Page 20 of The Slug Crystal
Ben continues gathering information and asks, “What was your relationship with Alex like? Pre-gastropod.”
I take a sip of tea and stall. “It was… okay. Good, when it was good. Bad, when it wasn’t. He always needed to be right, even if he was wrong. He never let go of anything, not a single grudge, but he also never let me down when it mattered. He could be sweet when he remembered to try.”
Jake, voice low, finally interjects, “He hurt you, though.”
I nod, feeling the heat crawl up my face. “Yeah. But not on purpose. Or maybe a little on purpose. I’m not blameless, either.”
Ben scribbles, then asks, “If you could say one thing to him, right now, what would it be?”
I think about it, not because I don’t know, but because I know exactly, and it's heavy. “I’d tell him I’m sorry. For hexing him, obviously. But also, for not believing things could ever be different before we broke up. I think it was the right move, but still tough.”
Jake nods, like he’s memorizing my words for later. Ben rips a bite of burger, then points his pen at Jake. “You in love with her?”
Jake chokes on his fries. “What?”
Ben shrugs, casual as a weather report. “The way you look at her. I’ve seen that look. You’re not just in this for the road snacks.”
Jake flushes deep red, but doesn’t say no. Instead, he glances at me and then at the terrarium. He finally says, “Emma’s my best friend. Always has been.”
Ben smiles, softening. “That’s sweet. Also, brutal. You two have a lot to work out.”
I want to punch Ben. Obviously, the man doesn’t have any friends and doesn’t understand what friendship is. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the fact that after three years of emotional carnage, I’m running out of things to lose. Or maybe, somewhere under the bone-deep exhaustion, I just don’t care about the old rules anymore. So, I let him know exactly what’s on my mind. “You obviously have never had friends.”
Ben just shakes his head and laughs.
We finish the meal in relative peace. Jake takes the snail into the bathroom building with him, for safety, which is both hilarious and a little touching. Meanwhile Ben and I stand by the car, watching a tour bus full of elderly people in matching windbreakers try to coordinate a group pee break.
Ben leans against the truck, voice lowered. “You know, when I said I wanted to come along, I didn’t expect to actually… care. About the outcome.”
“And you care now?” I ask.
“I think I’m starting too,” he says, looking at me seriously.
I snort. “You sure have a funny way of showing it.”
He smiles, not quite cocky for once. “I’ve been divorced twice. Both times I let go too easy, because I didn’t think anything could change. Maybe you’re onto something. Maybe people do change, even if it takes a hex or a road trip or losing a bet in a bar.”
I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest isn’t from the tea. “You’re not going to get all poetic on me, are you?”
He shakes his head. “No promises. But I think this could be the best story I ever write.”
Jake comes back, terrarium under one arm, and we pile into the car for the final stretch.
6TWENTY QUESTIONS AND A FUNGUS
Monday,2:32 PM. Jake is the one who finally cracks. We’re about two hours out from our destination, and my playlist has long since dissolved from an organized list of songs I like into a digital hairball of suggested Upbeat Roadtrip Bangers. Each new song that plays only makes everyone in the truck more aware of the growing, throbbing silence between us formed by a combination of pure exhaustion and sheer boredom.
I’m chewing on the straw of a cold brew that’s all watery ice now. The only thing more relentless than the thrum of the road under our tires is the feeling that this is, hands down, the weirdest group project I’ve ever participated in. If you can call turning my snail ex back into a human into a group project, that is.
Ben’s in the back, legs splayed wide, one boot propped up on Jake’s toolbox, which he dragged out from underneath the seat, the other wedged against the door like he’s ready to launch himself out of the cab at any moment. He’s got his battered notebook open and is pretending to take notes. I can see from the rearview mirror that he’s actually doodling snails with fangs and smoke trailing from their shells. At onepoint, he makes eye contact with me in the mirror, raises both eyebrows, and makes a big show of licking the pen tip before returning to his art.
I frown in response, but shake my head without saying anything. Ben is kind of weird.
Jake keeps both hands on the wheel, jaw set, eyes locked on the horizon as though he can will us to the finish line faster through sheer force of will. He’s doing that thing where he tries not to fidget, but the more he resists, the more his fingers drum, his shoulders twitch, and his knee bounces with an increasing lack of subtlety.
I’m just about to attempt a Group Bonding Activity when Ben beats me to it.
“So,” Ben says, as if we’ve all been waiting for his signal, “I feel like we’re not maximizing the awkward potential here. I propose a game of twenty questions.”
