Page 29 of The Slug Crystal
I don’t protest, and neither does Ben. The silence is sticky and resigned as we pull away from the curb. We drive down the blocks of Pittsfield’s main drag, past a Laundromat called Suds n’ Sins, a shuttered movie theater advertising a triple feature of last year’s Marvel movies, and an empty pizza place with a handwritten sign that reads, “Back at some point. Maybe.”
At the end of the main street, Jake points at a low, sagging building with a sign that says River Bend Motel: Wifi, HBO, Weekly Rates. There’s a pool peeking out from the lobby building, visible as we pull into the parking lot.
“This looks great. We can go swimming,” Ben says, already halfway out of the car before Jake even comes to a full stop.
8POOLSIDE CONFESSIONS
Monday,7:52PM. Jake and I follow Ben into the front office of the motel. It smells like a half gallon of lemon Pledge was used to try to mask the scent of old cigarettes. There’s a bell on the counter, but before Ben can hit it, a woman appears from the back room. She’s thin, with brittle red hair and deep-set eyes. She stares at us without blinking.
“Need a room?” she asks, deadpan.
“Yes. Three beds if you have it,” Ben says. “Or two, with a sofa.”
She slides a battered ledger across the counter and taps a pen. “Name?”
Ben glances at me. “Emma...”
“Hartley,” I respond. Realizing Ben doesn’t even know my full name. Despite the long hours spent getting to know each other in the car, we still have very little information about each other.
She writes it down, then frowns at the terrarium in my hands. “You got pets?”
I open my mouth, but Ben jumps in. “Just a snail. He’s hypoallergenic.”
She seems satisfied with Ben’s explanation, nodding andreturning to the paper on the desk. She slides a key card across the counter. “Room seven. Park in front. Breakfast is in the morning, six to nine. Pool is open twenty-four hours, but we don’t have a lifeguard, so don’t go in if you can’t swim.”
I nod, snagging the key card off the counter and shooting a quick glance at Ben. He isn’t paying attention to me, his gaze fixed out the window on the pool outside.
Jake stands behind me with his hands in his pockets, not bothering to step away when I turn on my heel and I almost crash into him. He places a hand on my elbow to steady me, finally stepping back when he’s sure I won’t fall.
I offer him a small smile, then the three of us file silently out of the lobby. After stopping by the car for our bags, we follow the signs to find number seven. We pile into the room, and it’s… well, it’s exactly what I expected from this rundown town. Two queen beds, a hideous, ancient sofa, carpet the color of canned spinach, and a TV bolted to the dresser with a remote that may or may not be for this brand of TV. The bathroom is a shrine to off-brand cleaning products and has complimentary soaps shaped like seashells.
I drop the terrarium on the dresser, set my bag on the bed closest to the window, and flop down hard enough to make the mattress groan. Jake sits at the edge of the other bed, rubbing his face with both hands. Ben checks out the dresser and finds a mini fridge behind the bottom right door, which is empty except for an old takeout container, presumably from a prior occupant.
He slams the fridge shut and collapses onto the sofa. “This,” he says, “is the best worst day I’ve had in years.”
No one responds. The rain outside drums against the window, a steady white noise that fills the room. For a while, we just sit. I stare at the ceiling, counting the weird brown spots and trying to decide if any of them are actively moldy. Jake fiddles with his phone, probably texting his brother and sister that he’s super close to or maybe doomscrolling socialmedia. We don’t have many other friends besides Alina, who is more my friend than his, anyway.
Ben fiddles with the remote until he’s able to get it to start working, then flips channels on the TV, cycling through infomercials, a rerun of CSI: Miami, and then, inexplicably, a cooking show hosted by a woman who looks like she could kill a man with her spatula.
Eventually, the exhaustion morphs into hunger. “Anyone want to order something?” I ask, but my voice is muffled by the pillow.
Jake raises a hand. “Pizza, if we can find somewhere that’s not closed.”
Ben gives me a thumbs up. “Works for me.”
I try the pizza place in town, finding the number from Google, and to my surprise, a teenager picks up even though the hours aren’t listed and everything seemed closed earlier. I order a large with everything, plus garlic knots.
The kid responds, “Cool, thirty minutes, unless the bridge is flooded again.”
I say, “Thanks.” Then I hang up, while secretly wondering how anyone lives like this. We definitely aren’t in Boston anymore.
While we wait, Jake moves to sit on my bed next to me, watching as I scroll on my social media. He comments occasionally as we watch a few reels. I’m so engrossed in my phone that the delivery guy rapping on the door with his knuckles scares the shit out of me, and I shriek, tossing my phone up into the air.
Ben laughs and stands, stretching his arms over his head and revealing a slice of toned muscle as his shirt lifts with the movement. Wait, is Ben… hot? I eye the sliver of skin and watch him move, realizing how toned he is. Suddenly, I can’t unsee his attractiveness, and my cheeks flush with heat.
Something is wrong with me.
Ben answers the door, leaning against the frame. “Pizza?” He asks.
