Page 47 of The Slug Crystal

Jake winces, his fork pausing midair. Marco adjusts his glasses, a subtle tick that I’ve learned indicates his discomfort.

Luca, ever smooth, just plucks up the bottle of Montepulciano, refilling everyone’s glass, including Ben’s, which was already nearly full.

His smile is easy, disarming, but I can’t shake the thought that behind it lies something sharper, something he’s not yet ready to say.

"Perhaps we should discuss our next steps," Marco suggests, his academic tone strained at the edges. "I've been researching possible locations in Rome where someone with Sarah's specific... talents... might establish herself."

His eyes meet mine across the table, and for an instant, his scientific detachment slips. I see the man beneath the professor, the one who kissed me under the stars in Assisi, whose hands were gentle on my face, whose voice softened when he named constellations in Italian. Heat crawls up my neck.

"Good idea," Jake jumps in, his steady presence an anchor as always. Not just to me, but to the other men as well. "I've been mapping potential crystal shops and alternative healing centers within the city limits." He pulls out his phone, but doesn't unlock it, just holds it like a prop.

Luca twirls pasta around his fork with practiced elegance, though I notice he's barely eating. "My cousin knows people in the Roman nightlife scene. If Sarah's trying to sell her... wares... to a more exclusive clientele, he might have connections."

I nod mechanically, as if we're actually having a normal planning session and not dancing around the elephant stomping through the dining room.

My gaze drifts to Ben, who meets my eyes over the rim of his wineglass.

The corner of his mouth ticks up in that familiar half-smile, but there's a new weight to it, a memory of his lips on mine in the midnight kitchen, his hands on my skin, the taste of wine and want.

"Emma?" Jake's voice pulls me back. "You okay? You haven't touched your food."

"I'm fine," I lie, taking a deliberate bite of pasta that tastes like sawdust in my mouth. "Just thinking about our next move, too."

Luca refills my glass again, even though it's more than half full. His fingers brush mine in the process. The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with static electricity.

"Perhaps we should consider the possibility," Marco begins carefully, setting down his fork, "that Sarah DeMarco does not wish to be found."

"We can't accept that," Jake responds immediately, his protective instinct flaring. "Not while Alex is still..." He gestures toward the terrarium .

"A very stylish snail," Ben finishes, his attempt at lightening the mood falling flat.

Silence descends again, heavy and oppressive.

I take a large swallow of wine, liquid courage burning down my throat.

Luca toys with the stem of his glass, long fingers moving with the same deliberate grace that guided me through our dance in Florence.

Jake watches me with concern etched into the lines around his eyes, the same expression he wore when he held my hair back on the roadside to Assisi.

Marco studies his plate with scientific focus, though I notice his eyes flicking down to my lips when he thinks I'm not looking.

And Ben. Ben just waits. He’s patient beneath his restless facade, exactly as he described himself in the kitchen last night: "waiting for you to notice I've been here all along."

The pressure builds inside me like a shaken bottle of champagne, all the unspoken words, the kisses, the touches, the tension straining against the cork of propriety and reason.

"This is ridiculous," I blurt out, setting down my fork with more force than intended. The clatter against fine china makes everyone jump.

Four pairs of eyes lock onto me, blue, green, hazel, and gray, each holding questions I can no longer dodge.

"We can't keep pretending," I continue, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "This isn't just about finding Sarah anymore. It's about... us. All of us. This weird, impossible thing that's happening."

"Emma—" Jake begins, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"I've kissed all of you," I say, the confession burning my lips. "I'm supposed to be focused on fixing Alex, on undoing my mistake, but instead I'm..." My voice falters, then strengthens with sudden resolve. "I'm kind of... into all of you. Okay? And I don't know what to do about it."

The confession hangs in the air suspended like the crystal chandelier above the table, catching the light and refracting it into patterns I can't predict. My heart hammers against my ribs as I wait for someone, anyone, to say something in response.

After what feels like centuries compressed into seconds, Luca leans back in his chair, the movement deliberately casual, though his eyes are intensely focused. "Took you long enough," he says, raising his glass in a small salute.

Inside me, it’s like the cork pops, pressure releasing in a rush of surprised laughter. Mine is first, then Ben follows, Marco's quieter chuckle joins us, and even Jake offers a reluctant smile.

"Wait," I manage through my nervous laughter, "that's it? 'Took me long enough'?"

"What did you expect?" Ben asks, grinning now. "Outrage? Competition? Duels at dawn?" He gestures around the table. "We've all been circling this particular truth for days now."

"The attraction dynamics have been evident since Venice," Marco confirms, his academic tone belied by the warmth in his eyes. "Multiple intersection points of mutual interest."

Jake sets his napkin down beside his plate, his movements deliberate. "I think what they're trying to say is that we've all noticed. And none of us has walked away."

"So, what now?" I ask, the question smaller and more vulnerable than I intended.

"Now we establish parameters," Marco suggests. "Clear communication, boundaries, expectations."

"We could create a Google Calendar rotation," Ben offers with exaggerated seriousness. "Color-coded blocks for each of us. 'Tuesday, 8 PM: Marco explains constellations while making eyes at Emma.'"

Jake rolls his eyes, but I notice the tension has melted from his shoulders. "This isn't a joke, Ben."

"On the contrary," Luca interjects, refilling glasses with more care than before, "approaching this with humor may be the healthiest response. What we're discussing is... unconventional."

"But not unprecedented," Marco points out. "Polyamorous relationship structures exist across numerous cultures and historical periods."

"Great," Ben says, raising his glass. "We're historically accurate in our madness."

Marco inclines his head as though Ben’s joke were a thesis worth defending. He taps his glass lightly against Ben’s, solemn as ever.

Luca laughs under his breath and lifts his own. “To historically accurate madness, then. May it continue to taste like good wine.”

Jake hesitates, his glass hovering just shy of the circle. His blue eyes flick to mine, searching, questioning—then he exhales and joins in, the rim of his glass chiming against the others. Four pairs of eyes turn to me.

My fingers curl around the stem of my glass, heart hammering. I lift it and push it towards theirs. The glasses meet in the center of the table with a crystalline chorus, red wine trembling in each goblet. For a moment, the tension softens, laughter and warmth spilling in to fill the cracks.

We talk late into the night, the conversation flowing more easily now that the truth has been acknowledged.

We don’t delve into the rules and parameters quite yet, sticking to lighter topics.

We share jokes and stories, and the suffocating tension has transmuted into something more manageable, at least for me.

Later, I retreat to my room alone, despite offers of company that range from Luca's suggestive eyebrow raise to Jake's earnest "if you want to talk more."

But I don’t. I need space to process, to breathe, to think.

I sit on the edge of my bed, watching Alex navigate his glass world on my dresser. His blue shell catches the moonlight filtering through the curtains, his movements unhurried and purposeful.

"What am I doing, Alex?" I whisper to the snail who was once a man I dated. "Is this crazy? Wrong?”

Alex continues his slow exploration of his terrarium, offering no judgment, no answers.

What I've gotten myself into, I have no idea. But for the first time since Alex became a snail, I'm excited for tomorrow.