Page 25 of The Slug Crystal

Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.

"If you two are done with your romantic movie moment, some of us are starving.

" Ben stands at the opposite end of the bridge from where Jake appeared, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted in exaggerated impatience.

His timing is so perfect, so quintessentially Ben, that I can't help but laugh, a genuine burst of relief that dissipates some of the charged air around us.

"Been looking everywhere for you people," Ben continues, sauntering toward us.

"Passed at least three gelato shops and two pizza places, and yet here we are, standing on a bridge having a staring contest." He stops, finally noticing Jake's sodden state.

"Whoa, did you decide to swim home? Bold choice with the water quality in these canals. "

"He saved Alex," I explain, holding up the terrarium. "The terrarium fell in."

Ben raises his eyebrows. "Well, that's one way to make an entrance. Very heroic, very wet. Though you might want to get into dry clothes before you catch something medieval."

The corner of Jake's mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close enough. Something in my chest loosens at the sight. No matter how complicated things get between us, Ben has a gift for defusing Jake's darker moods.

"I'll survive," Jake says dryly. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been soaked to save something Emma cares about. Besides, Marco has our bags. He was dropping them off somewhere in the gondola."

There's no bitterness in his voice, just the familiar teasing note that's been missing since his confession in the motel room. For a moment, he's just Jake again, my best friend, my steady constant.

But then his eyes flicker between Luca and me, and I see the shadow pass over his face again. He catches me watching and quickly looks away, running a hand through his wet hair.

"We should find somewhere to dry off," he says, addressing Ben rather than me. "And get food."

"First sensible thing anyone's said all evening," Ben agrees, clapping Jake on the shoulder and grimacing when his hand comes away wet. "Though you might want to wring yourself out first. You're like a walking sprinkler system."

I notice how Jake's eyes still track to Luca every few seconds, gauging the distance between us, checking for any sign of resumed intimacy. Luca, for his part, maintains a careful few feet of space, though his eyes meet mine occasionally with quiet intensity.

"There you all are!" Marco's voice carries over the ambient noise of the festival as he appears behind Ben, slightly out of breath.

"I've been searching the entire north side of the canal.

" He takes in Jake's dripping form with raised eyebrows, but, ever the diplomat, merely nods as if encountering soaking wet Americans is a regular occurrence in his academic life.

"I believe we should head to our lodgings before continuing the search for Sarah.

I dropped our bags, but you need to be present to reserve the room," he suggests, adjusting his glasses, which have fogged slightly in the evening humidity.

"It's getting late, and Venice's layout is challenging enough in daylight.

At night, for newcomers..." He spreads his hands expressively.

"The professor's right," Ben says. "Food, dry clothes, beds. Detective work can wait until morning."

Jake nods, a droplet falling from his chin with the motion. "Where are we staying?"

"My friend's pensione is not far," Marco says. "I was not sure where Luca wanted to stay, but this place is nearby. Simple, but clean." He gestures toward a narrow street leading away from the bridge. "This way, if everyone agrees."

I look around at our strange, mismatched group. Jake dripping canal water onto centuries-old stone; Ben with his restless energy barely contained; Luca, still elegant despite the evening's chaos; Marco, patient and observant; and Alex, perhaps the most passive participant in any quest in history.

"Lead the way," I say to Marco, careful to direct the words to everyone rather than just him. "We could all use some rest."

As we leave the bridge behind, I feel Jake's eyes on me, a familiar weight of concern and something deeper.

When I glance back, he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—part resignation, part determination, entirely Jake.

I offer him a small smile, and after a moment, he returns it, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

The accordion music follows us as we wind through the narrow streets, a bittersweet melody that echoes the complicated emotions swirling between us all.

Wednesday, 3:47PM. The pensione Marco's friend runs turns out to be a fifth-floor walkup in a building that probably dates back to when Venice was a maritime superpower.

Each step of the narrow staircase creaks under our collective weight, the walls close enough on either side that I can touch both simultaneously if I hold my hands out.

By the time we reach our room, singular, not plural, because apparently five people and a snail don't merit multiple accommodations during festival season, Jake has mostly dried through the power of exertion and body heat. Though his shoes still make sad squelching noises with every step.

Marco's friend, the proprietor, is a round-faced man with expressive eyebrows who speaks rapid-fire Italian and keeps clapping Luca on the back like they've survived a war together after he learns he’s a pilot.

He hands over an ornate brass key with a flourish, assuring us in broken English that we're getting "the very best room, very special, very authentic. "

What "authentic" means, apparently, is smaller than my first apartment's bathroom.

The door swings open to reveal a space that could be generously described as cozy, and more accurately as claustrophobic.

The walls are stucco, painted a pale yellow that might once have been cheerful but has faded to the color of old piano keys.

Two queen beds are crammed so close together that I could high-five Jake across the gap without fully extending my arm.

A sagging pull-out couch occupies the opposite wall, leaving approximately eighteen inches of walking space between the furniture.

"Is this..." Jake begins, then stops, apparently unable to find a polite way to ask if we're looking at a closet rather than a room.

"Perfect!" Ben declares, tossing his bag onto the nearest bed and bouncing onto the mattress. "Very European. Very intimate."

Luca peers around the doorframe, his expression morphing into one of mild concern. "It's certainly... efficient in its use of space."

"Venice is an old city built on water," Marco explains with a shrug. "Space is at a premium. This is actually quite generous by local standards."

I set Alex's terrarium down on the narrow dresser that's wedged between the window and the bathroom door, making sure it's stable. The blue snail emerges cautiously from his shell, antennae extending as if to say, "Seriously? This is where we're staying?"

"It's fine," I say, though I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince. "We just need a place to sleep before we start looking for Sarah tomorrow."

Ben grins up at me from where he's sprawled across one bed. "Bold of you to assume anyone's getting sleep with five adults in a sardine can. I call this bed, by the way."

"You can't claim an entire bed," Jake protests, dropping his damp backpack on the floor with a wet thud. "There are five of us and three sleeping surfaces."

"I don't see why not," Ben counters, spreading his arms and legs like a starfish. "First come, first served. That's the American way."

"We're not in America," Jake points out. "You can’t claim a whole bed. And I'm not sharing with you—you kick. I saw you at the motel."

Ben sits up, looking offended. "I don't kick. I strategically reposition during the night to optimize comfort."

"You kicked me in the kidney at the motel," Jake says flatly. "I had a bruise. We weren’t even in the same bed."

I can't help the laugh that bubbles up. The absurdity of our situation, five adults arguing over beds like kids at a sleepover, while my ex-boyfriend-turned-snail watches from his glass habitat, suddenly strikes me as hilarious.

Luca leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking amused. "We could draw straws," he suggests. "Or play cards for bed rights."

"I vote rock-paper-scissors," Ben says. "Best of three determines who gets solo sleeping arrangements."

Marco, who has been quietly arranging his modest luggage in the corner, clears his throat. "I'm perfectly content with the sofa," he offers. "I'm quite used to falling asleep in less-than-ideal circumstances during fieldwork."

"Spoken like a true academic," Ben says approvingly. "Self-sacrifice for the greater good."

Jake runs a hand through his still-damp hair, grimacing when it comes away wet. "I need to change," he says, eyeing the bathroom door, which is so narrow it looks like we'll have to turn sideways to enter.

"Go ahead," I tell him. "You've been soaked long enough. "

As Jake squeezes past Marco to reach his bag, his shoulder brushes mine, leaving a damp patch on my sleeve.

The room is so tight that every movement becomes a choreographed dance of avoiding collision.

Ben swings his legs off the bed, nearly kicking Luca in the process.

Marco steps back to make room and bumps into the dresser, causing Alex's terrarium to wobble alarmingly until I steady it with my hand.

"Perhaps we should establish some traffic patterns," Marco suggests, only half-joking. "Like lanes in a swimming pool."

"Or we could just embrace the chaos," Ben says, reaching across the gap between beds to grab a pillow from the second bed. "Survival of the fittest. Every man for himself."

"Very helpful," Jake mutters, extracting a dry shirt from his bag.

Our eyes meet briefly as he straightens, and something electric passes between us.

An acknowledgment of the absurdity, but also of the underlying currents running through our strange group.

He disappears into the bathroom, the door closing with a decisive click.

I sit on the edge of the second bed, feeling the mattress give more than it should.

The springs creak in protest, a sound that promises to announce every toss and turn throughout the night.

Luca moves from the doorway to perch beside me, careful to leave a respectful distance between us after the tension on the bridge.

"It's not the Four Seasons," he admits, "but it has character."

"Character is one word for it," I reply, but I'm smiling.

There's something almost comforting about the cramped quarters, the forced proximity.

After the vastness of Venice, with its maze-like streets and endless canals, there's a sense of security in these close walls, in having everyone within arm's reach.

Ben stretches dramatically, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of tanned stomach. "So, sleeping arrangements. I still vote for my own bed, but I'm willing to be democratic about it."

"Two can take this bed," Luca says, patting the mattress beside me. "Two on the other, one on the sofa. Simple."

The bathroom door opens, and Jake emerges in a dry shirt and fresh jeans, his hair toweled into damp spikes. His gaze immediately lands on Luca sitting beside me on the bed, and his expression tightens.

"I'll take the couch," he says quickly. "Marco can share with Ben."

Marco looks up from where he's carefully arranging his toiletries on the small bedside table. "I've already claimed the sofa," he reminds Jake. "And I believe I'm the smallest of us, so it makes the most sense."

I watch as Jake's jaw works, clearly wanting to argue but finding no logical grounds to do so. The room feels suddenly warmer, the air thicker with unspoken tension.

"We'll figure it out," I say, trying to defuse the situation. "It's just for a few nights."

Ben rolls onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands like a teenager at a slumber party. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm enjoying our little Venetian adventure so far. Gondola chases, canal diving, sardine-can accommodations, beats the hell out of my normal Wednesday."

His deliberately light tone breaks some of the tension. Even Jake's mouth quirks up at one corner.

"It has been eventful," Marco agrees, settling into the desk chair, the only seating besides the beds and couch. "And tomorrow promises more excitement when we begin our search for Sarah DeMarco."

As if on cue, Alex emerges fully from his shell, pressing against the glass of his terrarium as though eager to join the conversation.

I wonder, not for the first time, how much he understands of what's happening around him.

Does he know we're in Venice? Does he recognize that we're trying to help him?

Or is his snail brain consumed with simpler concerns—food, moisture, safety?

"Get some rest, Alex," I murmur, tapping the glass gently. "Big day tomorrow."

Everyone hears me and reacts differently.

Ben smirks, Luca looks thoughtful, Marco nods as if speaking to snails is perfectly normal, and Jake.

.. Jake watches me with an expression so tender it makes my chest ache.

For a moment, despite the cramped quarters and the competing tensions, I feel strangely at peace, surrounded by this odd collection of men who, for their own reasons, have committed to helping me fix my magical mistake.

"Alright," I say, standing up and nearly bumping into Luca in the process. "Let's figure out these sleeping arrangements for real. I don't know about you guys, but I'm exhausted."

As we begin the awkward dance of determining who sleeps where, our elbows and knees constantly colliding in the tight space, I catch sight of our reflection in the small mirror above the dresser, five people and a snail, crammed into a room meant for two, embarking on a quest that seems more absurd by the hour.

And somehow, despite everything, I wouldn't have it any other way.