Page 3 of The Slug Crystal
Then the silence breaks. Alina lets out a whoop, raising her mug. “That’s it, right? Spell complete?” She leans over the bowl, poking at the ashes with a painted nail. “Does it smell like vengeance to anyone else?”
Jake exhales, slow and heavy, as if he’s been holding hisbreath for a solid minute. “So… now what?” He looks at me, not the bowl.
I shrug, pretending it’s no big deal. “I guess we wait.”
There’s nothing left but the dregs of wine and the strange, giddy feeling of having crossed a line. The candles burn low, the crystal’s light fades, and the ashes in the bowl are just ashes. But the air in the room has changed. It’s denser, charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm.
Alina stretches, twisting her hair into a bun. “I vote we order pizza and binge horror movies until we pass out.”
“Seconded,” Jake says, offering me the crystal, which feels warm now, almost pulsing with life.
I tuck a strand of my wavy hair behind my ear, suddenly feeling lighter, and set the crystal on the table. For the first time in weeks, I feel a little bit in control.
Even if it’s just an illusion.
We all hang out in the living room, eating pizza and laughing and joking. Jake becomes infinitely less awkward once he realizes I’m not going to burst into tears. Which is fair, because I have been a little touchier than usual lately.
It finally moves past midnight, and the world outside my window is dark. The last candle sputters and gutters, leaking a tail of smoke that traces the invisible air currents. My apartment feels like a snow globe after the shake, with tiny particles of sage, ash, and candle soot settled over everything. I flop back onto the couch, knees up, toes poking from beneath a quilt that’s older than my last four relationships combined.
Alina claims the prime cushion, stretching out so her feet brush my thigh, her toes painted a violent shade of coral. Jake occupies the battered armchair, crammed sideways so he can rest his head on the back and still keep an eye on both of us. We are all slightly wine-drowsy, blinking slowly, and too warm. The aftermath of magic and merlot is making is difficult to tell if this is real or if I’m starting to fall asleep and I’m in a dream now.
Alina fidgets with her phone, pretends not to yawn, and then lurches up and stumbles into my kitchenette. She opens every cupboard, slamming, rattling, and shuffling, before emerging victorious with a jar of off-brand cocoa powder.
“Emergency sugar fix,” she announces, voice raspy. She spoons powder into three chipped mugs, stirring with the aggression of a woman settling scores. The microwave dings, and then she’s handing out steaming mugs, one for each of us.
I wrap both hands around mine, letting the heat seep in. “You’re an angel,” I say.
“Obviously.” She snuggles back into her spot, tucking the quilt up to her chin.
For a while, no one talks. Jake is staring at the ceiling, eyes tracing cracks in the plaster, his breathing slow and measured. He’s always been better at silence than anyone I know. He’s never awkward, just present.
Alina, on the other hand, cannot abide quiet for more than thirty seconds. “So, when does the transformation happen?” she asks. “Is it, like, instant, or do we have to wait for a full moon or something?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “The instructions were vague. I assume if my ex turns into a slug, someone will post about it on Nextdoor.”
Jake laughs, a soft, surprised bark. “Imagine the community updates. ‘Please advise, large slug spotted wearing football hoodie, responding to the name Alex.’”
Alina nearly snorts hot chocolate out of her nose. “Ugh, you’d have to salt your entire sidewalk just to keep him away.”
We descend into giggles, the kind that make your stomach cramp and your cheeks hurt, and it’s so absurd and pure that for a minute, the ache in my chest is just background noise.
The laughter winds down. Alina sings a snippet of an old lullaby, off-key but sweet. Jake hums along, barely audible.
I’m half-asleep, the mug heavy in my lap, when Alina whispers, “You okay, babe?”
I nod, eyes closed. “Yeah. I think I am.”
She grins, reaching over to flick my forehead. “Good. You deserve better than slug-boy.”
Jake stretches, arms up, hoodie riding up to reveal a sliver of skin and the pale outline of his abs. He glances at me, and there’s something almost shy in the way he holds my gaze.
“I just want you to be happy,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I want to say something back, something big and true. I want to tell him I want him to be happy, but also that his friendship means the world to me, but the weight of the day and the wine and the spell all combine to drag my eyelids down.
“Me too,” I mumble, and decide it’s enough for now.
I flick off the lamp, plunging us into a cocoon of half-dark and distant city sounds. Alina burrows deeper into the couch, Jake curls up like a cat in the chair, and I tuck the slug crystal, still faintly warm, into the pocket of my cat-patterned pajama top that I changed into a few hours earlier.
