Page 16 of The Slug Crystal
Eventually, Jake stands, rummages through his duffel, and pulls out a pack of instant ramen. He gestures to the coffee maker on the dresser. “Want some?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Did you bring any of the extra powder packets?”
He winks and holds those up to. “Coming right up.”
For a minute, I watch him fumble with the tiny coffeepot. His light brown hair is sticking up at the crown and I see the way his shoulders relax when he thinks I’m not looking.
He makes the ramen, splits it into two plastic cups, and hands one to me. It’s salty and delicious and nothing like what I thought I wanted, but perfect for soaking up all the beer.
I finish half, then set the cup on the nightstand. I fiddle with my phone and think about texting Alina, but I don’t want her to know that I lost Alex. Instead, I just heart react to her most recent messages.
Jake watches me, eyes bright and kind. “This is going to be okay, you know. We’ll get Alex the snail back.”
I want to believe him, so I nod. Then I lie down, pull the covers up to my chin, and try to pretend I’m asleep.
Jake turns off the light, and the room falls into a soft gray from the TV screen. Tomorrow, we’ll look for the snail. Jake has never let me down, and I don’t think he’s about to start now.
5MAGS SENT YOU
Monday,8:24AM. The motel’s plastic blackout curtains are liars, doing absolutely nothing to block out the light. The world outside is already roasting, and the light inside is an indifferent, sickly yellow. I wake up with my face mashed into a poly-blend pillowcase that smells like musty old lint and not enough detergent. Jake is already up and, judging by the wetness around his hairline and the way he’s snapping open a stick of deodorant, he’s been awake for hours and likely just got back from a long run. He moves around the room like a Roomba, efficient at cleaning up his belongings, but slightly aimless, and impossible to ignore.
I check my phone and find nothing. Not a single missed call, no urgent text, not even a Snail World update. I wonder if Alex is somewhere, stuck to the plastic walls of his terrarium, feeling the cosmic joke as hard as I do.
I roll out of bed and blink at Jake, who offers me the deodorant wordlessly. I accept, because I forgot mine when I was packing, and some things are more important than dignity. “Did you sleep?” I ask, my voice gravel-thick.
“Like a rock. A very sad, restless rock,” he jokes, packingthe last of his duffel with the few belongings he had scattered about the room.
I shake my head. “How far did you run?”
“Only six miles, I got to see a lot of the town.”
I scoff. Only Jake would act like running six miles in the early morning is nothing. I swing my legs over the bed and force myself up. I’m not a morning person.
There’s no coffee in the room, despite the coffee maker. Guess it’s bring your own. I drink two cups of water from the bathroom tap, taste the bitter afterlife of motel plumbing, and wonder if it’s possible to get hungover from just heartbreak and loss. My entire chest is on fire with heartburn and regret.
By 8:42, we’re back in the truck, which is still sticky-hot even with the windows cracked. Jake drives, silent but brimming with a very specific kind of masculine resolve, and I scroll through Google Maps, trying to pinpoint every possible place Ben could have taken the snail overnight. Pawn shops. Craigslist drop-offs. Was there a black market for weird snails? Did Ben have a lair? I want to laugh at myself, but all the energy I have is directed into the task at hand. I need to get Alex back, at any cost.
We loop around the block twice before finding a spot in front of The Spotted Dog, which looks even sadder in daylight. The sign is still on, flickering. A man in a faded Eagles sweatshirt sweeps the stoop with a broom that’s missing half its bristles. The entrance smells like bleach and defeat. Jake holds the door for me, and I step in.
The inside is quieter than last night, the hum of the refrigerators the loudest thing going. The bartender is the same, silver tooth, arms like smoked ham hocks, T-shirt with a cryptic slogan Catch & Release that might be referencing fishing, but frankly I’m not sure. She looks up, clocks us, and for a second her face says, Not you again. But what comes out is, “Y’all hungry?”
I hesitate. “Actually, I was hoping you could help us with something.”
She leans forward, all forearms and attitude, and points to a battered menu. “Our breakfast special is the best deal until noon. Unless you’re here to lose another pet.”
Jake winces. “We just—look, last night was?—”
“Stupid?” she offers.
“Yeah, that,” I say, letting it land. “But we really, really need to find the guy who won. Ben.”
She doesn’t blink. “I told you before, I don’t give out customer info. Privacy, and all that.”
“I get it,” I say, and I do, but the desperation in my gut won’t let me stop. “Look, it’s not about the bet. The snail… it’s not normal.” I regret saying it instantly, but the bartender’s face doesn’t change. “It’s a rare species.” I suck in a breath and prepare to lie. “My ex gave it to me before he moved out. It’s kind of all I have left of him.”
Jake jumps in, steady, “It sounds dumb, but we’ll pay you for the time. Or for the info. Please.”
The bartender wipes a glass slowly while eyeing us, the universal gesture of I’m thinking. I want to beg, but instead I just stand there and let her look at us. The two emotionally ruined idiots with dark circles under their eyes and the resolve of a PTA mom fighting a school board.
