Page 33 of The Slug Crystal
I sneak a glance at Ben lying face down across the couch, butt-naked. He looks peaceful, like a man who has never regretted anything in his life. Maybe he doesn’t regret last night. Maybe that’s the difference between people like me and people like him.
I try to fake asleep for another hour, but Jake’s aura of suppressed emotion is too loud to ignore as he wakes and starts stretching aggressively. When I peel open my eyelids, he’s packing up his stuff, folding his shirts military-neat, pausing every so often to stare at the back of Ben’s head like he’s trying to vaporize it by willpower alone.
Stumbling into the bathroom, I avoid Jake’s acidic glare and immediately step into the shower. I turn the faucet to arctic, step in, and let the water needle my skin until I’m shivering and awake enough to think straight. For a minute, I just stand there, water sluicing over my face, and try to imagine how this morning will go.
My brain is too tequila-addled to think of anything at all except for the need to vomit. Sighing, I turn off the water, grab the scratchy towel, and brace myself. Through the thin walls, I can hear voices, low and angry. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but as I stand there, frozen, I realize the fight is real and getting louder.
Jake and Ben.
Oh god.
I wrap the towel around myself and tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear to the stained white paint.
“—You have no respect for boundaries, man,” Jake is saying, his voice tight and brittle. “You barely know her.”
Ben sounds bored, or maybe just still half-asleep. “It was mutual, bro. We were both drunk, but nothing happened without her consent. She’s a passionate woman.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Jake spits.
There’s a long, ugly silence.
Then Ben, in a softer tone adds, “You waited too long, dude. You can’t be mad at me for not reading your mind.”
Jake is quiet. I can hear his breathing, ragged and shallow, like he’s about to cry or scream or both.
Ben says, “If you wanted her, you should’ve made a move.”
I reel back, shocked. Jake… should have made a move? No. Ben is reading the situation all wrong. Jake is one of my best friends. Jake doesn’t like me in that way. Does he?
All of a sudden, I feel nauseous for an entirely different reason. I glance around the bathroom, regretting not bringing my clothes into the room with me. The only things I have to wear are my chlorine and cum, soaked clothes from last night.
Grimacing, I slick the water off my skin and gather as much moisture as I can from my hair, finger-combing the chestnut mass into straight, dark strands afterward. Then, I secure my towel around me once more and open the bathroom door.
No one speaks as I step into the room.
Jake is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Ben is sprawled on the sofa, arms folded, gaze fixed on the ceiling like he’s counting how many water stains appeared overnight.
I walk to the dresser, snatching clothes at random out of my bag, then running back into the bathroom like the devil’s on my heels. Panting heavily, I lean against the closed door and gather my composure, slipping into the athletic shorts and giant t-shirt that I grabbed.
I steel myself once more and head into the main room. Grabbing the snail terrarium, I hold it to my chest like a shield. For a second, I think about just leaving, walking out into the street, and hitchhiking back to Boston. But Jake looks up at me, his eyes raw and rimmed with red, and I can’t move.
“Hey,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
Jake doesn’t answer. Ben doesn’t move. The air is so thick with tension I can taste it, metallic and mean.
I set the terrarium down and sit on the bed across from Jake. For a long time, we just stare at each other, like maybe if we wait long enough, one of us will disappear.
Ben finally breaks the silence. “I’m going to check out thelobby breakfast,” he says, grabbing his jeans and pulling them on as he heads for the door. “You two should talk.”
“Look,” Jake says, voice low, “about last night?—”
I cut him off. “You’re not mad, are you?”
He shakes his head, but the muscles in his jaw say otherwise. “No, I mean, maybe a little. But not at you. Just—” He drags his hands down his face, like he’s peeling off a mask. “Fuck, this is hard.”
I wait. I’ve known Jake for years. He only gets like this when he’s about to say something huge, or when he’s constipated.
He glances at me. “You know I’m in love with you, right?”
