Page 28 of The Slug Crystal

"It came through quite clearly," Mirella insists, tapping her temple. "Florence. A new beginning. Something about... inspiration from the old masters."

The five of us exchange glances, ranging from Ben's overt skepticism to Marco's thoughtful consideration. Luca simply shrugs, as if supernatural guidance is just another Thursday for him.

"So we're supposed to go to Florence now?" Ben asks, folding his arms. "Feels like we're being led on a wild goose chase across Italy."

"Do you have a better idea?" I counter, hugging the terrarium closer. "Because I'm open to suggestions that don't involve spending the rest of my life with my ex-boyfriend as a gastropod."

"She has a point," Marco says. "Florence is only a few hours from Venice by train. If Sarah is indeed there, it would be remiss not to investigate."

Jake runs a hand over the top of his light brown hair, a gesture I've come to recognize as his processing new information move. "It's not like we've found any solid leads here," he admits reluctantly.

"Florence is beautiful this time of year," Luca adds, as if aesthetics are a key consideration in our snail-transformation-reversal quest. "The Uffizi alone is worth the trip. "

"Then it's settled," I declare before anyone can raise more objections. "We go to Florence tomorrow."

Ben throws up his hands in surrender. "Fine. But if Florence is another dead end, I vote we head to Rome next. Might as well do the Italian greatest hits tour while we're at it."

As we gather our things to leave, I approach Mirella, wallet in hand. "What do we owe you? For the séance and... well, the wine damage."

She smiles, taking my free hand between both of hers. Her skin is warm and dry, her bangles cool against my wrist. "No payment," she says, her dark eyes holding mine with unexpected intensity. "But I ask you to promise something, Emma."

I blink, surprised she remembers my name when I don't recall properly introducing myself. "What promise?"

"Listen to what the universe is trying to tell you,” she says, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The answer you seek may not be the one you expect."

Before I can ask what she means, she releases my hand and steps back, the moment broken. "Safe travels to Florence," she adds in her normal voice. "May you find what you truly need there."

Outside, the late afternoon sun hits us like a physical force after the dim interior of Mirella's apartment.

Venice continues its eternal dance around us.

The boats glide through canals, tourists snap photos, and locals navigate the narrow streets with practiced ease.

It all seems startlingly normal after our supernatural interlude.

"Well, that was weird," Ben announces as we pause on a small bridge, regrouping. "Even by our increasingly eccentric standards."

"What do you think she meant?" I ask no one in particular. "About the universe telling me something?"

"Classic cold reading technique," Marco offers. "Vague advice that could apply to virtually any situation, making the recipient feel it's personally significant."

Jake leans against the bridge railing, watching a gondola pass beneath us. "Or maybe she just meant we should keep our eyes open. Not to get too fixated on one solution."

"She meant," Luca says with unexpected seriousness, "that sometimes what we think we want isn't what we actually need." When we all turn to look at him, he shrugs. "My grandmother was like her. Full of cryptic wisdom that turned out to be right more often than not."

"So, Florence," I say, steering us back to practicalities. "How do we get there?"

"Train is fastest," Marco suggests. "I can arrange tickets for tomorrow morning."

"I'll book accommodations," Luca offers. "Somewhere more spacious than our current sardine can, if possible."

"I'll research Sarah online," Ben adds. "See if there are any Florence connections we can follow."

Jake says nothing, but his hand finds the small of my back, a silent gesture of support that speaks volumes.

Standing there on the bridge, Alex's terrarium cradled in my arms, I look at these four very different men who have somehow become integral to my bizarre quest. "Thank you," I say, my voice catching slightly. "All of you."

Their responses vary. Ben offers a casual wink, Marco gives a formal nod, Luca smiles warmly, and Jake gently squeezes my shoulder. The message is the same, though. For better or worse, we're in this together.

Thursday, 9:52PM. The walls of our pensione room are as thin as tissue paper.

Every sound from the neighboring rooms filters through with perfect clarity.

Ben's snoring reverberates through our cramped space like a chainsaw hitting intermittent knots of wood. Jake and I lay on our shared bed, exchanging occasional glances as we both can’t sleep due to the noise.

Alex's terrarium sits on the dresser, his blue shell gleaming in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

"Mirella's face when the wine hit the chalk circle," Jake finally whispers, laughter warming his voice. "I thought she was going to turn us all into snails to match Alex."

I smile, tucking my legs beneath me. "I was more worried about Ben's reaction. Did you hear the string of curses? I think he invented new combinations of swear words on the spot."

"A linguistic innovator," Jake agrees, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "And Luca with his scarf?—"

"Oh god, that scarf." I cover my face with my hands. "Do you know how much those things cost? I looked it up online. I'm going to be paying him back until I'm eighty."

"He doesn't want you to pay him back," Jake says, his tone shifting slightly. Something in his voice makes me lower my hands and really look at him. His eyes are soft in the lamplight, more vulnerable than I'm used to seeing them.

"Still," I say, suddenly aware of how close we are, how intimate this space feels despite the ambient noise around us. "I feel responsible."

Jake leans back against the headboard, his profile outlined by the warm light. "You know what I keep thinking? That this whole thing, Alex as a snail, Venice, Florence, all of it, is completely insane. And yet somehow it feels... right. Being here. With you."

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. I watch as he studies the ceiling, the familiar lines of his face both strange and dear in this unfamiliar setting.

"I know what you mean," I admit quietly. "I never expected any of this, but I can't imagine doing it without you."

His eyes meet mine again, and something electric passes between us. "Even with your growing entourage of Italian admirers?"

I laugh, the sound softer than I intend. "Luca's just being Luca. And Marco's main interest is studying Alex's shell pigmentation."

"And Ben?" Jake asks, an edge of something, not quite jealousy, but close, in his voice.

I think about the hot tub, about Ben's hands and mouth, and feel heat rise to my cheeks. "Ben is... complicated. And American"

Jake nods slowly, accepting this without pushing further. A comfortable silence settles between us, punctuated only by the distant sounds of Venice at night, our neighboring hotel room, and Ben's rhythmic snoring.

Then Jake reaches across the gap between us, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is feather-light but sends electricity dancing across my skin. His hand lingers, warm against my cheek.

"I've wanted to do this for years," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "Touch you like this. Tell you how I feel."

My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild, unsteady rhythm. I should pull away. I should maintain the boundary that's kept our friendship safe for so long. But I don't move, caught in the gravity of his gaze, of his touch, of the years of unspoken feelings suddenly crystallizing between us.

"Jake," I whisper, not sure if it's a question or a warning or a plea.

He leans across the narrow space between us, slow enough that I could pull away if I wanted to.

I don't. His lips find mine, soft and questioning at first, then more certain as I respond.

The kiss deepens, his hand cupping my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

He tastes like toothpaste and the faint sweetness of the wine from earlier, familiar and new all at once.

My hand finds his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, anchoring myself as the world seems to tilt around us. This is Jake, my best friend, my constant, my safe harbor. Kissing him feels like coming home and embarking on a dangerous adventure simultaneously.

The kiss intensifies, years of unspoken feelings pouring into it. Jake’s thumb traces my cheekbone, gentle despite the growing urgency of his mouth on mine. I feel myself responding, leaning closer, the bed creaking beneath my shifted weight.

Then fear flashes through me like lightning, sudden and searing. I pull back, breaking the kiss, my breathing uneven.

"Emma?" Jake's voice is husky, his eyes questioning.

"I can't lose you, Jake," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "You're my best friend. What if this ruins everything?"

His expression softens, understanding replacing confusion. "You're not going to lose me," he says, reaching for my hand. "No matter what happens."

"You don't know that," I insist, the fear in my chest expanding. "What if we try this and it falls apart? What if we can't go back to being friends? I can't—" My voice catches. "I need you in my life. I can't risk that."

Jake starts to respond, his eyes earnest, but I turn away, my gaze falling on Alex's terrarium. "We should sleep," I say, the abrupt subject change clumsy but necessary. "Long day tomorrow. Florence and all that."

I sense Jake's disappointment, but he doesn't push. "Okay," he says simply, squeezing my hand once before letting go. "Goodnight, Emma."

"Goodnight," I echo, retreating to my side of the narrow bed.

Jake's breathing eventually evens out into sleep, but I lie awake, my fingers touching my lips where I can still feel the pressure of his kiss.

What is wrong with me? I've kissed Ben without a second thought, felt attraction to Luca without questioning it, but with Jake—with Jake, everything feels weightier, more consequential.

The stakes are infinitely higher. The others could walk away tomorrow, and it would hurt, but I'd survive.

Losing Jake would be like losing a limb, a vital organ.

In the darkness, Alex's shell gleams faintly blue, a reminder of how one impulsive decision can change everything. I made Alex a snail because I was hurt and angry. What might I do to Jake, to us, if things went wrong?

The thought keeps me awake for a long time, my mind tracing the same circular path, like a snail, leaving a silvery trail of doubt across my heart.