Page 11 of The Slug Crystal
He grins, all teeth. “Johnny Bravo.”
I burst out laughing, nearly choke on the protein bar. “You are not Johnny Bravo.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have more substance than hair gel. And you actually respect women.”
He shrugs, eyes on the road, but there’s a faint pink at his ears. “I grew up with sisters. They didn’t give me a choice.”
"I love your sisters," I respond.
"My entire family loves you back," he says.
I don’t know if it’s the caffeine or the sleep deprivation, but suddenly my heart is pounding louder than the engine. It kind of feels like that was Jake telling me he loves me. The moment teeters on the edge of something more, and I panic.
For a second, I force myself to take a deep breath and focus on the rhythm of the drive: the sun burning my bare arm, the clatter of empty bottles in the footwell, the rare, quiet comfort of being trapped in a moving box with someone who sees through my bullshit but never calls me on it in a way that tears me down. Then I realize of, course, Jake loves me, but like a friend.
I glance at the snail. “What do you think, Alex? Who’s your spirit animal?”
Jake answers for him, voice low, “Garfield, probably. He just wants to nap and be left alone.”
I watch Jake’s profile, his concentration, the way he checks the mirrors twice before every lane change, and I’m hyper-aware of how close we are, how the console between us feels too narrow for my sudden, unsure feelings and too wide for my courage.
I pull back, hug my knees, and remember the mission.
This is a rescue op. Jake is my friend. Jake is my best friend. Jake is my?—
He glances over, catches me staring, and for a heartbeat, I think he knows about the turmoil his words have caused, and he’s going to fix it. Clarify it. Instead, he just smiles and asks, “What’s your move if she’s a total scammer?”
I exhale. “We eat our weight in gas station gummies and never speak of it again.”
“Deal.”
We drive north, into the sharp blue of the sky, and even though the future is an absolute mess, I force myself to believe, at least a little, that we can fix this. Or at the very least, we can survive it together. Jake is one of my oldest friends. I’ve known him for over ten years, and he’s been there for me through numerous breakups, heartaches, drunk nights, and bad jobs. He knows when to put his feelings on the back burner and when to listen to mine. I know if anyone can help me through this, it’s him.
Sunday 12:34PM. We’re six hours into the drive when the caffeine finally runs out and the landscape turns to nothing but scorched grass, faded road signs, and the smell of fried chicken leaking through the seams of a nearby Popeyes. I’m sunburned to the elbow on my right arm, Jake’s lost all patience for Top 40 radio, and the only thing keeping us upright is the promise of an air-conditioned land filled with snacks and beverages at the next rest stop.
We pull in under a sky so bright it hurts. The parking lot is half-abandoned, empty except for two minivans and a delivery truck with a dented front grille. The building itself isa concrete bunker painted the color of cold oatmeal, its windows glare-proofed by decades of grime. Not exactly the utopia we were hoping for, but at least we can leave the car.
I’m the one who suggests stretching our legs. Jake grumbles but unbuckles anyway, grabbing the terrarium and tucking it under one arm like a quarterback protecting the game ball.
We walk the cracked concrete path to the toilets, the air buzzing with the sound of cicadas and the distant slap of a basketball from a makeshift hoop nailed to a telephone pole. The grass by the path is green only at the roots; up top, it’s brittle as hay.
I set the terrarium on the ground, peeling away the bubble wrap and opening the lid just enough for Alex to catch a whiff of the breeze. The snail wakes up immediately, eye stalks stretching toward the sun, and for a weird second, I’m proud of him for not giving up on the world.
Jake paces the strip of grass nearby, running a hand through his hair. His face is creased with the exhaustion of someone who’s been running on hope and gas station coffee for way too long. Way too long being the equivalent of six hours. How people live life on the road is beyond me.
I kneel in the grass, watching the snail inch his way toward the lid, leaving a faint silver trail that looks almost pretty in the harsh light. I poke at the log, gently, and say, “You’re getting some vitamin D, buddy. Enjoy it while you can.”
Suddenly, a blur shoots past. It’s a barefoot kid in a backwards cap, sprinting after a flyaway basketball. His heel lands centimeters from the terrarium. The whole thing rocks, and for a second, I see the future. A broken shell, Alex-the-ex smeared into the turf, me screaming hysterics in public.
I lunge forward, hands out, voice high and stupid. “Watch it!”
The kid jumps in the air, already a few feet away,muttering an apology. I still scoop the terrarium into my arms, clutching it like a newborn in my chest, my body circling over it protectively. The grass is digging into my knees and elbows, and I don’t even care, because the snail is alive, crawling frantically up the side of the plastic.
Jake is next to me in a heartbeat. He drops to a squat, steadying the box, and rests his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” he asks, but the words come out raw, like he can already tell I’m anything but.
I try to answer, but all that comes is a hysterical, ugly laugh. My hands are shaking, and I can feel the sharpness of gravel grinding into my skin.
