Page 19 of The Slug Crystal
He spreads his hands, grinning. “On the road trip. Let’s see if this lady can really turn a mollusk into a man. Maybe I’ll get an article out of it. Or a book deal. Love Potion Number Snail or something.”
I should say no. I should grab the snail and run. Instead, I look at Jake, who just lifts his eyebrow in the universal gesture of up to you. I can feel the weird logic of the universe closing in. I did turn my ex into a snail, I did lose him in a bet, and I did just tell the truth to a stranger who now wants to see how the story ends.
“Fine,” I say. “But if you slow us down, I’m hexing you next.”
Ben laughs, sounding delighted. “Deal.”
He stands, already grabbing a jacket and keys from the hook by the door. “I’ll go pack a bag and meet you up front in ten minutes.”
Jake gives me a look that’s half question, half approval. He waits until Ben walks to the back of his house, then he asks, “You sure about this?”
I squeeze the terrarium, watching the snail inch his way along the glass. “At this point, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Ben whistles as he packs up, whistling the riff from “Highway to Hell,” and the sound echoes back to us.
Once he’s packed, we add his bag to the covered bed of Jake’s truck and pile into the cab, me in the passenger seat with Alex in my lap, Ben in the back. Jake checks his mirrors, grins at me, then turns to Ben and says, “I hope you’re ready for the weirdest Monday of your life.”
I think about all the ways this could go wrong, then glance at Jake. He gives me a thumbs up.
“Bring it,” I say, and Jake floors it.
We are off again, this time with a new passenger and the kind of determination that only comes from losing everything and then deciding to get it back, even if it costs you your dignity, your sanity, or your last shreds of plausible deniability.
Westbrook Lane disappears behind us, the wind chimes clattering a farewell.
By the time we hit the on-ramp to I-84, I’ve cataloged three distinct types of road trip awkward. First there’s the “What are we doing?” silence, then the “Are we really doing this?” silence, and lastly the “There’s no way back now, is there?” silence.
Ben smells like cinnamon and ink. He always seems to need to be busy with something. Like picking at his beard, rolling a battered pen between his fingers, and occasionally scrolling through a notes app labeled The Project.
Jake drives with his legs splayed like he’s afraid the seatbelt might cut off his circulation. He keeps a watchful eye on the GPS and the world outside, which is currently a blur of pine, split-rail fences, and billboards advertising jewelry stores or bail bonds.
I’m in the passenger seat, cradling the terrarium like a bomb, and thinking about how my life is now governed entirely by two things. The whims of men with questionable facial hair, and the well-being of an ex-boyfriend who is, at this very moment, sliming his way across a fake plastic log.
Ben breaks the silence first. “So, for the record, what’s the snail’s name?”
I hesitate. “Alex. It’s short for Alexander, but he hates when people use the full name unless he’s being a pompous ass about something.”
Ben grins at Jake. “See, that’s humanizing. You have to respect a mollusk with strong branding. What’s his last name, though? I picked up on Alex when you mentioned it earlier.”
Jake side-eyes him. “You’re not going to write about this with his actual name, are you?”
Ben waggles his phone. “Already started. The world needs to know. People are desperate for content about weird shit happening to other people, especially if it ends with a moral or a recipe. It’s not credible if it’s not grounded in truth.”
“Please don’t turn my existential crisis into some social media fluff piece,” I mutter.
He glances at me, his grin softening just a little. “I won’t use real names. Unless the snail goes viral, then all bets are off.”
We drive for the better part of an hour, trading playlist control like it’s a war of attrition. Jake queues up melancholy indie, Ben counters with ‘90s rap, and I snipe with a Spotify radio mix so algorithmically cursed that it serves up a Jonas Brothers banger immediately after a Gregorian chant. No one wins, but at least it keeps us from stewing in the constant thrum of our own anxiety.
At the second rest stop, Ben insists on a journalistic lunch, which I don’t think is a real thing. Ben was just tired of being in the car, in my opinion.
We pile into a booth at a quick service burger joint that’s empty except for a single guy in camo eating ketchup packets straight. Jake orders a grilled chicken sandwich and a small fries, I stick to iced tea, and Ben goes all out requesting two burgers, onion rings, and an extra-large Coke.
He pulls out a battered notebook, flips it open, and uncaps his pen. “Let’s get the lay of the land for the background of the story,” he says, eyes bright. “Tell me everything about the spell.”
I start reluctantly, but once the first words trickle out, they don’t stop. I tell Jake about the breakup, the website, the sage and merlot, the group spell with Jake and Alina, and the incantation that still rings in my head at night. I even admithow I almost chickened out, how it was all a joke until it wasn’t, how the real magic wasn’t the hex but the sudden, terrifying power of being able to change something in the universe, even if it was just a person I used to love.
Ben writes it all down, nodding, interjecting with the occasional huh or that’s wild. Jake listens, silent, his gaze flicking between us and the terrarium on the table.
