Page 68 of The Slug Crystal
Their banter continues, washing over me as I rest my head against the seat, suddenly aware of a faint queasiness in my stomach. I close my eyes, attributing the feeling to last night's limoncello combined with the winding road. Marco drives well, but the Tuscan roads twist and turn through the hills like drunken snakes.
The queasiness intensifies with each curve, a rolling discomfort that grows increasingly difficult to ignore. I focuson my breathing, on the steady weight of Alex's terrarium on my lap, on anything but the churning sensation that's rapidly becoming impossible to suppress.
"—need to be strategic about where we search first," Jake is saying, his voice seeming to come from far away. "If this commune is as spiritual as it sounds?—"
"Are you feeling alright?" Luca interrupts, his question directed at me. "You've gone quite pale."
All eyes turn to me, even Marco's in the rearview mirror, and the sudden attention only intensifies the nausea building in my throat. I swallow hard, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.
"I'm fine," I manage, the lie transparent even to my own ears. "Just a little carsick, maybe."
The next curve sends my stomach lurching violently. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and the familiar metallic taste of imminent vomiting floods my mouth. Panic surges through me.
"Pull over," I gasp, my voice strangled and desperate. "Now. Please."
Marco reacts instantly, swerving the car toward the shoulder with a spray of gravel. I'm fumbling with the door handle before we've fully stopped, thrusting Alex's terrarium at Jake as the car lurches to a halt. The door flies open, and I tumble out over the top of Jake’s lap, barely making it two steps before my body betrays me completely.
I vomit violently into the dusty roadside grass, my entire body heaving with the effort. Tears spring to my eyes, partly from the physical strain and partly from the utter humiliation of the moment. Behind me, I hear the other car doors opening, followed by a chaotic jumble of concerned voices.
"—give her space?—"
"—need water?—"
"—is there a pharmacy nearby?—"
"—where's that bottle?—"
Through the haze of my misery, their panicked reactions would almost be comical if I weren't feeling so thoroughly wretched. I hear hurried footsteps, the sound of bags being rummaged through, and the car trunk opening and closing.
"Here, water!" Ben's voice rises above the others as he frantically waves a bottle, accidentally sloshing half of it onto the ground in his haste.
"Motion sickness is caused by conflicting sensory inputs," Marco announces to no one in particular, carefully placing Alex's terrarium on the dashboard where it catches the sunlight. "The inner ear detects movement while the eyes perceive stillness, creating a neurological discordance that triggers the vomiting center in the medulla oblongata."
"Yes, thank you, Professor, very helpful," Luca says, somehow managing to sound both concerned and sardonic. He approaches me with designer sunglasses extended like an offering. "The sun can make it worse. These will help. They're Gucci."
“Thanks,” I mutter, shoving them onto my face.
Their overlapping voices and movements around me create a dizzying spectacle of masculine concern, each expressing it in their own uniquely characteristic way, all talking over each other in their attempts to help.
Only Jake remains calm, kneeling silently beside me. While the others flutter about, he simply holds my hair back with one hand, his other hand steadying my shoulder. When the worst has passed, he offers a crisp white handkerchief from Marco—who even carries those anymore?—and the bottle of water from Ben.
"Small sips," he instructs quietly, his steady presence an anchor in the storm of embarrassment and discomfort.
I rinse my mouth first, mortified but grateful. "I'm so sorry," I mutter, unable to meet his eyes or those of the others now hovering uncertainly nearby.
"For what? Being human?" Jake's voice is low, meant only for me. "We've all been there."
"I haven't thrown up in public since college," I confess, finally daring to look up at him. His face shows nothing but genuine concern, no trace of disgust or judgment.
"Sophomore year, Theta Chi party," he says with a small smile. "I held your hair then, too, remember?"
The memory surfaces. Jake guided me away from a raucous frat party and made sure I got back to my dorm safely. Even then, he was my protector, my steady presence when the world spun out of control.
"You've always taken care of me," I say softly as he works. "Even when we were just friends."
His hand pauses, eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "We were never 'just' friends, Emma. Not to me."
The admission hangs between us, honest and vulnerable in a way Jake rarely allows himself to be. In the distance, I can hear the others arguing about the best route to Assisi to avoid the worst of the twisting roads, their voices carried away by the gentle Tuscan breeze that rustles through the cypress trees lining the roadside.
