Page 30 of The Slug Crystal
The delivery guy, a young teen covered in acne, peers around him into the room, glancing from Ben to Jake to me. “Yeah, best in town. You guys aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Nope,” I say, walking towards the door and handing over a small set of crumpled bills. “Just passing through, excited to try the pizza though.”
He nods enthusiastically in response. “You definitely won’t be disappointed. Honestly, you should have gotten two.”
I laugh. “We can always order again. Or grab more on our way out of town.”
“You’re not leaving tonight, are you?” He asks, suddenly looking concerned. “The river always floods when it rains, and the locals get into weird shit near the bridge. Better just to stay until tomorrow.”
Ben accepts the boxes from the kid. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what “weird shit” means, but he starts to walk away once the pizza is no longer in his possession.
“Weird kid,” Ben comments as he closes the door.
“Weird town,” Jake mutters.
I just shake my head, ignoring both of them and walking the boxes to the dresser. There aren’t any plates, but they did include a handful of napkins, along with packets of Parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes.
Within minutes, each of us has a couple of slices and a garlic knot on napkins in our seats around the room. We eat in near silence, except for the sounds of Ben violently inhaling a slice in two bites. I glance at snail Alex inside the terrarium, watching for a second as he gnaws on a chunk of lettuce I brought from the car. My gaze flits to Jake. He eats slower, methodically, as if he’s savoring the first real food he’s had all day.
After my two slices and a garlic knot, I’m done. I place my napkins to the side and flop back on the bed, letting the crusts litter the side table.
Ben wipes his hands on a napkin and fixes me with a look. “We need alcohol.”
I glance at Jake, who’s stretched out on the other bed, staring at the ceiling with his arms folded under his head. He meets my gaze and gives me the barest hint of a smile. Just enough to remind me that he’s here, always in my corner, and the decision on what we do on this trip is mine to make.
I think about it. I want to say yes, but I just can’t bring myself to commit. “I think maybe we could use clear heads…” I start.
“Nah, we don’t need that,” Ben interrupts, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He hops to his feet and yanks open the door. “I’m going to go for a walk and see what I can scrounge up from nearby.”
The rain intensifies, and the power flickers. For a second, we’re all silent, watching the room pulse with the lightning. “Are you sure you want to go out there?” I ask.
“Definitely,” Ben replies, then steps out into the torrent, closing the door gently behind him.
Concerned, I glance at Jake, but he seems entirely unbothered. I stand and walk to the window. The world outside is blurry, neon reflections slicking the wet parking lot. Ben is already out of sight, apparently dashing in whatever direction he thinks the liquor is in.
Jake clears his throat, voice low. “He’ll be fine. He’s an adult, and you don’t have to worry about him. Or Alex. You made a mistake, you’re trying to fix it. You’re not a bad person, Emma.”
I nod, but in my heart, I’m not sure I believe him. Most people don’t revenge-transform their exes into a snail, and since Ben joined us for this journey, I feel responsible for himtoo. One thing is for certain. I know I’m not done. I owe Alex more than this.
The snail is pressed to the side of his terrarium, antennae stretching, as if searching for a way out. I watch him for a long time, the blue shell shimmering under the cheap motel lamp. Maybe Ben is right when he was rambling in the car earlier. Maybe the story isn’t about the spell at all. Maybe it’s about how I fix the mess I made, and the people who stick with me, even after everything falls apart.
Monday 9:12PM. The door crashes open, and Ben staggers in, dripping rain onto the carpet. His shirt is plastered to his chest, and his hair is dripping in little rivulets down his face. He’s grinning like he’s won a war.
“Emma, Jake,” he announces, holding a plastic bag aloft. Water runs down his arm and splatters onto the carpet. “I bring tequila.”
He sets the bottle down on the dresser with a heavy thud, then rummages deeper into the bag to reveal limes and a salt shaker and three Styrofoam cups, as if he’s just returned from some heroic quest.
Jake stares at him, unimpressed. “You’re soaked and you’re getting the carpet all wet.”
“It’s called commitment,” Ben says, peeling his shirt off and dropping it in a soggy heap near the door. His tanned skin is slick and toned, and I have a hard time tearing my eyes away. “The universe tested me, and I prevailed. You’re welcome for bringing you the drink of the Gods.”
I can’t help laughing. “Tequila is the drink of the devil.”
“Correction,” Ben says, already pouring liquor into the cups, “It is our salvation.” He hands me one, along with a full lime because no one has a knife handy.
The first round burns down my throat, sharp and mean, and the second follows before I can think better of it. By thethird, Ben is insisting onNever Have I Ever, leaning forward with that manic gleam in his eyes that I already know is going to get us in trouble.
“Never have I ever,” he starts, pointing straight at me, “drunk-texted an ex at three in the morning.”
