Page 63 of The Slug Crystal
"We'll never find her," I mutter, not caring if the others hear me. "She's gone, and Alex is stuck like this forever, and it's all my fault." The weight of responsibility presses down on me, making it hard to breathe. "What was I thinking? That we could just fly to Italy and magically find one woman in an entire country? That she'd wave her hands and fix everything?"
A gentle hand on my shoulder interrupts my spiral. I turn to find Marco standing there, his expression calm, steady. "We will find her," he says, his voice carrying the same quiet authority he uses when discussing his academic research. "Every location we visit provides new information, narrows the parameters of our search. It's a methodical process."
"But what if we're too late?" I whisper, staring down at Alex in his terrarium. The blue snail is completely unbothered by my crisis, his antennae lazily probing a fresh lettuce leaf I'd placed there this morning. "What if we never turn him back?"
The question hangs in the air between us, more vulnerable than I intended. Marco's hand remains on my shoulder, a steady anchor in my sea of doubt.
"Then we adapt," he says simply. "Just as he has adapted." His free hand gestures toward the terrarium. "Life finds a wayto continue, even in unexpected forms. But we're not at that point yet. We have more avenues to explore."
There's something so grounding about his logical approach, his refusal to indulge in catastrophizing. I feel my breathing slow, my grip on the terrarium loosening slightly.
"Besides," Ben interjects, appearing beside us, "if all else fails, you've got a killer conversation starter for dinner parties. 'This is my ex-boyfriend. He's a snail.'"
The absurdity of it startles a laugh out of me, exactly as Ben intended. His green eyes crinkle at the corners, a sign of his pleasure at his success.
Jake approaches, his expression softening with my laughter. "We'll figure this out, Emma. We always do."
The "we" catches in my chest, this strange, improvised family that's formed around my magical mistake.
Luca pushes off from the sculpture he's been leaning against, his movements fluid and purposeful as he joins our circle. "I suggest we regroup at the pensione," he says. "Good wine helps clear the mind. Perhaps we need to approach this from a different angle."
"Luca's solution to everything—wine," Ben teases, but there's no real bite to it.
"It's gotten us this far," Luca responds with a shrug that somehow manages to be elegant.
As we walk back to the car, I take one last look at the commune—this place of creativity and freedom that couldn't hold Sarah any more than the shop in Florence could. The colored cabins blur slightly in the afternoon heat, the sculptures casting strange shadows across the dusty ground.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to Alex, quiet enough that the others can't hear. "I'm trying, I promise."
In his glass home, the blue snail continues his unhurried exploration, apparently content with his leafy meal and oblivious to my torment. Sometimes I envy his simplicity, his acceptance of his current reality. Unlike me, constantly caughtbetween hope and despair, between past and future, between my growing feelings for four very different men and my responsibility to the one I transformed.
"Coming, Emma?" Jake calls, holding the car door open for me.
I nod and turn away from the commune, clutching my small glass world against my heart as we head back to the city, no closer to answers than when we arrived.
Saturday, 6:27PM. The pensione's pool glows an otherworldly blue under the spotlights, its surface rippling with gentle evening breezes. I sit at the edge, jeans rolled up to my knees, feet dangling in the tepid water as I nurse my third—or is it fourth?—glass of limoncello. Empty bottles stand like sentinels on nearby tables, a testament to our collective attempt to drown the day's disappointment.
The only true benefits of the day were a quick shopping run to find some clothing essentials for Jake, Ben, and me. That, and the discovery of the limoncello. The sweet, citrus liqueur burns pleasantly down my throat, numbing the edges of my frustration. I've placed Alex's terrarium safely on a lounge chair behind me, tucked under my jacket, where the night air won't chill him.
Jake and Ben occupy the small bar area at the far end of the pool, their heads bent close in conversation, occasional laughter drifting across the water. Marco sits alone at a table, reading something on his tablet, the screen's glow illuminating his focused expression. Luca is nowhere to be seen, having disappeared to "find something better than this tourist limoncello" twenty minutes ago.
I swirl the yellow liquid in my glass, watching the way it catches the light. Two days in Florence, and we're no closer to finding Sarah than when we arrived. The journal with the snail sigil feels like a cruel joke, so close yet untouchablebehind glass. I take another sip, wincing at the sweetness that now borders on cloying.
"CANNONBALL!"
The shout is my only warning before Luca launches himself into the pool directly beside me. Water explodes upward in a spectacular fountain, drenching me completely. My glass drops from my hand, the thick plastic clattering harmlessly on the stone edge as I sit in shock, water streaming down my face, my shirt plastered to my skin.
For a moment, I'm too stunned to react. Then, instead of the anger I might normally feel, a bubble of laughter rises in my throat, unexpected and liberating. It spills out, growing louder until I'm doubled over, hands clutching my sides, laughing harder than I have since this whole mess began.
Luca surfaces, pushing dark, wet hair from his eyes, his expression a perfect blend of mischief and triumph. "Finally," he says, swimming closer. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to laugh."
I wipe water from my eyes, still chuckling. "You're insane. I'm completely soaked."
"That was the point," he replies, reaching up to grab my wrist. "And now there's no reason not to join me."
Before I can protest, he tugs at me. Not hard, but with enough surprise that I slide forward into the pool with an undignified splash. The warm water envelops me, jeans and all, as I surface sputtering.
"You are the worst," I inform him, though there's no heat in it. The alcohol buzzes pleasantly in my veins, making this late night swim seem like the most natural thing in the world.
