Page 14 of The Slug Crystal
The whole bar is watching now, the old men turning in their stools, the bartender leaning on the counter. The couple in the booth has stopped fighting.
Ben lets me throw first. My hand is shaking from the tequila, but I land two on the board, the third just missing the triple. I step to the side, and Jake’s hand is a warm, steady pressure at my back as he steps close to me to watch. I focus on the sound of his breathing to steady myself.
Ben’s turn. He closes one eye, lines up, and hurls the first dart. Bullseye. The next one, twenty. The third, another bullseye.
I swear under my breath. The bar erupts in applause. Ben bows, exaggerated, then holds out his hand for the terrarium.
I hesitate, looking at Jake. His jaw is set, but his eyes say, It’s okay. I made the bet, I have to follow through.
Returning to our booth, I slide the snail across the table. Ben holds it up to the light, inspecting the shell with a reverence usually reserved for ancient relics or very expensive watches. He looks at me and grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him.”
The game is over. The adrenaline drains out of me, leaving a hollow behind my ribs. I want to ask for the snail back, to make a scene, but the rules are the rules, and I hate breaking them more than I hate losing. I look at Jake, and he nods.
“Let me play you for him,” Jake offers. “If you win again, I’ll give you $100. If I win, I get the snail back.”
Ben taps his chin. “Nah, I think I’ll take the snail.” He stands, tucking the terrarium under his arm, and tips an imaginary hat. “Pleasure doing business, Emma. Jake.”
He walks out into the night, leaving the bar quieter, the air softer.
The bartender brings over the last pitcher, along with abasket of pretzels. “That was the best darts I’ve seen in years,” she says, setting them down with a smile.
I stare at the table, the loss settling in.
Jake nudges my foot under the booth. “You okay?”
I force a smile, not wanting to talk about Alex in the bar. I don’t want to get kicked out if anyone overhears and decides I’m a psychopath. “It’s just a snail.”
But it isn’t, and we both know it. That bet was so stupid, and I don’t know why I let Ben goad me into it.
We finish the pitcher in silence, and my mind is reeling. I’ve fucked up so bad, and I don’t know how to fix it. When we leave, the parking lot is empty besides our truck. The Prius and the other cars are gone. Jake walks close beside me, not touching, but there.
I look up at the night sky, at the swirl of stars, and wonder if snail Alex is out there somewhere, plotting revenge.
Sunday, 6:42 PM. I don’t remember walking back into the bar. One second, I’m in the parking lot, Jake’s hand a ghost on my shoulder, the next I’m standing at the counter, the bartender’s silver tooth glinting at me through the haze of smoky, dim bar lighting.
“Hey,” I say, voice thin as tissue paper. “That guy. Ben. The one who won my snail.”
She raises an eyebrow, wiping at the same patch of counter she’s been working since we walked in. The entire surface is sticky and grimy, and the rag is so dirty the color has been stained a permanent dingy gray, so I’m not quite sure why she’s pretending to clean. “Yeah, what about him?”
I grip the edge of the laminate so hard my nails leave half-moons. “Do you know where he lives? Or works? Or, like, any way to contact him? He took my—” I stop, realize how insane I will sound if I explain the ex-boyfriend-turned-snail situation. “He took something really important.”
She leans in heavily, like the weight of every bad night and worse customer is settling on her elbow. “We get a lot of people looking for Bens,” she says, suddenly acting like she doesn’t know who I’m talking about when she just watched our entire game of darts not even twenty minutes ago. “I can’t just hand out people’s info, you know. Not even sure I know where any Ben lives around here.”
I swallow. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me? I need to get it back.”
She looks over my shoulder, checking to see if Jake is coming to pull me away from the bar or if she’ll have to call her own muscle from the kitchen. “Sweetie, I get it. Really. But even if I wanted to, I don’t know his last name. Some people just show up, play a game, then vanish.”
I’m half a second from offering her $100, or my phone, or a kidney. Instead, I just say, “He can’t just leave with it. With the snail.”
She shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something almost motherly behind the tough. “If he’s a regular, he’ll be back. Give me a number, I’ll tell you if I see him.”
I try not to let my heart drop at the “if”, hoping she is just trying to protect Ben’s privacy in some weird way. I scribble my cell on the back of a coaster, which is half-soaked from the counter and curls as soon as I let it go. The bartender smooths it out and pins it under a salt shaker.
“Next time, keep your bets smaller. Never bet anything you aren’t willing to lose, hun,” she says, and there’s no judgment, just the steady certainty of someone who’s seen this a hundred times.
I nod, unable to find words. I know that, and I still bet something irreplaceable. I am an idiot.
Jake is waiting by the door, arms crossed, his whole body radiating equal parts relief and worry. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “She doesn’t know. He’ll be back, maybe, or not. Doesn’t matter.”
