Page 37 of The Slug Crystal

We pile back into the rental car, our bodies arranging themselves in the now-familiar configuration.

Marco is driving, Ben is riding shotgun, and I’m sandwiched between Jake and Luca in the back.

The Fiat protests with a wheezing groan as Marco navigates the narrow streets of Siena, the engine straining against the combined weight of five adults and a terrarium.

I clutch Alex's glass home on my lap, one hand pressed against the lid as we bounce over cobblestones.

The blue snail seems to sway with the movement like a sailor accustomed to rough seas, his body languid in what I've come to interpret as contentment, or at least resignation to his fate.

"Assisi is about two hours south," Marco announces, his long fingers adjusting the GPS on his phone. "We should arrive by early afternoon if traffic cooperates."

"Another city, another chance to find a witch," Ben quips from the front seat, his feet propped on the dashboard until Marco swats them down with academic precision.

"This is our best lead yet," Jake says from beside me, his voice steady with the same quiet determination that's carried us through Venice and Florence. "The commune sounds promising."

Luca stretches his arm across the back of the seat, his fingers just brushing my shoulder in a touch that could be accidental but definitely isn't. "If nothing else, Assisi is beautiful. St. Francis and all that. It’s peace, nature, and animals.

" He glances meaningfully at Alex's terrarium.

"Perhaps appropriate for our situation."

The car finally breaks free of Siena's medieval grip, accelerating onto a two-lane road that cuts back through the heart of Tuscany.

The landscape unfolds around us like a dream with perfect rows of cypress trees standing sentinel along the roadside.

It's so achingly beautiful that for a moment I forget our purpose, lost in the timeless perfection of the scene.

"The Etruscans settled this region over 2,800 years ago," Marco explains, his professor voice in full effect as he navigates a curve. "Their agricultural techniques still influence modern Tuscan farming methods."

"Fascinating," Ben drawls, though there's no real bite to his sarcasm. "But more importantly, can we stop for gelato soon? I saw a sign for a place that claims to have won awards."

"We just left Siena," Jake points out, the reasonable voice of the group as always.

"And?" Ben twists in his seat to face us, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Life is short. Gelato is delicious. Do I need to explain the connection?"

Their banter continues, washing over me as I rest my head against the seat, suddenly aware of a faint queasiness in my stomach.

I close my eyes, attributing the feeling to last night's limoncello combined with the winding road.

Marco drives well, but the Tuscan roads twist and turn through the hills like drunken snakes.

The queasiness intensifies with each curve, a rolling discomfort that grows increasingly difficult to ignore. I focus on my breathing, on the steady weight of Alex's terrarium on my lap, on anything but the churning sensation that's rapidly becoming impossible to suppress.

"—need to be strategic about where we search first," Jake is saying, his voice seeming to come from far away. "If this commune is as spiritual as it sounds?—"

"Are you feeling alright?" Luca interrupts, his question directed at me. "You've gone quite pale."

All eyes turn to me, even Marco's in the rearview mirror, and the sudden attention only intensifies the nausea building in my throat. I swallow hard, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.

"I'm fine," I manage, the lie transparent even to my own ears. "Just a little carsick, maybe."

The next curve sends my stomach lurching violently. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and the familiar metallic taste of imminent vomiting floods my mouth. Panic surges through me.

"Pull over," I gasp, my voice strangled and desperate. "Now. Please."

Marco reacts instantly, swerving the car toward the shoulder with a spray of gravel.

I'm fumbling with the door handle before we've fully stopped, thrusting Alex's terrarium at Jake as the car lurches to a halt. The door flies open, and I tumble out over the top of Jake’s lap, barely making it two steps before my body betrays me completely.

I vomit violently into the dusty roadside grass, my entire body heaving with the effort. Tears spring to my eyes, partly from the physical strain and partly from the utter humiliation of the moment. Behind me, I hear the other car doors opening, followed by a chaotic jumble of concerned voices.

"—give her space?—"

"—need water?—"

"—is there a pharmacy nearby?—"

"—where's that bottle?— "

Through the haze of my misery, their panicked reactions would almost be comical if I weren't feeling so thoroughly wretched. I hear hurried footsteps, the sound of bags being rummaged through, and the car trunk opening and closing.

"Here, water!" Ben's voice rises above the others as he frantically waves a bottle, accidentally sloshing half of it onto the ground in his haste.

"Motion sickness is caused by conflicting sensory inputs," Marco announces to no one in particular, carefully placing Alex's terrarium on the dashboard where it catches the sunlight.

"The inner ear detects movement while the eyes perceive stillness, creating a neurological discordance that triggers the vomiting center in the medulla oblongata. "

"Yes, thank you, Professor, very helpful," Luca says, somehow managing to sound both concerned and sardonic. He approaches me with designer sunglasses extended like an offering. "The sun can make it worse. These will help. They're Gucci."

“Thanks,” I mutter, shoving them onto my face.

Their overlapping voices and movements around me create a dizzying spectacle of masculine concern, each expressing it in their own uniquely characteristic way, all talking over each other in their attempts to help.

Only Jake remains calm, kneeling silently beside me.

While the others flutter about, he simply holds my hair back with one hand, his other hand steadying my shoulder.

When the worst has passed, he offers a crisp white handkerchief from Marco—who even carries those anymore? —and the bottle of water from Ben.

"Small sips," he instructs quietly, his steady presence an anchor in the storm of embarrassment and discomfort.

I rinse my mouth first, mortified but grateful. "I'm so sorry," I mutter, unable to meet his eyes or those of the others now hovering uncertainly nearby .

"For what? Being human?" Jake's voice is low, meant only for me. "We've all been there."

"I haven't thrown up in public since college," I confess, finally daring to look up at him. His face shows nothing but genuine concern, no trace of disgust or judgment.

"Sophomore year, Theta Chi party," he says with a small smile. "I held your hair then, too, remember?"

The memory surfaces. Jake guided me away from a raucous frat party and made sure I got back to my dorm safely. Even then, he was my protector, my steady presence when the world spun out of control.

"You've always taken care of me," I say softly as he works. "Even when we were just friends."

His hand pauses, eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "We were never 'just' friends, Emma. Not to me."

The admission hangs between us, honest and vulnerable in a way Jake rarely allows himself to be.

In the distance, I can hear the others arguing about the best route to Assisi to avoid the worst of the twisting roads, their voices carried away by the gentle Tuscan breeze that rustles through the cypress trees lining the roadside.

"I know," I admit, the words feeling like release. "I've always known, I think. I was just afraid."

"Of what?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his hand returning to its task of cleaning my face, though his eyes never leave mine.

"Of ruining what we had. Of losing you." I swallow hard, the truth harder to admit than I expected. "Everyone else in my life has been temporary. You're the only constant."

The handkerchief drops forgotten to his side as his hand moves to cup my cheek, his touch warm against my skin. "I'm not going anywhere, Emma. Not unless you want me to. These other guys,” he says, gesturing in the direction of the car. “They aren’t going to scare me away. ”

In this moment, on a dusty roadside in Tuscany with the taste of sickness still faint in my mouth, Jake has never looked more beautiful to me, his light brown hair ruffled by the breeze, his blue eyes clear and honest, his familiar features arranged in an expression of such open affection that it makes my heart stutter.

"I don't want you to go anywhere," I whisper. "I never have."

He leans forward slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away.

His lips meet mine with gentle pressure, nothing like the urgent passion of Luca's pool kiss or the hesitant exploration of our first kiss in Venice.

This kiss feels like coming home after a long journey, familiar and new simultaneously, grounded in years of friendship but opening into something deeper.

My hand finds his shoulder, anchoring myself as the kiss deepens. He tastes like coffee and certainty, his fingers threading through my hair with careful tenderness. There’s no performance here, no challenge or game. Just Jake and me, finally acknowledging what's been between us for years.

When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, our breathing synchronized in the quiet moment. His thumb traces my cheekbone in a gesture so tender it makes my throat tight with emotion.

"I've wanted to do that again since Venice," he confesses, voice rough around the edges.

"Me too," I admit. "I was just?—"

"What's happening? You puking or making out? Just need to know what I'm walking into." Ben's voice shatters the moment like a stone through glass. His green eyes are dancing with mischief, beard framing a smirk that's equal parts amused and curious.

Jake sighs, pulling back slightly, though his hand remains on my back. "Your timing is impeccable as always, Ben."

"It's a gift," Ben agrees cheerfully .

"Can I get you anything else?" Jake asks, his fingers gentle as they brush a strand of hair from my face.

I shake my head, the worst of the nausea receding, but I still feel shaky and weak. "Just give me a minute."

The others have retreated slightly, giving us space while remaining close enough to help if needed.

Marco examines Alex's terrarium on the dashboard, making adjustments to ensure proper ventilation.

Ben has spread a travel map he bought back in Florence across the hood of the car, apparently for planning alternative routes, and he turns his attention back to the map after ruining our moment.

Luca leans against the car, phone in hand, presumably searching for the nearest pharmacy.

"Maybe we should find a place to rest," Jake suggests, his hand still steady on my back. "Assisi can wait until tomorrow."

"No," I insist, pushing myself to a standing position though my legs feel wobbly. "I'm not delaying because of a little car sickness. Sarah's already weeks ahead of us."

Jake studies my face, clearly weighing my determination against my physical state. "At least let's take a break somewhere comfortable. There must be a town nearby with a café where you can rest properly."

I nod, conceding this much. "But then we continue to Assisi today."

"Stubborn as always," he says, but his tone is affectionate rather than critical.

As we rejoin the others, I notice how they've each found practical ways to help—Marco with a detailed list of remedies for motion sickness, Ben with an alternate scenic route that avoids the worst curves, and Luca with the locations of three pharmacies between here and Assisi.

Their concern wraps around me like a blanket, unexpectedly touching despite the embarrassment of the situation.

"I'm okay," I tell them, forcing a smile. "Let's find somewhere to stop briefly, then continue. We have a witch to track down."

Marco gestures to Alex's terrarium. "Our blue friend seems completely unaffected by all the excitement. Gastropods have no inner ear mechanism to cause motion sickness."

"Lucky snail," I mutter, which earns laughter from all four men, lightening the mood as we prepare to continue our journey.

Marco’s eyes scan over my face, like he’s cataloguing me.

"I look terrible, don't I?" I attempt a weak joke, painfully aware of my sweaty forehead and tear-streaked face.

“Not at all,” Marco disagrees. “But, may I?” He asks, providing another handkerchief and holding it up between us.

When I nod, he gently dabs at my face, cleaning away the traces of sweat from my sickness with such tender care that my chest tightens with an emotion I can't quite name.

His touch is careful, almost reverent. Afterwards, he places his handkerchief back into his pocket and picks up the terrarium, gently offering Alex to me.

I accept the terrarium, examining the blue snail, who is indeed moving about his enclosure with what appears to be complete indifference to the chaos of human emotions swirling around him.

"Thank you," I say simply, knowing the words are inadequate. "All of you."

"Don't thank us yet," Ben says with a grin. "We still have to find your witch and turn your snail boyfriend back into a human. Then things will get really interesting."

I laugh despite myself, clutching Alex's terrarium as we make our way back to the car. The blue snail presses against the glass, as if curious about our destination. "Assisi," I tell him quietly. "And hopefully, Sarah."

As Jake holds the car door open for me, our eyes meet in silent communication, an acknowledgment of what passed between us and a promise of conversations to come. For now, though, the search continues, our strange quintet united in purpose.

"Onward," I say as we settle back into the car, the Tuscan countryside stretching endlessly before us. "Let's find our witch."