Chapter Text
Rey opens the doors of Temporary Solutions Apothecary at seven o’clock every morning but Mondays, which she uses to restock and prepare supplies for the week, tidy the shop, and evaluate her menu of offerings. It helps to know what’s selling well and what only ever sits on the shelves, bottled or jarred or bagged, unacknowledged for weeks by anyone but herself. She has some regular clients, but mostly she gets one-offs. People who pop in for the novelty her shop presents—draughts and tinctures, herbs and teas, elixirs and powders and potions that, it’s rumored, can solve any problem or sate any curiosity for a fair price.
She likes the regulars best; they’re the ones she’ll set aside special orders for or keep on hand just enough of a particular ingredient or rare brew. They’re dependable. Dependable people, she has found, are hard to come by. In a lot of ways, those hard-to-come-by, dependable clients are the closest thing she has to friends.
She knows that’s rather sad. She prefers not to dwell on it.
It’s Sunday morning when, like clockwork, Mister Tortured Creative walks through the apothecary door just after nine, and Rey, like clockwork, gets that fleeting but frustrating fluttery feeling in her stomach at the sight of him. It’s fine. This is the routine. Technically, he’s a regular, though he baffles her most of the time, because unlike her other regulars, he barely rises to her attempts to chat. Rey gets that lots of people aren’t into small talk. Frankly, it isn’t her forte either—she’s just found that a lot of the time people only want someone to talk at rather than with, and that suits her fine.
But this guy?
He comes in every Sunday. By now he’s probably tried everything she has on offer that’s meant to get ideas flowing and creative juices juicing, including a handful of custom orders, but she doesn’t even know his name. The most sustained conversation they’ve had since he started coming in about a year ago was when he requested a particularly complex blend for clarity of mind. That time, she’d had to ask him some follow-up questions to make sure she concocted just the right thing. Unlike Maz, she can’t simply feel a person’s needs with a probing look, though she is learning. He’d been secretive and almost surly, but she’d managed to pry out of him that he was a writer and struggling with what sounded like a vicious creative block.
“Good morning. Nice to see you again,” she says, glancing up from her work. “Hell of a day to be out without an umbrella, isn’t it?”
She’s been reducing some Essence of Adventure since Friday evening, and it’s at the point where it requires frequent monitoring as it nears the ideal concentration. As for her own concentration, it’s far from ideal. Completely compromised, more like. The clouds opened up just after she got in and it’s been pouring ever since, and Mister Tortured Creative is soaked through. His jacket is dark and sodden, his jeans clinging to his thighs, and his hair is stuck around his neck and ears in a way that has no right to be as attractive as it is.
He says nothing.
Annoyed (with herself or him, she can’t say), Rey looks away, clears her throat, and gives the concoction a stir. “I’ll be right with you.”
His muttered reply sounds like assent as he paces slowly along a shelf of premade mood teas. His boots squelch and leave big wet footprints in their wake across the oak floors.
So that’s it. Their routine.
It’s not satisfying.
Often, it’s maddening, because aside from him presenting a regular challenge to her skills, which she rather likes, Rey finds him attractive. Part of it is the fact that he’s good-looking in a way that compounds the more she looks at him—which she tries to be careful about, because once he caught her studying him as she ground up some fresh coriander, and his eyes had been so intense. In her defense, she’d mostly been trying to get a read of him, just to see if she could. She’d been equally captivated by the downturned corners of his soft mouth and the birthmarks speckling his cheek. Today it’s the way his thick dark hair disappears beneath the upturned collar of his jacket; it’s his large hands, curled into loose fists at the end of sleeves just a touch too short.
Yet despite how much it needles her, she appreciates his reticence. Maybe she’s reading too much into it—or is reading him exactly right—but she thinks he’s one of those people who prefers to observe and listen. He’s a writer, so he must have things to say (even if it’s probably pretentious ‘I took a creative writing course in undergrad and now I think I’m writing the next Infinite Jest ’ eye-roll fodder), and she’s lonely, so she wonders what they are and why he is having such a difficult time committing them to the page.
The essence needs another hour or so, she thinks, so she covers it back up, washes her hands, and shuffles over to the front counter. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What brings you in today?”
For a moment he continues looking at the shelf, brow furrowed, his profile outlined against the wet, gray window behind him. Just seeing him like this makes her shiver as if she’s the one drenched to the bone. She wishes she could blame it on commiseration. When he turns, the goosebumps on her arms only get worse.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” he says.
“Oh?”
He’s ordinarily more decisive—peruses the menu, makes his order, out in as much of a flash as possible like he’s got far more important things to do. As he draws up to the counter, she notices, not for the first time, the circles under his eyes and the pallor of his face, shaded by stubble at his jaw and upper lip. Not exactly the picture of a man who finds himself in a good place. For a while she thought he just spends a lot of time writing late into the night, but now she’s not so sure. She’s seen this before; she’s been this before.
“Yeah. That’s part of what you do, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but usually I need at least some idea of what sort of effects you’re looking for.” Rey chews her lip, scanning his face, surprised by how he lets her. She easily feels his frustration, which radiates from him, and a more subtle thread of dismay. “Is it your writing?”
“It’s always my writing.” His eyes screw shut, and he scrubs a hand over them, pulling it through his hair, squeezing it until little droplets hit the countertop. “Nothing’s working. I can’t sleep. Any time I try to sit down and just get anything on the page it feels like my head’s full of mud. Everything I come up with is garbage.”
Rey considers.
“If you want, I’ll have a fresh stock of the Writer’s Decongestant on Tuesday morning,” she suggests. She can tell by the look on his face it’s not the answer he wants. “There’s always the Creative Juices. I could try blending a few of those into something more tailored to your needs. But I remember you said they gave you weird dreams.”
The man stares at her like he’s shocked she recalls something so personal from months ago.
“Yeah. And an urge to take up a musical instrument.”
Improbably, the corners of his mouth curve upward. He’s smiling at her. Just a bit, but she’s never seen him smile, and even with exhaustion and desperation evident on his face, it changes him for a moment. She smiles a little in return. To her surprise and pleasure, it coaxes his wider.
“You could have just gone with it,” she says.
“Unless that urge comes with innate talent, I doubt my neighbors would appreciate it.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
He sighs and continues to drip as his smile falters, and he begins to look like he needs a towel and a long nap. Rey has a ridiculous compulsion to invite him to her apartment, which is above the apothecary and has a perfectly adequate supply of both towels and sleeping surfaces. Which will probably ensure she never sees him again and possibly gets left a bad review on Yelp for being a creep.
“Look, er . . .” She feels like she’s about to overstep. Now’s as good a time as any. “Hey, what’s your name? I ought to know by now, but—”
“Ben. I’m Ben.”
“Ben. Nice.” It’s like he was just waiting for her to ask all this time, with how readily he answers. Her heart skips. “I’m Rey.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Shit. Of course he does. She’s wearing a name tag on her apron. Still, the flutter returns.
“Right. Well, Ben,” she starts again, “can I . . . offer you some advice that might sound counterintuitive?”
His brow crinkles adorably. “Sure.”
“The things I make here, they’re not supposed to fix your problems. They’re just there to point you in the right direction. Give you a mental boost, or some liquid courage, or some peace of mind. But, you know, with overuse, they can start to inhibit your natural creativity. Mess with your sleep cycles.” She raises her eyebrows significantly. “Your dreams.”
“I’m aware of the side effects.”
“Well then why do you rely on them so much?”
Ben frowns, more stormy than adorable.
“Are you telling me I’m an addict?”
“What? No!” Rey’s face goes hot, and she waves her hands as if to ward off a swarm of flies. “Just that you came in here today unable to even tell me what you wanted. And I know what it’s like to . . . to feel like I’m not enough. How tempting it can be to find ways to forget that feeling.”
He just stares at her, jaw clenched.
“Sometimes,” she adds, leaning closer, “what helps most is a good night’s sleep and some fresh perspective. Giving myself a break from what’s bringing me down.”
“Weird business plan you have here,” he grouses after a moment. They’re both leaning over the counter, close enough that she feels his breath ghost her forehead.“So, what? You’re not going to sell me anything? I should stop coming in?”
“You can purchase whatever you like. As you said, you’re aware of the side effects. And I’d be quite sad if you stopped coming here on Sundays. I like seeing you.” Rey groans inwardly at the slip, but at least he doesn’t seem to have noticed—though that also makes her a little sad. “All I’m saying is that sometimes people come in here looking for things they think they need, but nothing they find on these shelves is going to provide it.”
Ben’s nostrils flare and he still looks annoyed, his hands splayed on the countertop and his head dipped in something like defeat. “Fine. Then do you have something that at least helps with . . .”
His mouth hangs and no words come out, then he presses his lips together and swallows. It occurs to Rey he has no idea what else to ask for. His eyes are frantically scanning the menu board behind her head, then the labelled jars just below.
“I’m not going to be insulted if you don’t buy anything this week,” she says. “Or ever again. I just thought maybe you needed to hear that you’re not alo—”
“Loneliness,” he blurts. He seems to regret it the moment the word leaves his mouth, but he doubles down, almost defiant. “Do you have anything for loneliness?”
“Yeah. They’re some of my best-sellers.” Unfortunately. “One of the teas, actually—it’s gotten a lot of good feedback from customers. I’d recommend a half-ounce. Should brew up about eight servings.”
“Sure.”
Rey nods and slips out from behind to counter to fetch the glass jar of tea leaves, along with some peppermint to brighten the mellow flavor, then scurries back to measure it out into a little tin. He waits in silence, watching her. She senses he is embarrassed, as if he’s just admitted some humiliating truth and is waiting for her to mete out judgment. Except it’s the most relatable thing he’s ever said to her, and it doesn’t feel like enough to just send him on his way with another brew that’s only going to fade and leave him right where he started. Not when she feels it too.
“Hey, I was thinking,” she says, struggling to sound casual as she presses a discreet handwritten label to the tin and rifles through her files for the corresponding preparation instructions. “I close up for an hour every day around noon. I grab a bite down at the corner deli and then go for a walk in the park. It’s a shit day for a walk, but would you like to join me for the food part? They make amazing sandwiches. It’d be nice to have company for once.”
Everyone likes food. Harmless enough.
So she thinks.
“I can’t,” he says quickly. “Sorry.”
Rey hates the way her stomach drops, like she’s just been thrown off the edge of a roof, but it was a long shot, and she tries not to feel too silly. She thought, when he gave her his name so readily and smiled at her like that and seemed like he might be opening just a bit, that she’d discovered the beginnings of a connection. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she really did piss him off. Maybe it isn’t her at all—maybe he just doesn’t like sandwiches.
Too many maybes, and a flat out refusal. At least she managed not to invite him upstairs.
“Don’t apologize, it’s okay.” She waves a hand, steeling herself to meet his eye again as she packs his order in a small paper bag and slides it to him. “It was just an invitation. Having the time alone isn’t terrible. A welcome change after a busy morning.”
It’s the loneliness that gets her, and how even the busiest work day doesn’t fix that, even though she’s used to it.
Ben clears his throat. “I get it.”
He’s walling off again. Rey grits her teeth as she rings him up. He pays and leaves in his usual hurry, ducking his head against the rain, the parcel stuffed into the front of his jacket. She watches him run across the street and disappear around a corner, then wipes up the little smear of rainwater his dripping hair has left on the counter top just in time to greet her next customers.