Chapter 2: Errands
The rain started just as Svet’s bmw shuddered to a halt outside the psychology building. It was a flat, grey drizzle that matched the concrete and the vague headache pulsing behind Edwin’s eyes. He’d been swallowing sand for two days, his throat a raw, closed road. His voice had abandoned him sometime during the night, leaving behind only a ragged whisper that felt like someone else’s.
He saw her before she saw him. A flash of vibrant blonde hair under a navy hoodie, mismatched socks—one charcoal, one with tiny pizzas—peeking above her sneakers. She was arguing animatedly with a guy from her cognition seminar, her hands carving shapes into the damp air. Edwin watched, leaning against the passenger door. He loved watching her like this, unobserved, a live wire of energy in the dull afternoon.
She broke away with a wave, her expression shifting when she spotted him. A smile, then a wince. “Oh, no. You look like a wet, handsome ghost.”
He opened his mouth, but only a dry crackle emerged. He shrugged, pulling the collar of his jacket higher.
“Lost voice?” she guessed, unlocking the car. The inside smelled like her: vanilla air freshener, citrus spray, and the faint, sweet trace of energy drink. “That’s deeply tragic. And also, kind of hot. In a gritty, ‘I-have-secrets’ kind of way.”
He rolled his eyes, sliding into the worn passenger seat. The movement made him aware of every aching muscle. He’d gone to the gym that morning, trying to sweat out the sick, a decision he now deeply regretted.
“Okay, itinerary,” she announced, merging into traffic with a confidence that belied the car’s wheezing engine. “Post office, then the weird health food store for my mom, then I have to return a textbook across town. You are now my silent, brooding co-pilot. Your job is to nod judiciously and carry things.”
He gave a thumbs-up, his gaze tracing the raindrops sliding down her window.
The post office was a lesson in fluorescent-lit purgatory. As she waited in line, debating parcel options with a clerk, Edwin leaned against a wall of PO boxes, his body humming with a low fever. He watched her. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating, the faint line between her eyebrows. He remembered Marcus’s hand on the seatback, the easy smirk. A low burn started in his chest, unrelated to the illness.
Back in the car, she handed him a lukewarm bottle of water. “Drink. You’re basically a houseplant right now. A very tall, sulky houseplant.”
He obeyed, the water a balm on the sandpaper.
“So,” she said, her tone carefully casual as she navigated the slick streets. “Marcus texted me.”
Edwin went very still, the plastic bottle crackling in his grip.
“Just to send a meme. And, you know, reiterate the rooftop thing.” She glanced at him, her eyes quick and searching. “I told him I had a prior commitment. Which is true. I committed to being a hermit.”
The tightness in his chest eased by a fraction. He nodded, looking out his window.
The health food store was an assault of kale-colored light and the smell of spirulina. Svet vanished into an aisle labeled ‘Adaptogenic Powders.’ Edwin lingered near the entrance, feeling profoundly out of place among the bulk bins of quinoa. His phone buzzed. A text from his academy partner about a missed drill. The world of duty and fitness felt galaxies away from this herbal-scented universe she moved through.
A touch on his elbow. He startled.
“You’re zoning,” she said softly. She was close, holding a paper bag of something that smelled like dirt and flowers. Her brow was furrowed with concern. “You’re really sick, aren’t you? We should go back. I can do the textbook another day.”
He shook his head vehemently. The thought of the day ending, of returning to his silent, empty apartment, was worse than the fever. He pointed to the bag in her hands and raised an eyebrow.
“Mushroom blend,” she said, a laugh catching in her throat. “For ‘cognitive longevity.’ My mom is convinced I’m going to burn my brain out by thirty.” She didn’t move away. Her hand was still on his elbow, a point of warmth seeping through his jacket. “You’re burning up, Edwin.”
He shrugged again, the movement bringing him an inch closer. Her eyes dipped to his mouth, then back up, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. The space between them in the cluttered aisle crackled, charged with everything unsaid. The bar, the music, the open seat, the silent years of adoration—it all condensed in this moment, in the press of her fingers on his sleeve and the ragged sound of his breathing.
A store employee rounded the corner with a trolley, and the spell snapped. Svet dropped her hand, stepping back. “Right. Okay. Textbook return. Then I’m dumping soup down your throat.”
The final errand took them to the other side of the university, to a dusty used bookstore that smelled of mildew and wisdom. While Svet haggled with the cashier over a late fee, Edwin wandered. His fingers trailed over cracked spines in the music section. He found a battered copy of Leonard Cohen’s Stranger Music. He flipped it open, and a line jumped out: “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
He stood there, holding the book, the words echoing in his silent, aching head. He thought of his music, the layers he built to hide the core melody. He thought of the crack in his composure every time she laughed.
“Find anything?”
She was at his shoulder, peering at the page. He closed the book and held it up.
“For me?” she asked, surprised.
He nodded. It was a risk. A quiet, paper-backed confession.
She took it, her fingers brushing his. A longer touch than necessary. Her eyes softened, the stormy grey turning calm. “Thank you.” The words were barely a whisper.
The drive back to his apartment was quiet, a comfortable silence woven through with the swish of tires on wet pavement and the soft tap of her fingers on the steering wheel. The rain had stopped, leaving the world glistening under a bruised sky.
Outside his building, she put the car in park but left the engine running. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come up? I make a mean canned soup. It’s literally just the can, heated up, but I present it well.”
He smiled, a real one, though it felt cracked. He shook his head. He needed to retreat, to process the day, the touch, the book.
“Okay.” She bit her lip. “Play tomorrow. Even if you just whisper the lyrics. I’ll be there. I want to hear the new one. The layered one.”
He met her gaze and held it, putting every ounce of meaning he couldn’t voice into the look. It’s for you. It’s always been for you.
He saw her breath catch. She understood. Or she was starting to.
He got out, the cool air a shock. As he walked to his door, he heard her window roll down.
“Edwin!”
He turned.
Her face was earnest, framed by the car door. “The voice thing? Seriously. Way sexier than you probably intend.”
Then she grinned, threw him a wink, and drove off, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, the ghost of her touch on his arm and a crack of light widening in his sealed-up heart.