Page 81 of The Slug Crystal
"Speaking of the dead," Luca murmurs, raising his cup in a mock toast. "We drank all my uncle's best Barolo. I hope it was worth it."
I feel heat rise to my cheeks, unsure if he's referring to the wine itself or if he knows about Ben and I’s late night make-out session featuring a bottle of his uncle’s wine. Marco's eyes meet mine briefly over his glasses, his expression unreadable.
"I've been monitoring Alex's activity," Marco says, smoothly changing the subject. "He seems particularly active this morning, despite the disturbances last night." He adjusts the terrarium slightly, ensuring it catches the perfect amount of light. "I'm happy to continue my observations while you're out."
"You're going somewhere?" Ben asks, his casual tone not quite hiding the interest beneath.
"Museum in town," Jake answers, appearing behind me with car keys in hand. "Getting some culture."
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Ben smirks, though there's something tight around his eyes.
"We won't be long," I say, taking a step back toward the door. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too crowded with memories and unspoken questions.
"Take your time," Marco says, his scholarly detachment firmly back in place. "Alex and I have much to discuss about the migratory patterns of gastropods."
I open my mouth to respond, then shut it, deciding against voicing my questions.
Jake's hand finds the small of my back. He exerts a gentle pressure, guiding me toward the exit. As we step outside into the merciless Italian sunlight, I feel like I can breathe properly for the first time since waking up.
"Ready for some art appreciation?" Jake asks, his voice light but his eyes searching mine with unspoken questions.
"More ready than you can possibly imagine," I reply, sliding into the passenger seat of Luca's borrowed car and leaning my pounding head against the cool window. The villa disappears behind us as we wind down the cypress-lined driveway, and with it, temporarily at least, the complications I've left behind.
Tuesday, 8:45AM. The museum rises before us like a sanctuary of marble and glass, its pillared entrance promising cool relief from both the Italian sun and my emotional chaos. Jake pays our entrance fee while I stand beneath the domed ceiling of the lobby, tilting my head back to admire intricate frescoes that swirl with mythological figures.
The immediate temperature drop inside soothes my fevered skin, and I can almost feel my headache beginning to retreat like an outgoing tide.
"Remind me to spend all future hangovers in Italian museums," I whisper to Jake as he rejoins me, museum map in hand.
"Noted," he says with a smile, unfolding the map with careful precision. "Though maybe we could also try not drinking an entire wine cellar next time."
I nudge him with my elbow. "Where's the fun in that? Also, I only had one bottle.” And two glasses before that. “You four drink most of that without me."
Jake just shakes his head at me in response.
Our footsteps echo against the polished marble floor as we wander into the first exhibition hall. Glass cases display ancient artifacts, some hold pottery fragments, others bronze figurines, and quite a few contain jewelry tarnished by centuries. Each item bears a detailed placard with information that might as well be hieroglyphics to us.
"Can you read any of this?" I ask, squinting at the Italian text through my sunglasses.
Jake leans close, his shoulder brushing mine as he examines the sign. "Absolutely," he declares with mock authority. "It says this bowl was used by Emperor Biggus Dickus to feed his favorite cat, Incontinentia."
A surprised laugh bursts from me. "Jake Martinez! Did you just make a Monty Python reference in an Italian museum?"
"I did, and I'm not sorry." His eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased to have made me laugh.
We move from display to display, inventing increasingly outlandish histories for each artifact. A cracked amphora becomes "the world's first beer bong, used in secret Roman frat parties." A small bronze figure is "Lucio, the god of finding lost keys, worshipped primarily by the chronically forgetful."
"This," Jake says gravely, gesturing to a weathered stone tablet, "is the world's first passive-aggressive note from aroommate. 'Octavius, thou hast consumed the last of the figs. Again. May Venus curse thy love life.'"
My sides hurt from laughing, the pain in my head forgotten as we move through cool, quiet rooms filled with treasures we're happily misidentifying. Jake's humor has always been one of my favorite things about him. It’s not like the performative wit of Ben or the sardonic charm of Luca, but something warmer, more genuine, often tailored just for me.
We find ourselves alone in a room of Renaissance paintings, surrounded by solemn Madonnas and stern-faced men in ruffs. Jake stands before a particularly dour portrait, hands clasped behind his back in perfect imitation of the man in the painting.
"Sir Grumpington von Frownface," I whisper, "known throughout the land for his collection of uncomfortable undergarments and his ability to clear a room with his personal hygiene habits."
Jake maintains his serious expression for approximately three seconds before dissolving into quiet laughter. "How are you not the official museum tour guide?" he asks, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room.
"The art world isn't ready for my interpretations," I reply with a solemn nod.
