Page 12 of The Slug Crystal
Jake’s voice drops. “Hey. It’s okay, it’s okay.”
He pulls me up, wraps both arms around me and the terrarium, and just holds me. I just stay there, pressed to his chest, breathing in the light scent of his sweat combined with his deodorant and the not-unpleasant smell of his truck upholstery.
I don’t cry, not really, but my eyes blur and the whole world narrows to the way his hand moves up and down my back, slow and grounding. I want to say something, like thank you, or I’m sorry, or please don’t let go, but all I manage is, “I almost killed him.”
Jake shakes his head, the hint of a smile flickering. “You saved him. You always take care of the people you love.”
He’s so close I can feel the steady thump of his heart, and I wonder if he knows how much he means to me. How I could never imagine my life without the steady comfort of his friendship. I think about voicing the words out loud, but they feel too big right now.
I step back, wipe my face, and force a laugh. “If we don’t get to a hotel soon, I’m going to start hallucinating snails everywhere. The road is doing weird things to my head.”
He grins, wide and real. “Motel, minimum two beds, no shared walls with the vending machine.”
I nod, feeling a weird combination of empty and full, like the aftermath of a storm.
Together, we gather our stuff, snail terrarium, backpack, dignity, and head back to the truck.
We don’t talk much as we drive the last stretch to the next town, but there’s an ease to the silence. A familiarity. The sun is low by the time we find a vacancy, and as Jake checks us in, I stare at the snail, now curled in sleep, and whisper, “Hang in there.”
Alex doesn’t say anything in response. Which isn’t shocking. Nowhere in our snail research were we able to find a person who had gotten a snail to speak.
4THE SPOTTED DOG
Sunday,2:14 PM. By the time we hit the outskirts of town, my brain is a slushie of anxiety, caffeine, and the sense that we are absolutely, unequivocally Not Okay. Jake’s playlist has turned to early-2000s emo, the kind of stuff that feels like you’re both dissolving and vibrating at the molecular level. The sun is only barely visible through a haze of bug splatter and windshield glare, and all I want is to close my eyes and not exist for an hour.
Instead, I suggest a bar.
Not a nice bar, not a chain, but the first building we see with neon and the word Tavern in block letters above the door. It’s attached to a single-story hotel with a stucco exterior and a red tile roof, bearing the Motel 6 sign. The parking lot is half-full of battered trucks and at least one lime green Prius with a faded Bernie sticker. I take this as a good omen.
Jake doesn’t argue. He just pulls into a spot, kills the engine, and says, “You need to eat something that isn’t gas station jerky.”
I don’t disagree, but I have a suspicion this isn’t about food. It’s about stalling, about not wanting to find a hotelroom quite yet, or continue to fill the silence, or the fact that we’re about to drive another six hours in the morning because eight-hour car trips aren’t actually eight hours. Oh, and I still haven’t figured out how to reverse a curse, or say I’m sorry, or fix any part of my mess.
I grab the terrarium and cradle it against my hip as we cross the lot, the snail inside still blissed out and oblivious. The bar is called The Spotted Dog, which is either a nod to local wildlife or just a weird choice, generally. Inside, it smells like fryer oil, cheap beer, and a faint undercurrent of wet dog. Maybe the name is actually relevant, due to the odor. The walls are paneled with fake wood, festooned with signs for defunct cigarette brands and two TVs playing the same baseball game on a ten-second delay.
I do a quick threat assessment. Two older men at the end of the bar, one couple in a booth, she’s crying, he’s texting, and a lone man at a high-top, wearing a leather jacket that’s seen more life than I have. There’s a dartboard in the corner, a battered jukebox, and a bartender who looks like she could bench-press Jake without breaking a sweat.
Jake and I claim a booth near the window, and I set the snail on the table between us, facing outward. Jake slides in opposite me, takes one look at the beer list, and orders from the bartender when she ambles over to our table. “Whatever is cold and comes in a pitcher.”
I say, “Same,” then add, “and can I get a plate of fries, extra crispy, with whatever sauce comes recommended?”
The bartender grins, showing a silver canine tooth. “You want the Devil’s Ranch or the Scream Cheese?”
“Surprise me,” I say, beyond the ability to ask about either of those names and assuming they’re both spicy. Then I lean my forehead against the glass and exhale.
We sit in silence for a minute. Jake fidgets with his napkin, folding it into increasingly elaborate triangles. I steal glancesat him. His jaw is tense, eyes fixed on the snail, as if hoping it will offer advice. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid the answer will be, “that you’ve lost your mind, and also my respect.”
Instead, I look over at the dartboard, which is illuminated by a single, too-bright spotlight, and the man in the leather jacket who has migrated towards it. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, maybe early thirties, with a shock of dark blond hair and a beard that’s more manicured than I expected from a place like this. He’s playing alone, flicking the darts with mechanical precision, and every so often, he catches my eye with a lazy, self-satisfied smirk.
He’s a lot. I mean, I’ve dated a “lot” before, but this is a different taxonomy. It’s not just the wannabe biker-jacket thing. It’s the way he stands, like he’s waiting for a dare, or a disaster or maybe hoping for both.
Jake follows my gaze. “You want to play him?”
I shrug. “He’s clearly the alpha predator here. I just want to watch him work.”
Jake snorts. “We could probably take him.”
This is how I know Jake is humoring me. He’s seen me try darts. The last time I played, I ricocheted one into a beer tap and almost blinded a stranger.
