She set down the dish towel. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Walker’s hands stilled in the water. “I already tried. He was... River.”
The way he said it told her everything. River being River meant deflection, jokes, walls up so high you’d need climbing gear to scale them.
“Boone tried too,” Walker continued, pulling the plug and watching the water drain. “Said River made a crack about Christmas spirit being overrated and kept working on that truck.”
Jonah appeared in the doorway, drying his hands on a dish towel. “I tried, too. He quoted Home Alone at me until I left.”
Johanna reached for her coat from the hook by the kitchen door. “I’ll try anyway.”
The night air hit her face like ice water as she stepped onto the porch. Her breath puffed white in front of her, disappearing into the darkness. Christmas lights twinkled along the roofline, reflecting off patches of snow that crunched under her boots as she crossed the yard. She could hear the music before she reached the garage, some heavy metal song blasting loud enough to vibrate the metal siding.
She pulled open the side door without knocking. Heat and noise and the sharp smell of motor oil rushed out to meet her. River was half-hidden under the hood of Walker’s old pickup, only his legs visible, bouncing slightly to the beat. Tools lay scattered across a grimy cloth beside him. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows, making the garage feel both too bright and too dark at the same time.
She closed the door behind her, the cold draft swirlingaround her ankles before fading. River didn’t look up, though she knew he’d heard her come in. His elbow moved in quick, jerky motions as he turned a wrench, metal clanking against metal.
Johanna didn’t announce herself. Instead, she settled onto the concrete floor near the front tire, her back against the cold cinderblock wall. The floor was hard and uncomfortable beneath her, still holding the chill of December despite the space heater humming in the corner. She tucked her hands into her coat pockets and waited.
Two songs passed before River finally emerged from under the hood. Grease smudged his forehead where he’d wiped sweat away. His curly hair stuck up at odd angles, wilder than usual, and his movements had that manic quality she recognized from his worst days, when the jokes came too fast, and his smile looked painted on.
“Doc! Joining the grease monkey club? We don’t have a secret handshake, but we do have... “ He paused, rummaging through a toolbox, pulling out a rag. “Disgusting shop towels and the sweet smell of gasoline. Makes Christmas cookies seem boring, right?”
She didn’t respond, just watched him.
River’s smile twitched at her silence. He tossed the wrench into the toolbox with a clatter that made her wince. “What brings you to my humble workshop? Engine trouble? Life trouble? The burning need for my sparkling wit?” His hands never stopped moving, adjusting a cap, wiping a dipstick, checking levels that didn’t need checking.
Still, she said nothing.
“Not in a talking mood, huh?” He ducked back under the hood. “That’s cool. I can talk enough for both of us. Been thinking about upgrading the fuel injection system on this old girl. Walker’s too sentimental about his trucks. Keeps themrunning way past their prime. Like this beast. Twenty years old if it’s a day. Practically antique.”
The wrench slipped, banging against something metal. River swore under his breath.
“Should have been junkyard-bound five years ago, but no, Walker keeps her around. Guy’s got a thing about lost causes.” He laughed, the sound brittle. “Speaking of lost causes, you should see what Boone did to that Christmas tree. He had the nerve to call it decorating, but ask me, it’s a capital crime, plain and simple.”
Johanna shifted slightly, her back already aching from the hard wall. The concrete floor leached warmth from her body despite her heavy coat. She could leave, go back to the warmth of the house, the soft couch, the smell of pine and cinnamon instead of grease and gasoline. But River was here, alone on Christmas Eve, hands shaking as he worked too fast on an engine that wasn’t broken.
So she stayed.
“Alright, Doc, seriously.” River’s voice floated from under the hood. “You’re creeping me out with the silent treatment. If you’re waiting for me to have some big emotional breakthrough because it’s Christmas, you’re gonna be disappointed.”
She remained quiet, watching his feet shift restlessly.
The song changed again, something with screaming guitars that made conversation nearly impossible. River turned the wrench with unnecessary force, metal squealing in protest. Sweat beaded on his temple despite the chill.
“You know, in some cultures, staring is considered rude,” he called out, grabbing a different tool. “In others, it’s a declaration of war. Which are you going for? Rude or war? Because I gotta tell you, I’m pretty good at both.”
He worked for another ten minutes, his movements growing more erratic, less purposeful. Checking things thatdidn’t need checking. Tightening bolts that were already tight. His chatter continued, jumping topics midsentence, references to movies blending with jokes about engines, none of it connecting to anything real.
Finally, he straightened, banging his head on the hood with a hollow thunk. He rubbed his scalp, turning to face her properly for the first time.
“You gonna say anything?”
“Nope,” she said calmly. “Just being here.”
River’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
“Because you won’t stop moving long enough to let anyone reach you.” She kept her voice even, matter-of-fact. “So I’m waiting.”
