Page 11 of The Slug Crystal

Ben notices. “He’s doing fine. Even built him a little house.”

Jake walks over, and crouches next to the table. “Does it seem… strange to you at all?”

Ben shrugs. “My mom used to rescue turtles, so I’ve seen weirder.”

I pick up the terrarium, cradling it in both hands. Alex pauses his crawl, like he recognizes me. Maybe he does. Maybe I’m just projecting. I want to cry, laugh, or both.

Ben sits on the couch, gestures for us to do the same. Jake stands, arms crossed, scanning the room like a bodyguard.

Ben leans forward, elbows on knees. “So, you believe the snail is your ex that you cursed?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to reverse it?”

“Yes.”

He whistles. “That’s a better story than any I’ve written this year.”

Jake says, “She’s not making it up.”

Ben holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m not here to judge. Hell, I once dated a girl who tried to hex me into veganism. Only lasted a week, but I still can’t eat sausage without feeling watched.”

I set the terrarium down gently. “We’re driving to Pittsfield. The woman who made the spell kit has been there recently. She might be able to fix this. If we can get Alex there in one piece.”

Ben grins. “So, you need the snail back, is what I’m hearing.”

I nod.

He leans back, studying us. “I don’t really care about the snail. I just wanted to see how far you’d go to get it back. But I gotta admit, I’m kind of invested now. ”

Jake tilts his head. “You’ll give it back?”

Ben shrugs. “Sure. But I want in.”

“In?” I repeat.

He spreads his hands, grinning. “On the road trip. Let’s see if this lady can really turn a mollusk into a man. Maybe I’ll get an article out of it. Or a book deal. Love Potion Number Snail or something.”

I should say no. I should grab the snail and run.

Instead, I look at Jake, who just lifts his eyebrow in the universal gesture of up to you.

I can feel the weird logic of the universe closing in.

I did turn my ex into a snail, I did lose him in a bet, and I did just tell the truth to a stranger who now wants to see how the story ends.

“Fine,” I say. “But if you slow us down, I’m hexing you next.”

Ben laughs, sounding delighted. “Deal.”

He stands, already grabbing a jacket and keys from the hook by the door. “I’ll go pack a bag and meet you up front in ten minutes.”

Jake gives me a look that’s half question, half approval. He waits until Ben walks to the back of his house, then he asks, “You sure about this?”

I squeeze the terrarium, watching the snail inch his way along the glass. “At this point, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Ben whistles as he packs up, whistling the riff from “Highway to Hell,” and the sound echoes back to us.

Once he’s packed, we add his bag to the covered bed of Jake’s truck and pile into the cab, me in the passenger seat with Alex in my lap, Ben in the back. Jake checks his mirrors, grins at me, then turns to Ben and says, “I hope you’re ready for the weirdest Monday of your life.”

I think about all the ways this could go wrong, then glance at Jake. He gives me a thumbs up.

“Bring it,” I say, and Jake floors it .

We are off again, this time with a new passenger and the kind of determination that only comes from losing everything and then deciding to get it back, even if it costs you your dignity, your sanity, or your last shreds of plausible deniability.

Westbrook Lane disappears behind us, the wind chimes clattering a farewell.

By the time we hit the on-ramp to I-84, I’ve cataloged three distinct types of road trip awkward. First there’s the “What are we doing?” silence, then the “Are we really doing this?” silence, and lastly the “There’s no way back now, is there?” silence.

Ben smells like cinnamon and ink. He always seems to need to be busy with something. Like picking at his beard, rolling a battered pen between his fingers, and occasionally scrolling through a notes app labeled The Project.

Jake drives with his legs splayed like he’s afraid the seatbelt might cut off his circulation. He keeps a watchful eye on the GPS and the world outside, which is currently a blur of pine, split-rail fences, and billboards advertising jewelry stores or bail bonds.

I’m in the passenger seat, cradling the terrarium like a bomb, and thinking about how my life is now governed entirely by two things. The whims of men with questionable facial hair, and the well-being of an ex-boyfriend who is, at this very moment, sliming his way across a fake plastic log.

Ben breaks the silence first. “So, for the record, what’s the snail’s name?”

I hesitate. “Alex. It’s short for Alexander, but he hates when people use the full name unless he’s being a pompous ass about something.”

Ben grins at Jake. “See, that’s humanizing. You have to respect a mollusk with strong branding. What’s his last name, though? I picked up on Alex when you mentioned it earlier. ”

Jake side-eyes him. “You’re not going to write about this with his actual name, are you?”

Ben waggles his phone. “Already started. The world needs to know. People are desperate for content about weird shit happening to other people, especially if it ends with a moral or a recipe. It’s not credible if it’s not grounded in truth.”

“Please don’t turn my existential crisis into some social media fluff piece,” I mutter.

He glances at me, his grin softening just a little. “I won’t use real names. Unless the snail goes viral, then all bets are off.”

We drive for the better part of an hour, trading playlist control like it’s a war of attrition.

Jake queues up melancholy indie, Ben counters with ‘90s rap, and I snipe with a Spotify radio mix so algorithmically cursed that it serves up a Jonas Brothers banger immediately after a Gregorian chant.

No one wins, but at least it keeps us from stewing in the constant thrum of our own anxiety.

At the second rest stop, Ben insists on a journalistic lunch, which I don’t think is a real thing. Ben was just tired of being in the car, in my opinion.

We pile into a booth at a quick service burger joint that’s empty except for a single guy in camo eating ketchup packets straight. Jake orders a grilled chicken sandwich and a small fries, I stick to iced tea, and Ben goes all out requesting two burgers, onion rings, and an extra-large Coke.

He pulls out a battered notebook, flips it open, and uncaps his pen. “Let’s get the lay of the land for the background of the story,” he says, eyes bright. “Tell me everything about the spell.”

I start reluctantly, but once the first words trickle out, they don’t stop.

I tell Jake about the breakup, the website, the sage and merlot, the group spell with Jake and Alina, and the incantation that still rings in my head at night.

I even admit how I almost chickened out, how it was all a joke until it wasn’t, how the real magic wasn’t the hex but the sudden, terrifying power of being able to change something in the universe, even if it was just a person I used to love.

Ben writes it all down, nodding, interjecting with the occasional huh or that’s wild. Jake listens, silent, his gaze flicking between us and the terrarium on the table.

Ben continues gathering information and asks, “What was your relationship with Alex like? Pre-gastropod.”

I take a sip of tea and stall. “It was… okay. Good, when it was good. Bad, when it wasn’t. He always needed to be right, even if he was wrong. He never let go of anything, not a single grudge, but he also never let me down when it mattered. He could be sweet when he remembered to try.”

Jake, voice low, finally interjects, “He hurt you, though.”

I nod, feeling the heat crawl up my face. “Yeah. But not on purpose. Or maybe a little on purpose. I’m not blameless, either.”

Ben scribbles, then asks, “If you could say one thing to him, right now, what would it be?”

I think about it, not because I don’t know, but because I know exactly, and it's heavy. “I’d tell him I’m sorry. For hexing him, obviously. But also, for not believing things could ever be different before we broke up. I think it was the right move, but still tough.”

Jake nods, like he’s memorizing my words for later. Ben rips a bite of burger, then points his pen at Jake. “You in love with her?”

Jake chokes on his fries. “What?”

Ben shrugs, casual as a weather report. “The way you look at her. I’ve seen that look. You’re not just in this for the road snacks.”

Jake flushes deep red, but doesn’t say no. Instead, he glances at me and then at the terrarium. He finally says, “Emma’s my best friend. Always has been. ”

Ben smiles, softening. “That’s sweet. Also, brutal. You two have a lot to work out.”

I want to punch Ben. Obviously, the man doesn’t have any friends and doesn’t understand what friendship is.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the fact that after three years of emotional carnage, I’m running out of things to lose.

Or maybe, somewhere under the bone-deep exhaustion, I just don’t care about the old rules anymore.

So, I let him know exactly what’s on my mind. “You obviously have never had friends.”

Ben just shakes his head and laughs.

We finish the meal in relative peace. Jake takes the snail into the bathroom building with him, for safety, which is both hilarious and a little touching. Meanwhile Ben and I stand by the car, watching a tour bus full of elderly people in matching windbreakers try to coordinate a group pee break.

Ben leans against the truck, voice lowered. “You know, when I said I wanted to come along, I didn’t expect to actually… care. About the outcome.”

“And you care now?” I ask.

“I think I’m starting too,” he says, looking at me seriously.

I snort. “You sure have a funny way of showing it.”

He smiles, not quite cocky for once. “I’ve been divorced twice. Both times I let go too easy, because I didn’t think anything could change. Maybe you’re onto something. Maybe people do change, even if it takes a hex or a road trip or losing a bet in a bar.”

I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest isn’t from the tea. “You’re not going to get all poetic on me, are you?”

He shakes his head. “No promises. But I think this could be the best story I ever write.”

Jake comes back, terrarium under one arm, and we pile into the car for the final stretch.