Page 13 of The Slug Crystal

I think about it, and the words come out before I can stop them. “I guess I’d have to apologize. Like, really apologize. And then… say sorry again and move on.”

“That’s mature,” Ben says with a nod. “And hopefully it doesn’t end up with you being in the insane asylum. Or prison.”

I grimace.

Jake glances from the road, his dark eyes unreadable. “You don’t have to fix everything yourself. If you need… help… after all this is resolved, I’ve got your back. I always have.”

Ben is very still in the backseat. “Goddamn, this is better than therapy.”

I snort, but also my insides feel sticky and warm from Jake’s words. I feel like maybe this isn’t a disaster in progress. Maybe it’s just three losers doing their best. Maybe, if we’re very lucky, it’ll all end with a story worth telling and no one being locked away.

It starts as a joke, like all the best things do.

We’re maybe an hour out, the silence in the cab only recently patched with the remains of our emotional twenty questions session, when my phone’s shuffle coughs up “Dance Macabre” by Ghost. Ben, who has spent the last twenty minutes pretending to nap, perks up instantly .

“No way,” he says, sitting up like a meerkat. “You listen to Ghost?”

I freeze, my thumb hovering over the skip button. “I dabble. I’m not, like, a full-blown fan or anything.”

Ben scoffs. “You’re a liar. No one has this song in their library unless they’re full-blown.”

Jake chimes in, grinning: “She’s got three of their albums in her Favorites. I’ve seen the playlists.”

Ben puts his hand to his chest like he’s been blessed. “This changes everything.”

The first chorus kicks in, that weirdly operatic hook, and before I can help myself, I’m mouthing the words, just under my breath. Ben, not content to leave anything at “just under,” belts it at full volume, head thrown back, voice surprisingly not bad.

Jake starts to laugh, but then the next track comes on, “Square Hammer,” and now he’s thumping the steering wheel, drumming along, and even harmonizing on the chorus with me, like this is something we do every day.

It is not. I have never, ever sung in public with Jake, not even at karaoke.

But he knows every word, even the ones in fake Latin.

Ben joins in, and by the time we hit the second chorus, it’s three-part harmony, with me on melody, Jake low and steady, and Ben doing the worst Swedish accent I’ve ever heard.

When the song gets to the bridge, Ben leans forward and points at the terrarium. “Hey, we should let Alex choose the next one.”

I glance at the snail, who is inching along the top of the plastic log like he’s trying to escape. “He’s more of a classic rock guy, I think. Maybe some Zeppelin?”

“He always said ‘Stairway to Heaven’ was overrated. I bet he’d want ‘Kashmir’,” Jake says with the hint of a laugh in his tone .

“Let’s see what happens. Give the man, snail, the next song!” Ben exclaims.

I scroll through the playlist and queue up “Kashmir.” The snail, no joke, pauses dead in the middle of the log.

Ben leans forward, all mock-reverence. “He knows.”

“He knows,” Jake agrees.

We play a few more songs, singing along as a trio.

For “He Is,” Jake goes full falsetto, cracking only once, and Ben follows along with handclaps and headbanging.

Somewhere in the middle of singing, I forget about the snail, about Sarah DeMarco, about the looming horror of possibly reversing a hex and having to face my ex again.

For a minute, it’s just us, and the beat, and the sun slicing through the bug-splattered windshield.

We’re still singing when we roll into the next stop.

Ben’s hair is a mess, Jake’s voice is gone, and I’m grinning so wide my face hurts.

For a minute, we’re not just three people stuck in a truck on a stupid magic errand.

We’re a band. Or at least, three idiots who should not be allowed near a microphone due to our new, false confidence.

As Jake places the car in park, I glance back to catch Ben writing Best Road Trip Ever in big block letters at the top of a page in his notebook and underline it three times.

I don’t even roll my eyes. Not even a little.

Instead, I grin to myself and climb out of the car with my terrarium in tow. I catch our reflection in the windows as we get out. We look, god help me, happy. Like we’re starring in an ad for an off-brand energy drink or one of those found family streaming shows.

Ben notices me looking at our reflections. He stops, stares at the glass, and says, “You know, we could go pro. We look good as a band.”

Jake replies, voice ragged, “Maybe we can discuss it after this is all over. ”

Ben ignores him and says, “I call lead singer.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.” But I don’t argue.

The rest stop is a sun-bleached patch of parking lot ringed with picnic tables and guarded by a vending machine that looks older than Jake.

There’s a playground off to one side, deserted except for a single, brave toddler in a Paw Patrol shirt.

Nearby there’s a row of battered dumpsters radiating heat and ancient sandwich funk.

On the other side there’s a short, squat building, separated into men’s and women’s bathroom facilities.

I’m halfway through reading the nutritional panel of a vending machine protein bar, searching for validation that it’s actual food when Jake says, “I need to piss before we hit the next stretch. You want to come, or…?”

I shake my head, my mouth full of the first bite, which tastes delicious, even if the ingredients are all words I’ve never heard of. “I’ll stay and go after you. Someone needs to guard the snail from Ben’s evil influence.”

Ben, who is balancing the terrarium on one knee and attempting to teach Alex how to fist-bump through the glass, I decide not to ask why, fakes a look of betrayal. “You wound me, Emma.”

I snort, licking fake-chocolate residue from my fingers.

“I just don’t fully trust you not to sell him to a passing trucker.

” I turn my gaze to Jake. “I can wait. Can you be quick this time though? I don’t want another incident where we’re here for thirty minutes because you have public restroom anxiety. ”

Jake flips me off good-naturedly and heads for the bathroom. I flop onto the picnic bench next to Ben, who’s doing that thing where he narrates the snail’s internal monologue in a cartoon voice.

I tune him out because he’s obviously insane, and I don’t need that kind of influence in my life.

Two minutes later, I finish my protein bar. I sit on the hard bench and cross and uncross my legs, the need to pee slowly, but urgently getting to me. Eyeing the restrooms, I wonder what the heck is taking Jake so long. I swear that man must spend half his life on the toilet.

Sighing, I stand up and jiggle a little, trying to distract myself.

Ben finally looks up from the terrarium and shoots me a look. “You can trust me with your snail long enough to go to the bathroom. I promise I won’t unload him onto some random passerby. Scout’s Honor,” he says, holding up a weird finger salute.

“You were a Scout?” I ask, more interested in that than anything else he said.

He barks out a laugh. “Yes, for several years. Now, please go to the bathroom. You’re giving me anxiety with all your twitching. If you pee on yourself in front of me, I will never forgive you.”

I laugh, and for a weird moment, I forget that we’re on a rescue mission for my ex-boyfriend-slash-snail and that Ben is a stranger that I barely know. “Okay,” I say, pivoting on my heel towards the bathroom. “Do not let him escape.”

Ben raises a hand in mock salute again. “Scout’s honor.”

I head inside the rest stop building, which is at least ten degrees cooler, a surprising contrast. I move to the women’s side of the restroom and handle my business.

Then, I do a quick check of my phone. There are still no emails from Sarah DeMarco, but at least Alina has texted six new memes and a photo of her dog wearing a hat.

I laugh react to the photo and send her a quick update.

I spend maybe two minutes max in the bathroom. I know Jake and Ben can survive without me, so I don’t rush. But when I exit, Jake’s leaning against the building, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“Where’s Ben?” he asks.

I freeze. “He was at the table when I left. ”

Jake doesn’t move. “And the snail?”

“He had it. I told him to watch it. He promised.”

Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. “Emma. He’s a struggling freelance writer. You think he wouldn’t opportunistically bail if it suited him?”

I think of Ben’s “Scout’s honor” and feel a surge of annoyance. “He wouldn’t. He’s not that much of an asshole.”

Jake’s mouth does the thing it does when he’s trying to be patient but really wants to say, I told you so. “Let’s check the lot.”

I storm outside, scanning the picnic tables, playground, and the edge of the lot where the trucks are parked. Nothing. My heart is pounding now, panic nipping at my heels. I can already hear Ben’s stupid voice, narrating the story of a great snail heist to a rapt internet audience. The fucker.

As a last resort, I circle the building and, sure enough, I find him at the last picnic table hidden behind the squat building.

He’s deep in animated conversation with a pair of little kids and an exhausted-looking mom.

The terrarium is center stage, open, the snail perched proudly on the fake log as Ben spins some elaborate yarn.

“And then,” Ben is saying, “after traversing a thousand miles of desert and narrowly escaping a pack of rampaging raccoons, Sir Alex the Blue Shell arrived at the oasis, where he met the Queen of Lettuce?—”

The older kid, a girl with tangled blonde hair and a tie-dye T-shirt, interrupts. “Did the snail get to eat the lettuce?”

Ben leans in, conspiratorial. “Only after he solved the Queen’s riddle. Wanna know what it was?”

The kids nod, enthralled.

Ben grins. “She asked, ‘What’s slow, but always gets where it’s going?’”

The boy, younger, shouts, “A snail!”

Ben bows. “Exactly. And that’s why the Queen gave him the entire salad. ”

The mom gives Ben a half-smile that says she appreciates the effort but would rather be anywhere else. I wait for the kids to wander back to the playground before I stomp up, arms crossed.

“What the hell, Ben?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “They wanted to know about the snail. You were gone, and I figured it’d be nice to give him a little mythology.”

I grab the terrarium, checking to make sure Alex is unharmed. He’s fine. Ben even sprinkled in a fresh piece of lettuce.

Jake is slightly out of breath and looking ready to murder someone. “Next time, tell us where you’re going.”

Ben holds up his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t know I had to report walking ten feet away with the snail.”

I want to argue, but can’t find the words. Then I realize… Ben is right? I hate it, but he didn’t actually do anything wrong. “It’s fine. Sorry,” I finally mutter. “We’re both just… a little sensitive about Alex.” I gesture to Jake and myself.

Jake shoots me a glare, but Ben offers me a tight nod, silently accepting my apology.

We walk back to the car in silence, me clutching the terrarium tight to my chest, Jake shooting Ben the occasional side-eye.

But as I set Alex on the dash and slide into the passenger seat, I can’t help replaying the story in my head.

Queen of Lettuce. Salad reward. It’s ridiculous, but also… sweet?

Ben gets in the back, buckles up, and after a minute, leans forward. “Sorry if I scared you. I really wouldn’t have left.”

I believe him. I really do. And I appreciate his apology even though he didn’t do anything wrong. The ball of fear in my chest slowly starts to dissipate, and I murmur, “I know.”

Jake turns the key, and as we roll back onto the interstate, Ben pulls out his notebook and starts scribbling again, probably turning the whole incident into an epic saga.

I glance at Alex, who is once again glued to the side of the terrarium, and I swear there’s a little more spring in his slimy slide.

I roll down the window, let the wind whip my hair, and watch the scenery whir past. Next stop: Sarah DeMarco. The woman with the answers. The woman who can turn Alex back into a man. Hopefully.