Page 55 of The Slug Crystal
The decision made, our conversation drifts to other topics. Like the best way to navigate Florence, where we'll stay, and the sights worth seeing if we have time. But I keep thinking about that P.O. box in Siena, wondering if we're finally getting closer to Sarah, to answers, to a solution for Alex.
And underneath it all, the memory of Jake's lips on mine, the weight of unspoken feelings, and the growing awareness that finding Sarah might mean the end of this strange journey. And with that, the end of whatever might be beginning between us.
Friday, 10:32AM. Two hours into our journey, the snack negotiations have devolved into a desperate state. Ben has consumed most of Jake's chips despite Jake's protests, Luca's fancy chocolates are down to the flavors nobody wants, and even my secret stash of granola bars has been discovered and decimated.
"We need reinforcements," Ben announces, patting his flat stomach dramatically. "Someone must brave the snack car."
I exchange glances with Marco, who's been quietly reading a scientific journal while the rest of us bickered like siblings on a road trip.
"I could use a coffee," Marco says, closing his journal and tucking a bookmark between the pages. "I'd be happy to make the journey."
"I'll come with you," I volunteer, suddenly eager for a break from the cramped compartment and the undercurrent of tension between Jake and me. "I need to stretch my legs anyway."
Jake looks up, his blue eyes flickering with something I can't quite read. "You sure? I could go."
"We're fine," I assure him, carefully lifting Alex's terrarium. "Marco can help me carry everything back."
Marco stands, his tall frame unfolding from the seat. "We'll return with provisions worthy of your appetites," he tells the others, his formal speech patterns making the simple errand sound like a noble quest.
The corridor outside our compartment is narrow, forcing us to walk single file. I go first, cradling Alex's terrarium against my chest, while Marco follows close behind. The train sways gently beneath us, the rhythmic clickety-clack of wheels against rails creating a soothing white noise.
"The dining car should be three carriages ahead," Marco says from behind me. "Mind the gap between cars."
As we step across the connection between carriages, the train takes a sharp curve. I stumble slightly, the terrarium nearly slipping from my grasp. Before I can fall, Marco's hand is at my elbow, steadying me with a light but firm touch. His dark curls brush against his collar as he leans forward, concern etched in his features.
"Careful," he says, his voice low. "These older trains can be unpredictable."
I regain my balance, acutely aware of his hand still on my arm. "Thanks," I say, turning to face him. This close, I can see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, shifting like sunlight through leaves. His scholarly appearance, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on a straight nose and dark curls just slightly too long, featuring the faintest peppering of gray, contrasts with the quickness of his reflexes.
We continue forward, more carefully now. Marco keeps a respectful distance behind me, but I can sense his readiness to catch me again if needed. When we finally reach the snack car, it's less impressive than I'd hoped. It’s just a small counter with an espresso machine and a glass case displaying a few sad-looking pastries.
"Not exactly gourmet," I comment as we join the short line.
Marco smiles, the expression warming his academic demeanor. "Italian train food is... variable in quality. But the coffee should be decent at least."
While we wait our turn, Marco gestures to a small table where I can set Alex's terrarium. The blue snail is active, exploring his glass home with vigor. Well, vigor for a snail.
"He seems curious about his surroundings," Marco observes. "That's a good sign."
"You really know a lot about snails," I say, realizing I've never actually asked him about his background. "How did you get into... what did you call it? Malacology?"
Marco's face lights up with genuine enthusiasm. "My mother is American, my father Italian," he explains, his accent subtly shifting as he speaks of his heritage. "I spent my childhood summers at my grandmother's house in Tuscany. She had this magnificent garden, wild and overgrown in the most beautiful way, absolutely teeming with life."
The line inches forward, but I'm caught up in his story, the way his voice softens with nostalgia.
"One summer, when I was perhaps seven or eight, Ibecame fascinated with the snails that appeared after the rain. My grandmother, instead of shooing me away from what many would consider pests, encouraged my curiosity. She helped me build little habitats for them, taught me to observe their behaviors."
We reach the counter, and Marco orders in rapid Italian. The barista nods, immediately starting on what I assume are espressos.
"So, you turned a childhood hobby into a career?" I ask as we step aside to wait.
"In a way," he says, his tall frame leaning slightly against the counter. "I studied biology at university, but I always found myself drawn back to gastropods. There's something... philosophical about them. Their patience, their persistence, the perfect mathematics of their shells." He glances at Alex's terrarium. "Though I've never encountered one quite like your Alex."
His intellectual passion is so different from Ben's brash humor or Luca's confident charm. Jake has his own intensity, but it's more physical and grounded in action than in thought. Marco exists in a world of ideas and observations, finding wonder in what most people overlook.
"What about you?" he asks. "Have you always lived in Boston?"
"Most of my adult life," I reply, surprised he remembered where I'm from. "It's home now, though sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live somewhere completely different."
