But it was late and the crowds should be thinner. Abby also needed soup, and I could use a little something myself.
The deli counter was way more packed than it had any right to be at this hour, but I supposed it was a testament to how good their food was. The line to order was more of a mob pressed against the counter. The guys behind the counter would point at someone, and they would shout their order back at him. With multiple people hollering their orders at the same time, I had no idea how any of the food came out correctly.
I took a deep breath and tried to wedge myself into a gap near the register.
Immediately, someone cut in front of me.
Then someone else.
Then someone elbowed past me to grab napkins, nearly knocking the pharmacy bag out of my hands.
“Next!” one of the counter guys shouted.
“I’ll have the—” someone yelled.
“Pastrami on rye!” someone else interrupted, pushing the other guy aside.
I opened my mouth to order, but a tall guy in a business suit literally stepped in front of me like I didn’t exist.
I was on the verge of stabbing him with my keys but I chose peace. That didn’t mean I was going to give up, though. I needed some damn soup. I tried again to get the counter guy’s attention.
“Excuse me, I just need?—”
“You gonna order or what?” A big, pushy guy in a Knicks jersey appeared at my elbow, glaring at me like I had personally insulted his mother.
“I’m trying, I just—I’m just trying to order soup for my sick friend.”
“Then get a move on,” he snapped.
This was ridiculous. I was brave enough to move to the city all alone and now I couldn’t even order soup without having a breakdown. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe I should just go back to Wyoming where people said thank you and sorry and actually waited their turn in line.
A shadow cut through the crowd. And then Dane was there, his hand on my back, firmly pressing me closer to the counter.
I could feel the solid presence of him beside me, tall and broad and somehow carving out space in the chaos just by existing.
“What do you need?” His voice was low, meant just for me, but it cut through the noise like he’d used a megaphone.
“The—the soup—the chicken—” I couldn’t seem to form a complete sentence. My brain had short-circuited the moment his hand touched my back.
Dane turned to the counter, and his entire demeanor shifted.
“One large chicken soup,” he said, his voice loud and commanding. But there was something else in it too, an accentI’d never heard before, Irish and rough around the edges. “And make sure it’s hot.”
“We’re busy, pal. You’re gonna have to wait.”
“We’re all busy,” Dane said, his voice dropping into something almost dangerous. “Now get the soup. Now.”
The counter guy opened his mouth to argue. Dane leaned forward, and whatever expression crossed his face made the guy step back. “One large chicken soup.”
What followed was the most aggressive soup transaction I’d ever witnessed. When the guys behind the counter tried to push back, Dane got louder and seemed to grow ten feet tall, eyes blazing with challenge, like he was ready to hop over the counter and get the soup himself.
The deli guys caved. Dane also ordered a sandwich for me and for himself. In record time, a to-go container of steaming hot chicken soup was thrust into my hands, secured in a plastic bag. The sandwiches were in brown paper bags, grease already darkening them. Dane paid for everything before I could even reach for my wallet.
Then he was guiding me toward the door with that same firm hand on my back. Suddenly we were outside in the frigid air, and I no longer felt so overwhelmed.
“Thank you for that,” I said. “And I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but what are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “This place has good sandwiches.”
