Page 26 of Falling Like Snow

I claim the spot in front of the pot on the left. “All right. Chicken noodle tends to be pretty popular, so I’ll give you the easier one.”

“Sounds good.”

“They can have as many bowls as they want, but only one ladleful at a time. Then they have to come back up.” I grab the latch at the bottom of the roll-up window. “Ready?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I think so.”

I push the window open, and the crowd immediately moves forward, eager for lunch. With signs posted on the counter, they form two lines in front of their preferred soup. As suspected, the chicken-noodle line is significantly longer. I begin ladling soup into bowls and setting them on the counter for people to take.

“Oh my goodness, Sloane,” one of the first elderly women says. “You’ve gotten so much older since the last time I saw you. And you’re lovelier than ever.”

“Thank you, Bernadette,” I say, despite having just seen her when I volunteered at the senior-center summer cookout in July.

“Oh, ho, ho!” Mr. Marley says as the line moves forward. He’s a heavyset man with white hair and a jolly laugh. I first met him years ago when he was unhoused. Dad got him set up with a job and eventually an apartment. Now he comes to senior-center events to visit the friends he made here over the years.

He leans across the counter, trying to wrap his thick arms around me even though I’m slightly out of reach.

“Don’t burn yourself, Mr. Marley,” I say, pushing the pot to the side.

“I just can’t believe my eyes,” he says, patting my arm. “How’s your mom?”

“She’s good,” I tell him. He stands straight, and I give him a bowl of soup. “How are you?”

“Fantastic. My daughter just moved in with me. It’s just like the good old days—except she’ll be changing my diapers soon enough.” His boisterous laugh carries over the crowd.

I smile at him. “Good luck to you both with that.”

Still laughing, he takes his bowl to a nearby table, and the next person steps forward.

After three more people stop to talk to me, Micah finally says, “Didn’t realize you were so popular.”

“I would have thought you knew, seeing as you’re obviously stalking me,” I say, ladling soup into a bowl and handing it to the next person.

“I’m stalking you?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Twice you’ve run into me.”

“If you were a better stalker, you would have been more discreet, not standing around in the open where I could run into you.”

Micah laughs, and my stomach swoops at being the cause of it. “Seriously, though,” he says, “if you wanted to hang out, you could have just asked. You didn’t need to follow me here.”

I roll my eyes even though I can’t stop my traitorous lips from tilting upward. “I’ve volunteered here twice a year since I was ten, and I’ve never once seen you in the halls or manning the kitchen. So who is following whom?”

He passes a bowl of tomato soup to the last person in his line and sets his ladle in the pot. “Touché,” he says. “But I didn’t know you volunteer here.”

“You want me to believe that seeing you three days in a row is a coincidence?” I grab a bowl.

“Or fate.”

My eyes swing to his playful smirk—and I pour the hot soup all over my hand, missing the bowl entirely.

“Shit!” I screech, dropping the ladle.

“Language, dove!” Mrs. Tarpinksi says from the window, acting completely scandalized.

“Sorry.” I turn to Micah, who seems both concerned and entertained. “Can you handle the soup while I take care of this?”

“No problem. You good?” He takes the ladle.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mutter, the embarrassment burning more than the scorching soup.