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By the time his engine finally gives up on life, Jamie Phipps can't pretend even to himself that he's surprised about it. He has no survival skills when it comes to cars, but even he knows a vehicle shouldn't be making the noise he's been ignoring for the better part of five hours. The bumpy, uneven squeaking has been getting louder all day, bringing all kinds of other cranky behavior along with it.
Even the power steering has been uncooperative, and okay. Look. Jamie knows that's dangerous. Just like he knows he should've pulled over and found a garage ages ago.
But he's only an hour out from his sister's place—and only three hours beyond that from the Twin Cities, hoping like hell to make it that far before having to face the inevitable. He's barely left Fargo behind him, and he's so close. After two days on the road, he's more than ready to be done.
If he'd made it all the way home, he would've had weeks to deal with whatever the hell has gone wrong with his car before making the return trip back to campus. Easy. Simple. Probably expensive, but at least he could handle it all from the comfort of his parents' living room.
Instead, Jamie is stuck on the side of the highway, maddeningly close to the nearest off-ramp and terrified the gusting flurries of snow will make him invisible to oncoming traffic, even with his hazard lights on.
At least he managed to make it to the shoulder before losing momentum. He's safely past the rumble strip at the edge of the road, his windows fogging over as he waits on the line for someone from roadside assistance to take his information. His parents maintain a premium plan, and even so he's been on hold for what feels like an eon. Bad weather combined with the fact that it's only four days until Christmas, probably fucking up a lot of people's travel plans.
He's glad for the thick winter jacket that he squirmed back into while waiting. The sun has just finished setting, and icy cold has already begun to permeate his little car. Fuck knows how long he'll be stuck here, but at least he can bundle up enough to be confident he won't freeze.
When he finally gets a human on the line, the news is even worse than he anticipated. His name goes on the list—and they'll get to him in about six hours.
Fuck. He hates the thought of begging his sister to save him. It's not like she's got any time to spare, getting ready for the holiday with a three-year-old while she and her wife are working full time. He could call his parents, and they'd probably bundle right into the car and come to his rescue, but that's a four-hour drive at best, just to reach him, and they're busy too. Getting ready for not just the usual influx of family, but for an extra guest who will be staying for the foreseeable future.
Jamie's more than a little curious about his dad's best friend. He's been hearing stories about Victor Leone his whole life, a mysterious figure so busy and absent that he has no idea what the man looks like. Victor's imminent arrival has Warren Phipps so excited that Jamie can't bear the thought of interrupting his parents' preparations. He'll figure something else out, and update them once he knows what's going on.
Waiting six hours is not a plan though, so Jamie does some extra digging. He hasn't made it too far past Fargo, and the map on his phone proclaims he's right at the edge of a tiny, middle-of-nowhere town called Mayworth. The place has a garage and a population of a couple thousand people. Even better, when he calls the garage's number, they're still open.
"We'll send the truck out to tow you in," says a graveled alto on the other end of the line. "You okay to stay put there?"
"Yes," Jamie breathes, slumping in his seat as the worst of the anxious tension bleeds away. "Thank you. I'll be here." He hangs up with a sigh of relief, probably more dramatic than the circumstances warrant, and dials his mom's number to give Anika Phipps the unfortunate update.
*
The mechanic who comes to collect Jamie gives him a pitying look when he admits he hasn't even bothered to pop the hood.
Jamie shrugs, sheepish but unapologetic. It's not like looking at the engine would've told him anything. He knows how to refill his windshield wiper fluid, and how to check the oil. Everything else is above his pay grade, and staring at a broken engine block would've been exactly as helpful as trying to build a space shuttle from scratch: so far beyond the realm of reasonable expectation as to be comical. No way in hell was Jamie going to stand outside in the increasingly heavy snowfall, just to claim he tried.
The ride into town—only about fifteen minutes back the way he came—is blessedly short. Jamie is so relieved at not being stranded on the side of the highway that he takes the news with genuine calm when, once back at the garage, the mechanic's jargon-filled explanation ends with, "We don't have the right parts. I can place an expedited order, but the holiday really screws up delivery times."
"How long?" Jamie asks, already considering logistics. If he can catch a bus as far as Fergus Falls, his sister can surely make space for him to tag along the rest of the way.
"We should have it done and ready for you by the thirtieth. Nothing we can do to get you back on the road sooner. Sorry, buddy."
Jamie signs paperwork and slips the fob off his key ring, handing everything over with a sense of quiet inevitability. "Is there a hotel nearby?"
"Sure is." The mechanic scrubs a hand through messy hair. "You can get there on foot. Downtown's just a few blocks east."
The directions are so straightforward that Jamie doesn't bother jotting them down—just shrugs into his messenger bag and pops the handle up from his obscenely large rolling suitcase. He spares only the most idle moment wishing he had packed lighter for this trip. That was never an actual option, considering he's going to be staying for the entire month of January, but rolling a heavy suitcase on tiny wheels over sidewalks covered in deep snow...
This isn't Jamie's idea of a good time.
By the time he reaches the hotel, he's talked himself halfway into a panic with the thought that they won't have any rooms available. It's four days until Christmas, and this is the only hotel in town. It's a locally owned place, small and cozy, and Jamie's heart is hammering from both exertion and nerves as he steps across the lobby threshold—grateful for the blast of warm air—and lets the door swing shut behind him.
A reception desk stands opposite a single couch and a roaring fireplace, the ceiling above stretching high with visible wood beams. The tiny wheels of Jamie's suitcase squeak, leaving wet trails on the thin carpet, as he makes his way across the narrow space.
Before he can ding the silver call bell, a round and smiling woman appears from an open doorframe beside the desk. She's dark skinned and pretty, with a face that looks too young for the striking sweep of silver curls tucked back from her face.
"Welcome to Woodhouse Inn. Do you have a reservation?"
Jamie cringes, and stumbles awkwardly through an explanation of his journey, feeling with acute awareness that he is oversharing and yet somehow unable to stop the words from pouring out of his mouth. Because no, he doesn't have a reservation. But he also has nowhere else to go.
The receptionist—Shana, according to the tag at her lapel—types quickly into the computer on top of the desk. "We're full up tonight, but I might be able to swing something."
Jamie blinks, torn between hope and confusion. "I... That's great but... How?"
"The owners have family in town for the holiday. Lots of family. That's most of the guests right now. Someone might be willing to double up."
Incredulity widens Jamie's eyes and makes his chest feel tight. "Why would they do that?"
Shana gives him a sympathetic look that is, thankfully, not quite as pitying as the mechanic's. It's kind and piercing at the same time, and Jamie finds himself wondering with a sudden burst of self-consciousness what he must look like right now. He's been driving for the better part of two days, trying to cram a twenty-plus hour trip into as short a duration as possible. He stayed at a hotel last night, but didn't sleep nearly long enough before hitting the road this morning. His limbs ache from hours behind the wheel of his car, his lanky frame tense from the road. His shirt started the day crisp and sharp, but he's hopelessly rumpled now. Even his hair—a mop of loose brown curls that are difficult to style under the best circumstances—is a chaotic mess after the wet and windy walk through what passes for downtown in Mayworth, Minnesota.
"Do you have somewhere else you can stay tonight?" Shana asks, still wearing that painfully kind expression.
"I... no."
"Then let me see what I can do." She gives him a reassuring smile. "There's a bar next-door, if you need something to eat while I get everything sorted. What phone number can I use to reach you?"