Sixteen
ELBOW, SK
To my immense relief, the room in question has two beds. To my horror, it also has a collection of porcelain dolls, and—surprise, surprise—more portraits of Jesus.
Edith is prattling on about the amenities, and I grip the handle of my suitcase tightly, doing everything in my power to avoid looking at Wyatt, because I know he’s seconds away from laughing and if he starts, I won’t be able to stop. Poking my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I listen as well as I can as Edith points out the bathroom, a pink-wallpapered monstrosity.
“Well, I think that’s everything,” she finishes cheerfully, then claps her hands together. “I’ll leave you two to get settled in. You arrived at the perfect time! I was just putting the finishing touches on dinner, so you’re more than welcome to join us.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to match her energy even remotely.
With that, Edith leaves us to our own devices, closing the door behind her. I don’t move, listening to the stairs creaking beneath her feet, waiting until she’s far out of earshot before facing Wyatt .
The expression on his face is one of pure, unadulterated delight. “Holy shit,” he remarks.
“Hey,” I tease, pointing to the portrait above the dresser. “Watch your mouth.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I said ‘holy!’”
Laughter bursts from my lips. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” His mouth cracks into a grin. “I like making you laugh. Almost feels like you enjoy being in my company.”
A bothersome flicker of warmth blooms in my chest. I shouldn’t be reacting to his insignificant, throwaway comments like this. “Don’t give yourself too much credit, these are highly comedic circumstances,” I say. “Anyway, what’s the plan here? Should I try to find somewhere else we can spend the night? Since we have to share a room. . .”
“Are you kidding? This place is amazing.” He gestures to our surroundings with an extravagant sweep of his arms. “Name another spot where horror and religion intersect so beautifully.”
“The subway after ten p.m.?” I offer.
It’s Wyatt who barks out a laugh this time. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I enjoy making him laugh too, more than I should. “You’re not wrong.”
“Well, if we’re going to stay here, I need to make some adjustments.” I step toward the shelf of porcelain dolls, all dressed in various Victorian-era outfits and overlooking the twin beds. One by one, I turn each of them so they face the wall. When I’m done, I step back, appraising my handiwork, and Wyatt sidles up next to me, scrutinizing the display, fingers stroking his chin absentmindedly.
“You made it worse,” he muses.
“Yep, I made it worse.” I grimace. Apparently, having all of their backs turned toward us isn’t any more comforting than seeing their lifeless eyes. “Dolls aside,” I say slowly, staring at them, “are you sure you don’t want to find somewhere else to stay?”
Wyatt’s gaze burns into the side of my face. “I’m okay with sharing if you are.”
I’m not okay with it—not in the slightest. The thought of lying in a bed a few feet away from Wyatt all night, seeing what he looks like when he’s sleeping, having him see me , is humiliating, exhilarating, and far too intimate.
But I play it cool, keeping my face impassive. I nod and meet his eyes. “I guess it saves some money.”
“All right.” He watches me intently. “Glad we got that settled.”
Suddenly, the room feels stifling, as though the walls have shifted inward, shoving Wyatt and me closer together. I set my suitcase by the bed on the left side of the room, then head toward the door. “We should probably go have dinner,” I say.
Taking a subtle deep breath, I don’t wait to see if Wyatt is following me as I make my way down the stairs.
?
Dinner is about as awkward—and delicious—as expected.
We sit at a large oak table in the cozy dining room. There are no dolls to be found in here, but there is a display shelf of floral china plates on the wall. I sit next to Wyatt, across from Edith’s husband, and Hannah, the only other house guest currently staying here. The spot at the head of the table is Edith’s, when she’s not too busy darting to and from the kitchen.
Edith serves up perogies and sausage, and it isn’t until I’m sitting at the table with my stomach grumbling that I realize how much I’ve missed having a home-cooked meal. We’ve only been on the road for a week, but it feels longer. Though even back home, the meals I prep for myself are never quite as hearty and comforting as this.
Judging by how Wyatt barely comes up for air as he scarfs down his food, he appreciates it too. “You are an excellent chef, Edith,” he remarks, and she waves a hand bashfully when she’s finally stopped to sit down.
Beaming, she reaches for the plate of sausage, offering it in Wyatt’s direction. “Here, have some more,” she urges. “I always make too much for George and I. It’s nice to have someone else to cook for. Isn’t it, George?”
George is slight in stature, donning a farmer’s hat and plaid shirt, and he mumbles an unintelligible response. After observing him, I’ve learned that he communicates primarily in scowls and grumbles, and for that, I love him dearly. We’re kindred spirits.
Hannah looks around our age. She’s beautiful, red-headed, and freckled. While we sat at the table and waited for Edith to finish cooking, Hannah explained that she’s a teacher, and spends every summer break taking little trips around the province. So far, she’s been nothing but friendly, and I imagine it has something to do with how her green eyes lit up when Wyatt walked into the room.
Our initial reservations seem to have been misguided. These people are nothing but welcoming.
He sits back in his chair beside mine, placing a hand on his stomach. “I’m stuffed. Truly.”
“What about you, sweetheart?” Edith asks, directing the question to me.
“Oh, no,” I say quickly. “I couldn’t eat another bite. It was delicious, though, thank you.”
Her lips purse into a frown. “Hannah?”
Hannah shakes her head, smiling apologetically. “No, thank you. I’ll be full until morning.”
Edith seems to deflate at our refusal to eat any more, setting the plate down on the table with a placid smile. “If you insist,” she says lightly. Then she recovers, looking at us with bright eyes. “Coffee?”
We all say yes, just to appease her, though it’s fine by me—I’m not one to turn down caffeine. As Edith bustles into the kitchen, Hannah twists her silky hair into a makeshift ponytail, then rests her elbows on the table, looking at us—Wyatt, mostly—with great interest.
“So, tell me how you ended up here of all places,” she says. “This can’t be your final destination.”
Wyatt laughs shortly. “You can thank Saskatchewan wildlife and a tire puncture for our presence. We’re lucky it happened where it did.”
She gives him a playful smile. “We’re all lucky.”
He smiles back at her, and I can’t tell if he’s just being friendly or if he’s responding to her flirting. Something twists in my stomach, and I shift uncomfortably, thinking back to his words a couple nights ago at House 204: I like meeting people. It’s exciting . The uncomfortable feeling intensifies, and I take a sip of water to attempt to quell it. I shouldn’t feel this way—jealous. It’s entirely ridiculous. I’m not actually interested in Wyatt.
“I’m just glad there was a room available tonight,” he says. “And in such a scenic location too.”
Hannah laughs, and the sound is melodic. “You don’t have to lie. I’m sure you’ve travelled to far more scenic locations than Elbow.”
“I’m not lying!” Wyatt protests with a grin. “This place is gorgeous. Right, George?”
George makes a noise that could be interpreted several ways. Hannah shares a knowing look with Wyatt, suppressing her laughter, though she does have the decency to look my way too. I lift my lips in a fleeting smile.
Edith returns with our drinks, passing them out one by one, and I warm my palms around my steaming mug. The smell of fresh coffee with a splash of hazelnut creamer wafts into my nose. Wyatt takes a sip from his mug, leaning back in his chair. As if it’s an unconscious thought, he outstretches his arm and rests it across the top of my chair.
It’s an action that feels surprisingly intimate, and one that makes me hyper-aware of the short distance between us, even though we’ve sat next to each other for hours on end in the car. The skin on my shoulders prickles as if he’s traced a finger across it, and I try to keep my face impassive, like all of this has zero effect on me.
“It’s so lovely to see a young couple like yourselves travelling through here,” Edith gushes. Hannah’s eyes dart between the two of us. “Where did you say you were from?”
It feels like every person we’ve encountered on this trip has assumed we’re together. I open my mouth to correct her, but Wyatt sweeps in before I can. “Toronto,” he says proudly. When I turn to shoot him a discreet glare, he hides his smile.
Edith’s grey eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “That’s a long drive. Where are you headed?”
“Vancouver Island,” he says. The thought of our final destination makes me feel a flicker of unease. We’re only a couple stops away from reaching Tofino, and I still have no idea what we’re going to find—or do —when we get there.
“What an amazing trip!” Edith says. “What’s the occasion?”
I give Wyatt a look, lifting an eyebrow dubiously. Our trip is a little hard to explain, and Edith doesn’t seem like the type of woman who would put her life on pause to follow an ex-boyfriend across the country. I didn’t think I was either, but here we are.
The shit-eating grin that takes hold of Wyatt’s face is the dead giveaway that he’s about to say something horrible, and it takes away some of my shock when he answers, “We’re eloping.”
Hannah nearly does a spit-take, covering it with a cough.
I grit my teeth together, blinking hard as Edith gasps in delight. “Congratulations! How romantic. George, congratulate them!”
George barely looks up from his plate, releasing another series of mumbles that could either be a congratulatory speech or an ancient curse. I aspire to one day reach his level of unbothered.
“Yes, congratulations!” Hannah says lightly. “This must be such a special time for you.”
“Thank you. We’re very excited,” Wyatt says, tilting his head in my direction, daring me to challenge his story and tell Edith the truth—or play along. “Aren’t we, darling?”
This is the second time Wyatt Song has called me “darling,” and the second time it’s done something to me. I plaster a saccharine smile on my face, ignoring the simmering burn under my skin. Lifting my mug as if to toast him, I say, “Can’t wait to get it over with.”
He looks pleasantly surprised that I’ve chosen to play along. “I’ve been waiting for this day ever since I met her.”
Our gazes hold for a few beats before I clear my throat, bringing my mug to my lips.
?
After dinner, Hannah and I help Edith clear off the table, bringing the dishes to the kitchen. When everything has been cleaned up, I begin to head upstairs, but Edith stops me, catching my arm. “You know,” she says, lowering her voice, “we gave you the room with the twin beds because I didn’t see any rings on your fingers.”
I do my best not to balk at her confession. “Oh?”
“But if you stop by again on your way home, we’ll give you a room with a double bed,” she says, throwing in a wink that makes my eyes widen. “So many couples seem to be skipping marriage these days; it warms my heart to hear you’ll be tying the knot.”
“Thanks, Edith,” I manage weakly, disentangling myself from her grasp.
“Let me know if you need anything!”
“I will,” I say, edging backward. “Have a good night.”
I all but run up the stairs to our bedroom, where Wyatt waits, perched on the edge of his bed. He gives me a curious look at the apparent humiliation on my face.
“Don’t ask,” I say. Then I hesitate in the doorway. It’s too early to go to bed, but it’s not worth going to check out the harbour tonight. We’ll be able to appreciate it in all of its glory in the daylight. I don’t love the idea of hanging out in another part of the house and risking more awkward conversations with Edith, but the thought of being holed up in this room with Wyatt all evening is not ideal.
Wyatt cocks his head to the side. “You gonna take off your coat and stay awhile?”
I step deeper into the room, closing the door behind me, listening as it shuts with a gentle click. Everything feels too quiet. I glance at the army of dolls with their backs turned toward us and the portraits of the Lamb of God watching our every move.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” I blurt. “Do you mind?”
He shakes his head, scooting farther onto the bed and pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Go ahead.”
Trying to ignore my discomfort, I root through my suitcase for my shower supplies. At least being in the bathroom will give us a little bit of separation. After gathering everything I need, I lock myself in the bathroom, taking a deep breath. I turn on the shower, letting it run while I get undressed.
Once underneath the flow of hot water, my body relaxes. At the same time, standing here completely naked while Wyatt is in the next room feels like the equivalent of having a glaring spotlight fixed on me. I try not to think about it, closing my eyes and working out my tense muscles, but I still find myself cutting the shower short after removing the dressing from my tattoo and cleaning it thoroughly. It’s like a fancier version of plastic wrap, and Joe said it’s best to take it off under running water, after a few days.
I throw on the camisole and sleep shorts I grabbed from my suitcase. It’s a little more revealing than I’d like, but all my pyjamas are—I always get warm at night. When I packed them, I didn’t think there’d be a point on this trip where Wyatt would see me in my PJs. Now I wish I brought something else.
I take my time massaging products into my lengthy curls, applying lotion to my tattoo, and doing my skincare routine. But then I run out of things to do—ways to delay the inevitable. Taking a deep breath, I twist the doorknob, pulling the door open. I pause at the sound of Wyatt’s voice.
I leave the door open just a crack, enough for his low murmurs in Korean to seep into the bathroom. He chuckles warmly, and I catch the word Umma . He must be speaking to his mother. My mind flashes to the image of them together from his dating profile, and a feeling of fondness unfurls inside me. I remember what he said about his parents, how they didn’t have time for him growing up, but his voice is so gentle, so full of love, it almost makes it hard to believe.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak Korean in all the time I’ve known him, and I briefly hate how much of a sucker I am for people who can speak anything other than English. He ends the call, and I linger for a few more beats before pushing the door open the rest of the way.
I’m met with a blast of cool air, goosebumps rising everywhere my skin is exposed. Wyatt looks up from his phone, his expression going slack once he catches sight of me. His lips part.
“Oh,” he says.
I’m immediately self-conscious in my choice of PJs, bare-faced, damp curls resting against my shoulders. I shoot him a look that I hope comes across as unimpressed, rather than panicked. My pulse spikes as I dart toward my suitcase, tucking my toiletries inside. I want to say something witty, to tease him about the way he’s looking at me—God knows that’s what he’d be doing if the roles were reversed—but my throat has completely dried up.
“Could’ve used a warning,” Wyatt mutters under his breath.
I snort, avoiding his eyes as I pretend to rifle through my suitcase. “Are my pyjamas that offensive?”
“Not at all.” He pauses. “I just like your hair like that.”
My movements still at the unexpected compliment, fingers going up to tangle themselves in a curl. I know I’m too hard on my natural hair, but it’s always felt like too much upkeep to do anything else but flat iron. I suppose it’s his first time really seeing it like this, aside from the canoe debacle. But it’s still drying, not yet having risen to its normal volume.
“Thanks,” I mumble. Before the moment can hang in the air, I clear my throat, take a seat on my bed and cross my legs underneath me. I pretend to miss the way Wyatt’s eyes dart to my thighs, then back up again. “Was that your mom on the phone?”
“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “This is the longest I’ve been out of the city in a while. She gets worried.”
I feel a pang of longing. “That’s sweet. I didn’t realize you were so close.”
He laughs shortly. “My dad leaving really brought us together.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my heart sinking.
Waving a hand dismissively, he shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. It was for the best. They were miserable together.”
“I’m still sorry,” I murmur, fidgeting with my fingers. “You got left behind too.” His eyes flicker to my face, guarded, cautious. I pull a pillow into my lap, settling in. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Wyatt considers the offer for several beats, seemingly trying to decide whether or not it’s genuine. “Only if you want to listen.”
“I do,” I say firmly.
Something passes over his features, too quick for me to decipher it, then he takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says, leaning back against his headboard, “I’ve already told you that I spent the majority of my childhood on my own. My parents worked as much as they could. They needed to, for financial reasons, but I also think it gave them an excuse to avoid each other. Just sucks that it meant they also saw very little of me.”
My words from our first day on the road come back to me— you’re not built to spend time by yourself . Guilt sinks into my bones. It was a stupid dig, something I’d said to try to get under his skin. I hadn’t known Wyatt’s childhood was similar to mine. “That must’ve been hard for you to be alone all the time,” I say gently. “I was too, but you love people.
“Yeah, it was. I liked going to school, making friends. But when the school day ended, it felt like they all forgot I existed, and I went back to my empty house.” He lets out a soft, humourless laugh. “I hated it there. And whenever my parents were home, they spent all of their time arguing with each other. I felt unwanted.”
I feel a painful tug of sympathy. Swallowing around it, I find myself with an intense urge to go back in time and pull the younger version of Wyatt into my arms. To give him the comfort he deserved. To tell him that everything will turn out okay, that he’ll grow up to be wanted by so many people.
The fierceness of it catches me off guard, and I blink, refocusing.
“I met Roman in elementary school,” he continues, eyes faraway. “He was my first friendship that extended past school hours. I barely told him anything about my home life, but somehow, he seemed to know that I wanted to spend as little time there as possible. He invited me over nearly every day. I was way closer with his parents than I was with mine.”
My stomach twists. It’s evident how much care Wyatt has for that version of Roman. Listening to him is making me soften toward my ex-boyfriend. It’s hard, sometimes, to remember that there are good parts of him too. They’re so very easily overtaken by the bad.
“And then when I was fifteen, my dad just. . . left,” he says roughly, with a helpless shrug. “Didn’t say goodbye to me or my mother. Just. . . gone. I hated him for not wanting me, not caring enough to stick around.”
A lump forms in my throat, a film of tears forming over my eyes. “You deserved better.”
His lips turn up in acknowledgement before they fall into a grimace. “It was really hard on my mom. She felt like a failure. And she saw how it turned me into someone else—someone angry and closed off. At the same time, I saw what it was doing to her. The financial burden, the isolation, a son that was becoming unrecognizable.”
His voice grows softer. “It was like we both had epiphanies at the same time. I got my act together and got a part-time job to help with the money. And we started talking, actually talking. About everything. The difference was like night and day.”
As if I were there to witness it all, I can vividly picture Wyatt as a teenager, supporting his mother, comforting her, strengthening their bond after being abandoned. Affection seeps into my chest, as well as envy. My mother was abandoned too, by a man I’ve never known. But it didn’t bring us closer together.
“I can tell how important she is to you,” I say earnestly, surprising myself. “I could hear it in your voice when you were talking with her.”
Wyatt’s gaze flickers to my face, clearing, as if seeing me for the first time. “She means the world to me.” Then his expression shifts, and I imagine both of our minds wander to a motel room days ago, when I’d poured my heart out about my mother. He deflates. “I’m sorry.”
I make a noise of dismissal, but find myself blinking rapidly. “Don’t apologize for that.”
He gives me a mischievous smile. “I’ll share my mom with you if you want.”
A laugh bursts from my lips, breaking the tension in the room. An easy smile worms its way onto Wyatt’s face at the sound. The thought of being introduced to Wyatt’s mom when we get back to the city is a little ridiculous, given the nature of our relationship. But I can’t deny there’s a part of me that’s sad I won’t meet her.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say .
The words hang in the air a moment longer before he clears his throat, rising to his feet. “Well, if you’re finished in the bathroom, I guess it’s my turn for a shower.”
On his way to the bathroom, he pauses, and I glance at him curiously. His eyes are focused on my shoulder blade, surprise flickering across his features.
“You took off the plastic,” he observes, taking a few steps toward me.
“I was getting tired of how it felt,” I admit. “I took it off a bit earlier than I was supposed to. But I also jumped into a lake shortly after getting it, so I’m not winning any gold stars.”
Wyatt’s fingers make contact with the skin around the newly inked area, and I freeze. His touch is feather-light as he examines the tattoo, careful not to brush against it. I hold my breath, keeping my gaze forward, a swarm of butterflies rioting in my stomach.
“It looks amazing,” he murmurs after what feels like an eternity.
He removes his hand and steps away. My breath comes out in a ragged exhale.
“You picked it out,” I say weakly.
He grins. “I have excellent taste.”
I roll my eyes at his ego, grateful for some semblance of our usual dynamic. Wyatt heads into the bathroom, leaving me to my own devices, and I settle under the covers, listening to the sound of running water, doing my absolute best not to picture him in the shower.