Page 93 of The Slug Crystal
Jake focuses on securing Alex's terrarium, ensuring he has everything he needs for the journey. The snail seems unperturbed by the chaos, methodically exploring his enclosure as if nothing has changed.
"As adaptable as ever," Marco observes, appearing beside me while the others load bags into the taxi. "An incredibly useful trait, given our circumstances."
His proximity sends a fresh wave of heat through me, memories of last night flashing vividly behind my eyes. Before I can respond, he gently touches my arm, his voice dropping to ensure privacy.
"About last night," he begins, scholarly precision momentarily abandoned for human uncertainty. "I want you to know?—"
"We're going to miss the train if you two don't hurry up!"Ben calls from the doorway, his timing suspiciously perfect.
Marco steps back, composure returning like a mask sliding into place. "We'll continue this conversation later," he promises, then helps me carry my bag to the waiting taxi.
The train station is a chaos of bodies and announcements, our mad dash to the ticket counter complicated by last-minute purchases and limited availability. We manage to secure seats, but not together, a fact that becomes apparent only after we've boarded the crowded train.
"Two in car four, three in car six," Jake reads from our tickets, looking disappointed. "We'll have to split up."
After a brief negotiation, the arrangement solidifies. Jake, Marco, and Luca will take car six, while Ben and I settle into car four. Alex's terrarium goes with Jake, the special carrier designed to minimize jostling during travel, tucked under his arm as he joins the others to head to the other car.
As the train pulls away from Rome, I find myself acutely aware of Ben beside me, his lanky frame folded into the small seat, his knee occasionally brushing mine as the train sways. He's been uncharacteristically quiet since we boarded, his usual stream of jokes and observations notably absent.
"You okay?" I ask after several minutes of silence. "You're freaking me out with the whole silence thing."
Ben's laugh is soft, almost self-conscious. "Just thinking."
"That's even more terrifying," I tease, nudging his shoulder with mine.
His smile is crooked, not his usual performative grin but something more genuine. "I've been meaning to ask you something," he says, turning slightly to face me. "What's your love language?"
The question catches me off guard. "My what?"
"Love language. You know, how you give and receive affection." He waves a hand vaguely. "Words of affirmation, acts of service, all that psychology stuff."
I blink at him, trying to reconcile this surprisinglythoughtful question with the Ben I thought I knew. The one who makes inappropriate jokes and flirts as easily as breathing.
"I've never really thought about it," I admit, watching the Tuscan countryside blur past our window. "Maybe... acts of service? I appreciate when someone does something thoughtful without being asked. Shows they're paying attention." I pause, then add, "What about you?"
Ben looks down at his hands, turning his watch around his wrist, a nervous gesture he’s never done before. "Physical touch," he says simply. "Not just the obvious stuff. The small things. Like a hand on my shoulder, fingers brushing when passing something." He glances up, his green eyes surprisingly vulnerable. "People think I'm all talk, but I communicate better through physical contact."
Suddenly, his constant proximity, the casual touches, the way he always seems to be within arm's reach… it makes sense in a new way.
"What do you want?" he asks, his voice dropping slightly. "From life, I mean. When all this is over."
The question feels weightier than our swaying train car should be able to support. I consider how to answer, surprised to find myself wanting to give him honesty rather than deflection.
"Connection," I say finally. "Real connection. I want work that matters, that helps people communicate better. And..." I hesitate, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable. "I want to build something lasting with people that I care about. Not necessarily the traditional house-marriage-kids package, but something that just feels right. Like it’s mine."
Ben's eyes haven't left my face, his attention so focused it almost feels like a physical connection between us. "That's why your mom's expectations feel so heavy," he observes. "Because she wants you to build someone else's dream."
The insight startles me. How has he picked up onsomething so fundamental that I've barely articulated to myself? I’ve only talked to Ben in passing about my mom, I didn’t realize he listened so attentively.
"What about you?" I ask, deflecting from my surprise. "What does Ben Clark want when he's not chasing witches across Italy?"
His laugh has no humor in it. "Would you believe pretty much the same thing? Connection. Creation." He glances out the window, his profile sharp against the passing landscape. "I write because I want to make people feel something. All the jokes and the charm are just the surface. Underneath, I just want to matter. To find my people and my true purpose."
The confession hangs between us. This conversation has become more intimate than I expected. I find myself seeing Ben in a new light. He’s not just an irreverent jokester, but a man with depths and vulnerabilities I hadn't imagined.
"You matter," I say softly, my hand finding his on the armrest between us. "To me. To all of us."
His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and surprisingly steady. "Even with all this competition?" he asks, tipping his head to the back, as if to signify the other men in the train car behind us.
