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A sigh leaves him and he shakes his head. “Come on back here. The phone is hanging on the wall.” He waves at a very old looking phone and I push through the swinging half-door, offering my ring to him once again when I pause in front of the phone.
“Take this,” I tell him, my stomach growling again.
Loudly.
The man frowns. “You’re hungry.”
“I need to make a call first.”
“I’ll feed you. Make you a sandwich.” He seems glad to have something to do as he starts bustling about. “What sort of meat you want?”
“Turkey?” My stomach cramps so hard it hurts and I shove my wedding ring back on my finger. “Swiss cheese?”
He nods, pulling the glass door back and reaching into the display case. “I’ll make you a nice sandwich. You make your call. And I’m glad you put that ring back on your finger. I don’t need it.”
Relief makes my tense shoulders ease and I grab the phone, staring at the numbers for a moment, the dial tone droning in my ear.
Smartphones are amazing. Every little thing you could ever need is pretty much at your fingertips. But being so reliant on them means you don’t remember anyone’s number. Like my husband’s.
Frustration rippling through me, I dial the first number that comes to my mind. One of the very few I have memorized.
My brother Finn’s number.
He of course lets it go to voicemail because with my current luck, that’s just the way things work out. I’m watching the deli owner make me a sandwich, piling it high with turkey meat, swiss cheese and lettuce and onions and I settle the phone back into its cradle, the hunger hitting me so hard I swear I sway on my feet for a moment.
“You didn’t get through?” He glances over his shoulder, his bushy brows drawing together in concern. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’ll try again in a minute.” I offer him a faint smile, blinking hard when my vision goes blurry.
Right before it goes black.
***
“Oh look! She’sawake!”
An unfamiliar female voice keeps shouting and it makes me not want to wake up at all. Instead, I keep my eyes tightly closed, withholding the groan that wants to escape when someone jostles my body, searing pain crossing across the back of my head.
I’m on the floor, and I think I might’ve passed out? The deli was so warm, and I’m still inside—the unmistakable scent of baking bread still lingers in the air—and I recognize the male voice speaking as who I assumed is the owner.
“Don’t move her, Martha. She took a hard fall.” His tone is chastising and the woman just makes a tsking noise at him in return.
“We can’t let her lay on the floor forever, Arthur. Customers will be here soon!”
I’m guessing Martha is his wife. And the fact that she’s more concerned over customers seeing me passed out on the floor versus my actual well-being is telling.
I don’t think she’s thrilled to find me like this.
I carefully crack open my eyes to find two faces hovered above me. The deli owner’s—Arthur. And a woman with dyed black hair and highly arched, matching black eyebrows drawn above her eyes. She leans back when our gazes meet, giving me breathing room.
“You okay, hon?” Her voice is gentle, and maybe I judged her too harshly.
It actually wouldn’t be good for business, to have a strange woman sprawled across the floor while people tried to order their sandwiches.
When I realize they’re waiting for my answer, I shrug one shoulder. “My head hurts.”
“You hit the floor pretty hard,” Arthur says. “You want help sitting up?”
I nod and he takes my hand, his weathered fingers curling around mine as he gently tugs me into the sitting position. I move slowly, reaching behind me to touch at my head, rubbing the spot where I feel a bump. “How long have I been out?”
