Page 121 of The Slug Crystal
"Technically," Marco interjects, "my sabbatical extends through the fall semester. My teaching obligations don't resume until January."
"And my work is portable," Luca adds, warming to his case. "As long as I have my laptop and occasional airport access."
"Must be nice," Ben mutters, though there's no real bite to it. "Some of us have to show up at actual offices occasionally."
I move from the couch to perch on the edge of the bed, the terrarium within my line of sight but no longer the center of my focus. My emotions churn like water coming to a boil, a mixture of relief, embarrassment, and a surprising sadness.
"I do need to go home," I admit, the words feeling like small betrayals as they leave my mouth. "My boss has been amazingly understanding about this 'family emergency,' but there's only so long I can push that goodwill." I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. "And I should probably deal with the actual Alex situation face to face."
No one argues, though Luca's shoulders drop slightly with disappointment. My fingers find the hem of my shirt, fidgeting with a loose thread as I struggle to articulate the more complex truth beneath the practical considerations.
"But I'm not ready for this to end," I continue, the words barely above a whisper. "Whatever 'this' is."
The admission hangs in the air, delicate and dangerous. My eyes remain fixed on my hands, unable to meet anyone's gaze as vulnerability washes through me. The loose thread has become fascinating, the most interesting thing in the room, certainly easier to focus on than the four men watching me with varying degrees of intensity.
"I know it's complicated," I press on when no one immediately responds. "I know we came together, unknowingly, under completely false pretenses. I know what happenedbetween us, all of us, was at least partly because of this crazy situation." I gesture toward the terrarium, toward the snail that was never Alex but somehow catalyzed everything. "But it feels real. What we’ve built between us… It feels important."
I finally look up, my eyes moving from Jake to Marco to Ben to Luca, lingering on each face that has become so dear to me in such a short time.
"I just don't know what happens to... this..." I say, gesturing to encompass the five of us, "when we go back to real life. When there's no magical quest binding us together. When we're just people with jobs and apartments and everyday problems instead of snail-transporters on an impossible mission."
The question lands in the center of our circle, unanswered. Jake shifts his weight, opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it again when no perfect words emerge. Marco removes his glasses, cleaning them methodically as he often does when processing complex emotions. Ben's gaze drops to the floor, his usual quips abandoned in the face of genuine uncertainty. Luca's expression softens into something rare for him, complete sincerity without performance.
Outside, the Italian sun begins its slow descent toward distant hills, casting long shadows across the villa's stone floors. Time continues its relentless forward motion, heedless of our human desire to pause, to extend this moment of possibility before decisions must be made and paths chosen.
In the terrarium, the blue snail reaches the edge of a lettuce leaf, antennae extended as if testing the air, sensing the boundaries of its world. After a moment's consideration, it changes direction, charting a new course across the familiar landscape. Its offspring follow, tiny blue echoes retracing and reinventing their parent's path.
The future stretches before us. Uncertain, unwritten, and full of possibilities, both wonderful and terrifying. Bostonwaits with its familiar routines and separate lives. Bali tempts with continued adventure and delayed decisions. And somewhere in between, perhaps, exists a third option we haven't yet articulated or imagined.
The question remains unanswered as the afternoon light turns golden, as we sit in a silence that feels less like an ending and more like the pause before a new beginning. Five people bound together by the strangest of circumstances, now waiting to discover what comes after "once upon a time."
28THE SLUG CRYSTAL
Six Months Later.
Saturday, 6:55AM. Steam rises from the coffee maker, curling into shapes that remind me of Italian coastlines as I lean against the counter, waiting. I’ve never been a morning person, but I’ve found myself enjoying the peace and quiet of early mornings a little more lately.
The Boston winter light filters differently through our kitchen windows than the Tuscan sun did, cooler and more hesitant, but it still catches on the glass terrarium displayed prominently on our windowsill. The home of a certain infamous blue snail and its considerably smaller offspring.
Six months ago, I was chasing witches across Italy with a snail I thought was my ex-boyfriend. Now I'm waiting for coffee in a townhouse I share with four men who followed me home like strays, or perhaps I followed them. Some mornings, I still can't believe this is my life.
Jake appears first, as he always does. His internal clock has never needed an alarm, a trait I both envy and find slightly inhuman. He crosses to the windows and pulls open the curtains with a practiced motion, letting in more of that pale autumn light.
"Morning," he says, voice still rough with sleep despite his alert movements. His eyes catch mine, that familiar blue that somehow looks exactly the same in Boston as it did in Venice. Without breaking stride, he snags the soft cream throw from the back of a chair and tosses it to me. "For your shoulders," he says, already anticipating the chill I haven't yet complained about.
I wrap the blanket around myself gratefully. "Mind reader."
"Pattern recognizer," he corrects. He walks by, kissing my forehead gently, then offering a warm smile as he moves to the refrigerator. "You've been cold every morning since September hit."
The floorboards creak above us, signaling that the others are stirring. Jake gets out eggs and butter with the efficiency of someone who knows exactly where everything is. And he does, because he's the one who organized the kitchen when we moved in, even going as far as labeling drawers with their contents.
The labels are gone now. Ben peeled them off one night after too many whiskeys, declaring our home is “not a corporate breakroom, for fuck's sake."
Marco is the next to join us, his curly hair still damp from the shower, glasses already in place. He's dressed for his faculty meeting. Wearing a collared shirt under a cardigan that somehow makes him look both scholarly and unexpectedly attractive. He nods to Jake, smiles at me, and swoops in for a quick kiss. I sigh against his lips, and he moves away slowly, then immediately zeroes in on the coffee maker.
"You've used the pre-ground beans," he observes, adjusting his glasses with a slight frown.
"I was lazy," I admit. "And it was either that or no coffee until you woke up to grind the fancy ones."
