Page 18 of The Slug Crystal

For a full five minutes, I don’t move. I just lie there, stomach curdling, and try to remember the order of events.

The tequila. The never have I ever game.

The hot tub. The way Ben pressed his thigh against mine, warm and insistent.

The way Ben’s hands shook a little when he unhooked my bra, as if even he couldn’t believe we were actually doing this.

The way we both laughed, hysterical and half-drunk, when it was all over.

I sneak a glance at Ben lying face down across the couch, butt-naked. He looks peaceful, like a man who has never regretted anything in his life. Maybe he doesn’t regret last night. Maybe that’s the difference between people like me and people like him .

I try to fake asleep for another hour, but Jake’s aura of suppressed emotion is too loud to ignore as he wakes and starts stretching aggressively.

When I peel open my eyelids, he’s packing up his stuff, folding his shirts military-neat, pausing every so often to stare at the back of Ben’s head like he’s trying to vaporize it by willpower alone.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I avoid Jake’s acidic glare and immediately step into the shower.

I turn the faucet to arctic, step in, and let the water needle my skin until I’m shivering and awake enough to think straight.

For a minute, I just stand there, water sluicing over my face, and try to imagine how this morning will go.

My brain is too tequila-addled to think of anything at all except for the need to vomit.

Sighing, I turn off the water, grab the scratchy towel, and brace myself.

Through the thin walls, I can hear voices, low and angry.

At first, I think I’m imagining it, but as I stand there, frozen, I realize the fight is real and getting louder.

Jake and Ben.

Oh god.

I wrap the towel around myself and tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear to the stained white paint.

“—You have no respect for boundaries, man,” Jake is saying, his voice tight and brittle. “You barely know her.”

Ben sounds bored, or maybe just still half-asleep. “It was mutual, bro. We were both drunk, but nothing happened without her consent. She’s a passionate woman.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Jake spits.

There’s a long, ugly silence.

Then Ben, in a softer tone adds, “You waited too long, dude. You can’t be mad at me for not reading your mind.”

Jake is quiet. I can hear his breathing, ragged and shallow, like he’s about to cry or scream or both.

Ben says, “If you wanted her, you should’ve made a move. ”

I reel back, shocked. Jake… should have made a move? No. Ben is reading the situation all wrong. Jake is one of my best friends. Jake doesn’t like me in that way. Does he?

All of a sudden, I feel nauseous for an entirely different reason. I glance around the bathroom, regretting not bringing my clothes into the room with me. The only things I have to wear are my chlorine and cum, soaked clothes from last night.

Grimacing, I slick the water off my skin and gather as much moisture as I can from my hair, finger-combing the chestnut mass into straight, dark strands afterward. Then, I secure my towel around me once more and open the bathroom door.

No one speaks as I step into the room.

Jake is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Ben is sprawled on the sofa, arms folded, gaze fixed on the ceiling like he’s counting how many water stains appeared overnight.

I walk to the dresser, snatching clothes at random out of my bag, then running back into the bathroom like the devil’s on my heels. Panting heavily, I lean against the closed door and gather my composure, slipping into the athletic shorts and giant t-shirt that I grabbed.

I steel myself once more and head into the main room.

Grabbing the snail terrarium, I hold it to my chest like a shield.

For a second, I think about just leaving, walking out into the street, and hitchhiking back to Boston.

But Jake looks up at me, his eyes raw and rimmed with red, and I can’t move.

“Hey,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

Jake doesn’t answer. Ben doesn’t move. The air is so thick with tension I can taste it, metallic and mean.

I set the terrarium down and sit on the bed across from Jake. For a long time, we just stare at each other, like maybe if we wait long enough, one of us will disappear.

Ben finally breaks the silence. “I’m going to check out the lobby breakfast,” he says, grabbing his jeans and pulling them on as he heads for the door. “You two should talk.”

“Look,” Jake says, voice low, “about last night?—”

I cut him off. “You’re not mad, are you?”

He shakes his head, but the muscles in his jaw say otherwise. “No, I mean, maybe a little. But not at you. Just—” He drags his hands down his face, like he’s peeling off a mask. “Fuck, this is hard.”

I wait. I’ve known Jake for years. He only gets like this when he’s about to say something huge, or when he’s constipated.

He glances at me. “You know I’m in love with you, right?”

I blink. Of all the possible lines, that one was not even in the script.

He laughs again, sharper this time. “Not that you have to do anything about it. I just— I needed to say it once, in case I end up dead or worse. Like, in jail because Ben drives us off a bridge.”

I sit there and try to process. “Since when?”

He stares at the wall, voice soft. “Probably since sophomore year. Maybe since forever.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice,” I say.

Jake shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”

I am. But I’m also not. Both can be true.

Jake sighs, but there’s relief in it, like he’s been holding his breath for a year.

I want to say something, to make it better, but the truth is, I don’t know how.

Jake’s my anchor. But somewhere in this mess, Ben has become another essential part of the metaphorical ship.

Maybe the slightly malfunctioning sail, I’m not sure.

I don’t have the emotional capacity to choose, even if I wanted to.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you,” I say, words coming fast now, tumbling over each other. “I just— I felt so alone last night. I felt like I was falling apart, like if I didn’t do something, anything, I was going to disappear. And Ben was there. And he made it easy.”

Jake laughs, a bitter, hollow sound. “Sounds just like Ben.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly.

Jake stands, paces to the window, then back. He runs his hands through his hair in a restless fidget. “I never thought you’d pick him over me.”

The words hit me like a bag of bricks. “I didn’t,” I say, desperate. “I never—Jake, you’re my best friend. I didn’t know there was any kind of choice that I needed to make.”

He turns, eyes blazing. “That’s the problem, Emma. I don’t want to be your best friend. I want to be your everything.”

I blink, stunned. I’m shaking now, my hands in my lap, fingers knotted so tight they’re white. “I thought—” I start, but the words won’t come.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

Jake smiles, sad and certain. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just needed to say it.”

He stands, walks to the door, and pauses. “We’ll get Alex fixed. Then you never have to see either of us again, if you don’t want to.”

The second the door closes, I start to cry, silent and ugly.

Jake leaves, and for the first time all morning, I wish I was a snail.

The door opens again, and I glance up, thinking Jake changed his mind and returned. But it’s Ben standing in the doorway, staring down at me with an unreadable expression.

“I think I fucked up,” I say.

He shakes his head, then comes to the bed, perching beside me and pulling me against his chest. “You didn’t. But also, please don’t turn either of us into a snail. We can fix this as humans, I think. ”

I laugh and sob against his chest.

Tuesday, 9:47AM. Our exit from the motel is quiet and stunted.

No one speaks until we pull up to Dottie’s.

This time we are just here for coffee and to plan our next move.

The sign outside has changed: Croissant & Medium Coffee: $3.

50 TODAY ONLY. The ‘O’ in coffee has been filled in with black marker so it looks like a donut. I appreciate the effort.

Inside, the shop is quieter than yesterday. Dottie herself is behind the counter, hair wrapped up like a cinnamon bun, eyes squinting as she works a crossword.

I order three coffees and a Berry Danish, then grab a table in the corner with a good line of sight to the register, needing to know when my order is ready.

I set the terrarium on the table, and for a while, the three of us just stare at it in silence.

The snail is slowly eating his way through the lettuce, utterly unaware of the hurricane of feelings surrounding him.

Ben pulls out his phone and starts typing.

He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the energy rolling off him.

He’s always restless, seeking action or the next story, even moving in his sleep.

Jake turns away from us, giving me a view of his back, as he watches the street, which is even more deserted than yesterday.

The silence is thick.

I contemplate walking out of the coffee shop and down the road for some privacy, so I can call Alina and ask for her advice. The second I half commit to the plan, my order is ready.

“Emma!” Dottie yells, placing a tray on the countertop.

I sigh in relief as I jump to my feet and walk to the counter, scooping up the tray and carefully balancing it as I walk to the table. I pass out the coffees and keep the Danish for myself.

I clear my throat and peel a chunk of Danish into tiny pieces. “He likes fruit,” I say, mostly to myself. “Alex. He used to make fun of me for putting strawberries in my cereal, but he always picked at them, eating them when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

Ben grunts. “Why didn’t he just get his own?”

I furrow my brow, then shrug.