Page 120 of The Slug Crystal
"I'm sorry," I gasp, pressing my fingers to my lips as if I could push the laughter back in. "It's not funny. It's really not."
But it is. It's possibly the most ridiculous thing that has ever happened to anyone. The laughter returns, stronger this time, bending me forward until my forehead nearly touches my knees. My shoulders shake with it, and tears gather at the corners of my eyes.
Jake snorts, the sound escaping him like he's tried and failed to contain it. When I look up at him, his blue eyes are crinkled at the corners, his stoic facade crumbling.
"We made it a special carrying case," he says, voice trembling with suppressed laughter. "With air holes and temperature control."
That does it. My laughter breaks free completely, and Jake joins in, his deep chuckle harmonizing with my higher-pitched giggles. The sound fills the room, infectious and irresistible.
Ben doubles over next, bracing his hands on his knees as his shoulders heave with mirth. "We—we gave it premiumlettuce," he gasps between laughs. "That snail has eaten better than I do most weeks."
Luca howls with unrestrained amusement, his usual suave demeanor completely abandoned. He collapses onto the couch beside me, tears streaming down his face. "We lied to customs for a snail!" he manages between gasps for air.
Marco's scholarly reserve holds out the longest, but even he succumbs, his shoulders shaking with quiet chuckles that gradually grow more pronounced. "The statistical improbability of this entire scenario is..." he adjusts his glasses, which have fogged slightly from his laughter, "...truly astronomical."
The absurdity feeds on itself, each new realization sparking fresh waves of hysterics. We laugh until our sides ache, until breathing becomes difficult, until the tears running down my cheeks are as much from mirth as from the emotional release.
"That snail," Ben wheezes, pointing at the terrarium, "has more frequent flyer miles than most Americans. It deserves elite status. It should have its own lounge access."
Jake wipes his eyes, fighting to regain his composure and failing spectacularly. "Do you think the babies need passports? Tiny little snail passports with blue shell photos?"
"The cost-per-kilometer of gastropod transportation," Marco calculates, his academic instincts surfacing even through his laughter, "must be unprecedented in the annals of zoological research. We've spent approximately—" he pauses to do the math in his head, "—thirty-seven euros per gram of snail weight."
"Premium snail transport," Luca agrees, his accent thickening as he struggles to speak through his amusement. "Five-star accommodations for our distinguished mollusk guest."
I wipe tears from my eyes, clutching my aching sides. "We asked a gondolier in Venice to go slower because we were worried about snail motion sickness."
This sets us off again, a fresh round of hysterics that leavesus gasping for breath. Ben slides from the couch to the floor, lying on his back as he stares at the ceiling, occasional giggles still escaping him.
"Remember when that security guard at the Florence museum wanted to check the terrarium?" Jake recalls, setting off another wave. "And Marco gave him a fifteen-minute lecture on proper gastropod handling techniques?"
"The restaurant in Milan," Luca adds, "where we ordered fresh lettuce as an appetizer. For the snail."
"The waiter's face," I manage, the memory vivid and suddenly hilarious rather than mortifying. "He thought we were completely insane."
"To be fair," Ben says from his position on the floor, "we absolutely were."
Our laughter gradually subsides into comfortable silence, punctuated by occasional chuckles and deep, satisfied sighs. The tension that has defined our journey, the desperate search, the fear of failure, the growing complexity of our relationships, temporarily dissolves in the aftermath of our shared amusement.
I wipe the last tears from my eyes and lean forward, picking up the terrarium with a gentleness born of habit. The blue snail continues its unhurried exploration, tiny offspring now visible on nearly every surface within their glass world.
"Well, Alex or not," I address the snail directly, my voice still rough from laughter, "you're the most well-traveled snail in history. First-class accommodations across Italy, premium organic produce, personal protection detail of four grown men." I glance around at my companions, feeling a surge of affection for each of them. "Not a bad life for a snail."
Marco's chuckles have subsided into a thoughtful smile. "In scientific research, the journey often matters more than the destination. Unexpected results frequently lead to the most significant discoveries."
"What exactly have we discovered here?" Luca asks, hisbreathing finally returning to normal, though his eyes still sparkle with amusement.
The answer forms itself in my mind with surprising clarity, though I'm not quite sure I’m ready to give it voice: we've discovered each other in ways that might never have happened without this absurd catalyst.
The thought sobers me slightly, though not enough to dispel the warm afterglow of our shared laughter. Whatever happens next, whatever decisions we make about returning to our regular lives, I know with certainty that none of us will ever forget the summer we spent transporting a snail across Italy in the misguided belief it was my transformed ex-boyfriend.
We exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between us. Jake's steady blue eyes hold a question he won't voice first. Marco adjusts his glasses, scholarly composure returning, though his gaze remains soft. Ben's usual sardonic smirk has transformed into something more genuine. Luca leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced together as if physically restraining himself from being the first to speak.
The unspoken hangs between us, as heavy as the summer air. Now that our quest has been revealed as meaningless, now that the urgency has evaporated, what reason do we have to remain together?
Luca breaks first, his voice carefully casual, though his eyes betray the weight behind his words. "We could still go to Bali," he suggests, straightening to his full height. "Not for snail hunting or witch chasing, obviously. Just for us. For relaxation." He gestures expansively, as if already picturing us there. "The villa I found is available. Private beach, incredible views. We've come this far, why not continue the adventure on our own terms?"
"We have jobs," Jake counters, his practical nature asserting itself, though his tone remains gentle. "Responsibilities.Lives waiting back in Boston." He looks directly at me as he speaks.
