Page 100 of The Slug Crystal
"The reviews said it's been family-owned for three generations," Jake replies, looking pleased with himself. "The grandfather still makes the pasta every morning."
Alex has emerged from his shell, edging towards the walls of his glass enclosure as if he can smell the garlic and basil perfuming the air.
Our waiter approaches, a slender man with mostly gray hair and an elegant posture that suggests decades of navigating between crowded tables. His professional smile falters briefly as he notices the terrarium.
"Buonasera," he greets us, recovering quickly. "May I tell you about our specials this evening?"
We nod, and he launches into a practiced recitation of dishes that makes my mouth water despite the knot of anxiety that's been lingering in my stomach all day. When he finishes, Ben is the first to order, followed by Marco's precise requests and Luca's rapid-fire Italian, that makes the waiter smile with appreciation.
When it's my turn, I select a linguine that sounds divine. I hesitate, then add, "And could we have a small plate of fresh lettuce? For..." I gesture toward the terrarium, feeling my cheeks warm. "For the snail."
The waiter's professional mask slips again, eyebrows rising toward his hairline. "For... il lumaca?" he asks, clearly wondering if his English has failed him.
"Yes," I confirm, fighting the urge to explain further. How would I even begin? You see, my ex-boyfriend was transformed by a magic crystal, and now we're carrying him around Italy while searching for the woman who sold it to me.
"Of course, signora," he says after a pause, making a note that probably reads "crazy tourists" in waiter shorthand. "Right away."
As he walks away, I catch Ben's eye across the table. He mimics the waiter's expression of polite confusion, and I can't help laughing. For a moment, we're just five friends, or maybe lovers now, I guess, sharing a hopefully delicious meal.
The food arrives in stages. First antipasti to share, then primi of handmade pasta, and secondi of meat and fish. As our dishes arrive at the table, steam rises off the food, washing our table in decadent smells. The lettuce for Alex comes on a small side plate, arranged with surprising care, as if the kitchen staff decided to embrace our eccentricity rather than question it. I place a few leaves in Alex's terrarium, watching as he immediately approaches the offering.
"At least someone's enjoying their meal," Luca comments,pointing his fork at Alex after noticing my barely touched pasta.
I force a smile, twirling strands of linguine around my fork without bringing it to my lips. “This is delicious,” I murmur, forcing the pasta to my lips. I’m torn between enjoying the wonderful blessing of these men and dwelling in the guilt of my past decisions. A stage I seem to waffle between constantly, as of late.
The conversation flows around me. Marco discusses an architectural detail on a nearby building that he noticed while exploring Milan with Jake and Ben the day prior. The other men listen, seemingly engaged in Marco’s dissection of a decorative beam with minimal function. After about twenty minutes, the conversation moves in a new direction. Luca and Jake begin debating the merits of different Italian wine regions. It should be pleasant, this whole experience should be something I want to savor, but I just… can’t.
Finally, as the waiter clears our plates, I can't hold back any longer.
"So," I say, interrupting Luca's impassioned defense of Tuscan wines. "Did anyone find anything yesterday? Any leads on Sarah?" It’s a topic that we’ve been skirting all day. Every time I try to move to bring it up, a new conversation has been started by one of the guys.
All conversation at the table dies. Four pairs of eyes flick toward each other, like a silent negotiation of who will deliver the bad news. Finally, Jake sighs, setting down his wine glass.
"We tried, Emma," he says, his voice gentle in a way that immediately tells me everything I need to know. "The crystal shop Marco found? It closed six months ago. The photo was old and we aren’t sure why it was posted. The owner retired to Sardinia. We tracked down a former employee who remembered Sarah, but..." He hesitates, reaching across the table as if to touch my hand, then withdrawing. "She has no idea where Sarah went after Milan.Said she mentioned something about 'going where the energy calls her.'"
"We spoke with three other shops in the area," Marco adds, his scholarly tone failing to mask his disappointment. "None recognized her photograph."
"I even chatted up a street vendor selling 'magical crystals' to tourists," Ben offers. "Guy had never heard of Sarah DeMarco, but he did try to sell me a rock that would supposedly enhance my virility." His joke falls flat in the heavy silence.
I nod mechanically, my gaze dropping to Alex's terrarium. Our last solid lead has evaporated. Another dead end. Another city where Sarah DeMarco's trail goes cold.
At that moment, our waiter arrives with our secondi. He’s carrying delicate fillets of fish for Marco and me, hearty osso buco for the others. The rich aromas that would normally make my mouth water now turn my stomach. I pick up my fork, then set it down again, a heaviness settling in my chest that makes it difficult to breathe.
"Emma?" Jake's voice sounds distant, though he's sitting right across from me. "Are you okay?"
Something inside me snaps. "I'm tired of carrying around my ex in a glass box!" The words explode from me, louder than I intended, my voice cracking on the final syllable. "I'm tired of chasing someone who doesn't want to be found. I'm tired of pretending this isn't completely insane!"
Tears spring to my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I swipe at them angrily, aware that conversations at nearby tables have paused, that strangers are turning to stare at the crying woman shouting about her ex in a glass box.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, mortification washing over me in a hot wave. "I didn't mean to?—"
Marco steps away from the table, heading off a concerned waiter who steps in our direction. Jake rises from his seat, circling the table with calm purpose. He reaches for the terrarium,lifting it gently from the middle of the table, setting it on the floor, out of sight. "We've been through worse than this, Emma. Remember that road trip to Nashville when your car broke down three times and we had to sleep in that motel with the raccoon that crawled into the bathroom?"
A wet laugh escapes me, the memory of that disaster somehow comforting.
"We've got this," Jake continues. “We’ll find a way to fix this. Eventually.”
I wipe my eyes with my napkin, embarrassment fading under the weight of relief.
