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York argues with her for a full ten minutes before he gets in the car. It’s polite, as far as arguing goes. “Nah, man, I’m fine, I’ll just walk back, it’s just down the road and it’s not that dark,” he tells her, hovering with her beside her old blue jeep. He keeps on repeating variations on this as Carolina repeats the facts: it is seventeen degrees out. It is snowing. He has a twenty-minute walk. He has no coat. It is seventeen degrees out.
He’s on his fifth “I’ll be fine, man,” and probably his hundredth casual-hand-wave when she grabs his wrist and informs him, “You’re either getting in my car or you’re dying of hypothermia.”
York’s shoulders sort of drop then, and he stares at her hand on his wrist for a half-second before offering up a defeated little smile. “It’s kinda cold,” he admits.
“It’s a little cold,” Carolina agrees, and she unlocks the passenger’s side door. His hands tremble hard enough that she’s driven almost the full length of the street before she hears the seatbelt click. She reaches over to switch the heat to full blast, and tunes the radio to some local station. They’re playing Christmas carols.
“Wait. Wait, it’s January,” York says, and she glances at him, at his hunched shoulders and arms wrapped tight around himself. He’s looking curiously at the radio.
“And?” Carolina replies, raising her voice above a truly stirring rendition of Frosty the Snowman.
“I dunno, it’s just, like, aren’t Christmas carols for…Christmas?” York asks, and she glances over again. His brow is furrowed like this is actually, legitimately troubling to him.
“They’re for winter,” Carolina answers, shrugging. “Why does it matter?”
“I dunno,” he repeats. “I mean, it’s okay, I mean…Frosty the Snowman is obviously like, really nuanced and important to our society—”
Carolina snorts and there’s a smile in his voice when he goes on. “—it just kinda makes it less special, I guess.”
“I could change it.”
“Nah, man, it’s all right.”
She hears his feet shuffle on the floormat, and when she pulls up to the stop sign she sees him improbably curled up in the passenger seat, resting his head on the window and staring out at the thick-falling snow. He looks like he belongs there.
“You’re gonna tell me when to turn, right?” Carolina asks. He lifts his head, blinking like he’s forgotten where he is, then settles back to alertness, feet hitting the floor.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Yeah, uh, it’s like…uh, just keep going for a while, and then make a left at the…big building.”
There are no other cars on the road but Carolina lingers at the stop sign anyway in order to fix York with a disapproving stare. “Those are easily the worst directions I’ve ever heard. In my entire life.”
York grins, shrugging. “I’m new here?”
“Yeah?” Carolina replies, driving forward. “You from somewhere they don’t believe in coats?”
“Somethin’ like that. Uh, I think it’s a red building. It’s…a big red building. Is that better?”
“It’s passable,” Carolina tells him, and he grins again.
Frosty the Snowman gives way to Silver Bells and Carolina turns left at the “big red building”, which turns out to be blue, which York remembers at exactly the last second, which means she nearly skids into a ditch and kills them both, trying to make the turn.
And then they’re on a dead-end street that contains exactly nothing. An old barn that’s been abandoned for as long as she can remember, and then just trees. Carolina’s jogged past here before, taking the path that leads through the woods at the end of the road. She stops next to the only streetlamp, watching the snow fall in the headlights. “You’re sure this is right?”
“Yeah, yeah, this is good,” York says, his voice coming out a little higher, a little more nervous than before. He fidgets with his seatbelt. “Thanks, man, you’re like, probably the best barista the world’s ever seen, they should give you some kinda award for that, you should look into that, I’ll back you up and even write like, a letter of recommendation if you want. Promise.”
“You live on this road?” Carolina asks carefully.
“Uh, yeah, there’s…like…a…house? There’s…it’s like a house. Further down a little.” He runs a hand through his hair, not meeting her eyes, and the rest of his words come out in a rush. “But it’s kinda narrow at the end, kinda hard to turn a car around down there, y'know? So I’ll just –”
“York. There’s no house on this road,” Carolina interrupts.
York blinks at her. “Sure there is,” he says, raising his eyebrows innocently.
Carolina stares at him for a beat. He’s fidgeting like a five-year-old, one sneaker turned so she can see the hole in the bottom of it. She can see the dark circles under his eyes a little better now, too, under the streetlamp’s sharp, flickering glow. Silver Bells has become Auld Lang Syne, trailing piano and a gentle voice. She thinks about how he’d paid for his coffees with a scuffed-up giftcard and handfuls of carefully-counted coins when that ran out. She thinks about how he’d curled around himself in the passenger seat. She thinks about free heating.
“It’s not that bad,” York says quietly, before she can say anything. He’s looking defeated now, defeated and tired and like he’s been caught mid-crime. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that bad. It’s got a roof, y'know?” He nods toward the barn. “And I’ve got, y'know. Blankets. Water. It’s not bad at all. S'just a temporary thing, no big deal.”
“I have a couch,” Carolina says, on impulse.
York blinks at her again. “I’ve got blankets,” he repeats, and digs out his phone. “And instagram!” He offers a grin. It doesn’t quite fit.
“It’s seventeen degrees out and there’s a hole in your shoe,” Carolina snaps.
York looks down at his shoe. “Nah.”
Carolina makes a noise of frustration and puts the car in drive.
“Wait, wait, wait,” York says, fumbling with the seatbelt. She shoves him back into his seat, one hand on his shoulder, and he sort of just stops entirely then, staring at her hand like he had earlier. “Are you kidnapping me?” he asks after a pause.
Carolina drums her fingers on the steering wheel, pulling back out onto the main road. “Probably.”
York gives a startled laugh. “I changed my mind. You win world’s scariest barista,” he says, and Carolina smiles.
“Damn right.”
He’s quiet for a second before starting up with the nervous babbling again. “I won’t stay long, I’ll find someplace, I don't—”
“York?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up. You’re ruining Jingle Bells.”
He doesn’t say a word for a good thirty seconds after that, and when Carolina glances over to make sure he’s not dead, she sees him curled up in the seat again. Like he belongs there.