Page 17 of The Slug Crystal
She sets down the glass and sighs. “You’re not the first to come in here looking for something Ben’s won off them. Usually, it’s a watch; sometimes, it's a phone. Never a snail.”
Jake, sensing her wavering, softens his voice. “Is he dangerous?”
She laughs, a short bark. “Ben? Nah. He’s a piece of work, but not a psycho. Just… likes to collect things. He’s got a house up by the river, about two miles out of town.”
I perk up. “Can you give us the address?”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “Don’t know the number. He’s probably home now. It’s the blue house with the brokenfence, last on Westbrook Lane. If he gives you any trouble, tell him Mags sent you.”
“Mags,” I repeat, committing her to memory, like she’s the patron saint of the heartbroken and the desperate.
She leans in and lowers her voice. “If you do get the snail back, don’t bring it here. I don’t want to deal with you two idiots if you lose it again.”
Jake smiles, his gratitude genuine, even if she did just call us idiots. “Thank you.”
“Now get out of here,” she says, then grins, her silver tooth catching the light. “Next time I see a snail in my bar, I’m going to call animal control.”
We leave the bar lighter, if not actually hopeful, and Jake has a hand on my back as we cross the parking lot.
“I can’t believe that worked,” I say.
Jake shrugs. “You never know who will help until you ask.”
“And ask, then ask again, just in case they change their mind,” I add, jokingly.
He opens the truck and waits while I climb in. “Ready?”
I check my hair in the mirror, realize I've also forgotten a hairbrush, wince, and then nod. “Let’s go get my ex-boyfriend back.”
Jake shakes his head with a chuckle and shuts my door gently, then rounds the truck and jumps into his seat. The engine shudders to life, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, the world doesn’t feel like it’s actively trying to swallow me whole. There is a plan, a name, and a sort of address. A shot in the dark, but it’s ours.
Jake takes us to Westbrook Lane at ten over the limit after pulling it up on his navigation. I find myself bracing for impact rather dramatically as we hit what feels like an endless number of potholes.
Westbrook Lane is the kind of rural access road that feels like part of the route for someone planning to dump a body.There are eight houses total, each one a minor disaster of peeling paint, toppled mailboxes, and last-ditch holiday decor faded into despair. The blue house is easy to spot, though it’s more turquoise than blue, and the fence in front is less broken than actively dissolving. A plastic owl sits on the porch rail, beak chipped, eyes peeled eternally for threats or the mailman.
Jake parks under a leaning elm. We stare at the house together, the windows shaded, a wind chime tangled into a knot, presumably by a prior storm. I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans and a clean, oversized t-shirt, and I realize for the first time I am deeply, cosmically unprepared for this level of confrontation. I probably should have worn something sexy to try to seduce Ben into giving my snail back.
Jake glances over. “You want to go over the plan again?”
“Uh, sure. The Plan. We ask for the snail back. If he says no, we improvise.”
Jake nods. “I’ll follow your lead.”
We walk up the path, which is mostly just flattened weeds, and I raise my fist to knock. Jake stands back, offering either moral support or plausible deniability, but the distinction is unclear. I bang once, with no answer. Then twice, with the same result. On the third try, the door opens.
Ben stands there in a Henley shirt and gym shorts, holding a mug that says King of the Castle. He’s barefoot and looks even taller in the daylight, with his beard trimmed and his hair spiked he looks like he’s in a ‘90s boy band. He grins, broad and inviting, like we’re here to sell him cookies.
“Well, if it isn’t Boston’s finest. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
My mouth goes dry. “You won my snail last night,” I say, then instantly regret the phrasing.
Ben glances at Jake, then back at me. “I sure did. Best bet I’ve made all week.”
I blink. “Could I get it back? Please?”
He sips his coffee. “You got another pet to wager, or…?”
I try to laugh. It comes out flat. “No. Look, this is going to sound insane, but I really, really need that snail.”
