in every direction, spreading warmth to everything they touch.

I’ve always known the tattoo I would pick. If I’m a star, he’s the sun .

“Stella,” he says gently. “This is amazing.”

I slip my arms around his torso, lips spread into a smile. “My sunshine boy,” I say.

He gives me a squeeze, kissing my forehead. “My everything,” he whispers.

My stomach flutters like I’m freefalling.

“Yuck!” Frankie exclaims good-naturedly. “You two are so cute, I’m gonna be sick.”

I duck my head, embarrassed, but Wyatt only chuckles.

?

One week later, it’s moving day—much less fun than tattoo day.

If I made a list of enjoyable ways to spend a Saturday, hauling boxes across the city would not make the cut. Especially when the elevator in my apartment building is broken.

My whole body aches. Getting all my furniture downstairs and out the door took tremendous flexibility.

I can’t believe I’m saying goodbye to my beloved apartment. So long, ridiculously cheap rent, by Toronto standards—thanks to Roman’s large money transfer. The lease has ended, and we’ve cleared out the place.

My final walkthrough was bittersweet. Memories still cling to the walls, the bitter ones of my time spent with Roman, and my sweet, unforgettable time with my best friend. I can hear the ghostly echoes of our laughter, see snapshots of our late-night dance parties in the kitchen, evenings spent screaming at the TV watching trashy dating shows, and double date nights with Wyatt and Frankie. Thanks to Noor’s redecorating, it had been easy to pretend Roman had never lived there at all, but once it was empty, it was hard not to think about the day we’d moved in.

But instead of ruminating on the past, I hired a cleaning company to do the job for me, because fuck that. I served Roman a mental eviction notice, and I’m not willing to let him back inside anytime soon.

There are days when I feel the temptation to snoop around his social media, to see what he’s up to and where he is. It doesn’t matter, though. I sleep peacefully at night knowing he never did get that Blue Sky feature. Eventually, Noor told me that she’d been snooping for me, and according to her, Roman has completely abandoned his Instagram. Hasn’t made a post in months.

Karma really is my middle name.

The Toyota is packed to the brim with the last of our stuff, and I can barely see out the rear window. We’re stuck in stand-still traffic as we head toward Danforth, and the heat is cranked, warm air blasting from the vents, making me sweat in my parka. Above us, the sky seems to be deciding whether or not it will snow, and I hope it holds off until we’re safely inside our new place with all our belongings.

Wyatt drums on the steering wheel in time to the punk song on the radio as we camp out at a red light. I side-eye him.

As sneakily as I can manage, I reach out to change the station. But Wyatt is faster, and he catches my hand in his, giving it a shake as he intertwines our fingers. “Watch it, Moore,” he warns. “Don’t make me put on Rascal Flatts.”

I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

His gaze meets mine in challenge. “Try me.”

Six months in, and we still argue about music.

When I let out a defeated sigh, Wyatt grins as he looks back at the street. He brings our hands to his lips, brushing kisses across my knuckles, as if to say thank you. Damn it. He knows that move gets me every time.

But after the song ends, he lets me choose what to listen to next, and my playlist carries us through the rest of the ride to our new place. We pull up outside of the sprawling apartment building, and I take a moment to stare at it before we drive into the parkade, a bundle of excited nerves in my belly.

We’re home.

After parking the Toyota in our designated spot, we unload it, weighing down our arms with as much as we can carry before dragging it inside and up the elevator. The new apartment is on the fourth floor, and our kitchen window overlooks a park. It’s in such a state of disaster at the moment that it kind of makes me want to remove my eyes so I don’t have to look at it—all of our stuff piled in the centre of each room, mixtures of Wyatt paraphernalia and my belongings clashing together—but I know we’ll be able to put things where they’re supposed to go soon enough.

Once we’ve unloaded everything, I take a deep breath. Wyatt beckons me back into the hallway. I suppress a groan, following him outside.

“Did we forget something?” I ask, shoulders slumping. “Please say no.”

“We forgot this.” Before I can register what he’s doing, he’s bending down to scoop me into his arms. I let out a surprised shriek that I’m sure will irritate our new neighbours. Wyatt beams. “We have to christen the place.”

With that, he carries me over the threshold like we’re newlyweds on the first night of our honeymoon, and I can’t help but laugh as he spins me around before setting me down again.

“Are you happy?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

“With you? Always,” he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

My chest glows. I smother a smile as he removes my coat, hanging it up in the closet, and I can finally breathe. Organizing things is my forte, so I’m looking forward to using my skill set over the next little while.

Wyatt uses his Bluetooth speaker to put on some music, and we get to work, wiping every surface, sweeping the floors, washing the walls. The air quickly begins to smell like lemon-scented cleaning products.

A short while later, a buzzing noise makes me nearly jump out of my skin. Wyatt and I share a look. We weren’t expecting a visitor so soon. He heads to the callbox.

“Hello?” he says.

“It’s us!” Noor’s muffled voice chirps. “Let us in! We’re freezing our asses off out here.”

He sends me a knowing wink. “You got it, boss.”

Noor and Frankie reach our apartment a couple of minutes later, and as soon as I open the door, Noor lets out a squeal, holding up a bottle of champagne and several glasses. “Happy housewarming!” She loops an arm around my neck, mindful of the glassware in her hands.

“Noor,” I laugh, squeezing her. “We literally just got here. We don’t even have a proper place to sit yet.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Frankie remarks, stepping inside. “To help you unpack.”

Noor slips by me, giving Wyatt a side-hug before setting the glasses on the counter. Without warning, she pops the champagne over the sink, grinning at me. “We just have to celebrate first.”

“You always have the best ideas,” Wyatt muses as she passes him a glass.

“It’s kind of what I’m known for,” she says, passing one to me as well, then to her girlfriend.

I take it, still feeling mildly confused. “Guys, you should be unpacking your own stuff. You’ve only been in your new place for a week.”

“Minor details,” Frankie says, waving a hand dismissively. “You celebrated us last week, so we want to celebrate you too.”

“Besides,” Noor breaks in, “we need to spend as much time together as possible to distract from what a fucking tragedy it is that we no longer live together.”

I take a gulp of champagne before throwing my arms around her, wishing I could shrink her and put her in my pocket. “You’re right,” I agree miserably.

Wyatt chuckles, leaning against the counter as he watches the two of us. “Fingers crossed you like living with me at least half as much as you liked living with Noor.”

“Good luck, Song,” Noor says with a grin. “I’m a tough act to follow.”

Letting go of my best friend, I cross the kitchen to bump my hip against Wyatt’s. “You better step up your game.”

Frankie nods her chin at Wyatt. “How’s the tattoo?”

He grimaces, pulling back his sleeve so she can take a look at it. “Itchy.”

She narrows her eyes, touching his shoulder lightly as she examines her work. “Come back to Orchid in a few weeks and I’ll give you a touch-up.”

The buzzer goes off again.

“I think I have a guess who our next guest might be,” Wyatt says, a smile toying with his lips.

His instincts are proved to be right, as we’re soon joined by his mother, Yoo-Jin. She sweeps into the apartment with a big smile, grocery bags in hand, though I notice the way her eyes catalogue the mess. She’s a woman after my own heart.

Like always, she greets me first, pulling me in for a hug. “My daughter,” she says warmly, and a wave of comfort washes over me.

Wyatt watches the exchange, his eyes soft. I’d been so worried when he introduced me to her—worried she wouldn’t think I was good enough for someone like Wyatt, her only son. But she’d taken me in as if it were as easy as breathing, and I feel like it’s slowly healing the part of me that yearned for a parent who would treat me like a child.

Yoo-Jin stepped into that role immediately, as if she could sense I needed it, or overheard my conversation all those months ago in a stuffy hotel room in Thunder Bay when Wyatt offered to share her with me.

Watching him with his mother has motivated me, and as a result, things have been better with my mom too. Truly mending our relationship will take a lot of work, but we’ve started attending counselling together. It’s opened up a lot of old wounds for both of us, but I can handle it, knowing it’ll help us in the long run. Outside of therapy, we get together now and then, often with Wyatt in tow.

I hadn’t let him meet her for the first little while, worried she’d fall back into her old pattern of liking my partner more than me. Thankfully, I have a clearer idea of where I stand with my mother now, and we’re all on the same side.

I watch as Yoo-Jin gets to work without a second thought, unpacking her bags and stocking our fridge, and a swell of affection rises in my chest. Noor and Frankie begin to chat with her, and they discuss what they should make for lunch, perusing the ingredients at their disposal .

Wyatt approaches me in a few languid strides while they’re not paying attention, cupping my face in his hands. He searches my eyes, as if looking for any signs of the insecurity that used to plague me, but he comes up with nothing. He plants a kiss on my nose, on each eyelid, on each cheek.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you so much it scares me,” I say back, a smile worming its way onto my face.

“Well, I loved you first.”

“I know.”

Wyatt throws his head back in laughter, my favourite sound in the world, before his lips meet mine, slow and sweet. He pulls back to look at me, his eyes twinkling. “Welcome home.”