Page 56 of The Slug Crystal
"Honesty," Luca repeats, testing the word. "I can do that. I honestly think what happened last night should happen again." His grin is shameless, but there's genuine warmth beneath the bravado.
Jake rolls his eyes, but I notice the tension has left his shoulders. "I honestly think Luca should stop talking," he says, but there's no real heat in it.
"I honestly believe this arrangement, while unconventional, could be managed with clear communication," Marco offers, sliding his glasses back onto his nose.
"If everyone commits to transparency and to leaving feelings at the door when things don’t go exactly the way they hoped. Like last night, for example."
Ben slips his phone back into his pocket, his expression shifting to something more genuine than his usual mask. "I honestly think we're all insane," he says, "but I'm in. What happens if one of us feels left out?"
“Then you tell me, and we fix it,” I say firmly.
“During our last conversation, we did not completely discuss all the elements of this relationship. We did not establish parameters or boundaries. Should we finish discussing those now?” Marco asks, naturally taking over the role of guiding the conversation.
The question lands heavy, and I feel heat crawl up my neck.
Part of me wants to wave it off; to leave things undefined so no one gets the chance to change their mind.
But another part, one I’m not entirely proud of, feels aroused by the idea of a discussion about…
sharing me. Heat curls low in my stomach at the thought of rules.
Of being shared, claimed in turns, chosen openly.
My pulse jumps at the images that co me unbidden, and I have to shift on the couch, hoping none of them notice.
“Fine,” Ben says first, leaning forward, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Rule number one: none of you freaks are allowed to touch me. I mean, when I’m naked, no one else is allowed to touch me but Emma.”
Jake barks out a laugh before I can even react. “Don’t worry, Ben. No one else wants to touch you.”
Ben narrows his eyes but doesn’t argue, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin.
Marco clears his throat, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “I propose something more practical. I want to ensure I have time alone with Emma. But equally important, I think we continue spending time as a group. That balance is beneficial. For her, and for all of us.”
I nod quickly, grateful for his measured tone, even as my heart stutters at the idea of being wanted by all of these men.
Everyone murmurs agreement until Jake, still bristling faintly, leans forward. “And what about cancelling group plans? Like dinner, for instance.” His eyes slide pointedly to Luca. “What happens when someone decides a solo night is more important than sharing and thinking of the group?”
The silence is sharp. Luca’s grin falters, his bravado dimming as he runs a hand through his hair. “That was my fault.” He glances at me, then back at the others. “I’m sorry.”
“It was my fault too,” I disagree. “We shouldn’t have ditched the group. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry too.”
Marco rescues him and me with a calm suggestion.
“Perhaps we establish set evenings a few times a week for group dinners. Attendance is non-negotiable. Outside of that, Emma chooses where her time goes. If she has a date with one of us, she does not cancel for another. However, she may ask if it is acceptable for someone else to join. The choice remains hers, but the respect remains ours. ”
“No one owns anyone,” Luca adds, voice quieter now, almost sincere.
“But we respect each other,” Ben echoes, nodding.
One by one, they all agree. The tension in the air loosens, as if someone has finally opened a window in a stifling hot room.
Luca uncrosses his legs, leaning back in his chair with a more natural ease.
Marco's scholarly stiffness softens slightly, his posture less rigid.
Jake moves to sit on the other end of the couch, close enough to be present but not crowding me.
Ben slides from the arm of the couch to the cushion beside me, the previously rigid set of his shoulders replaced by a more relaxed slouch.
"I found a restaurant while I was looking for leads yesterday," Jake says, changing the subject with obvious relief. "Supposed to be the best pasta in Milan. We could try it late this afternoon?" His eyes meet mine, then move naturally to include the others. "All of us."
"I'm starving," Ben declares, patting his stomach dramatically. "Nearly dying of turbulence yesterday really works up an appetite."
"You were not 'nearly dying,'" Luca protests, though a smile plays at his lips. "It was barely a summer storm."
"Says the man who was in control of the entire thing and could see things we couldn’t. The rest of us were white-knuckling our armrests and making peace with our maker," Ben retorts.
As they bicker good-naturedly, I glance down at Alex's terrarium. He’s paused antennae extended as if listening to our conversation. "What do you think?" I whisper to him, too softly for the others to hear over their debate about the severity of yesterday's turbulence. "Is this crazy?"
Alex offers no answer, resuming his journey to nearby lettuce. Maybe that's enough of an answer. Just keep moving forward, one small step at a time, through whatever strange terrain we find ourselves traversing. Together .
Thursday, 4:14PM. The restaurant Jake has chosen is tucked away on a narrow street, its entrance marked only by a small brass plaque and the warm glow spilling from the frosted windows in the fading sunlight.
Inside, white tablecloths catch the light from flickering candles, creating islands of intimacy in the dimly lit space.
Bottles of wine already sit uncorked on our table, breathing in anticipation of our meal.
I settle into my chair, with Luca pushing me towards the table, then carefully placing Alex's terrarium near the center. I try to ignore the curious glances from nearby diners as they notice the blue snail amongst our wine glasses and bread baskets.
"Jake, this place is beautiful," I say, glancing around at the aged brick walls hung with black and white photographs of old Milan.
Soft Italian music plays just loud enough to create privacy without drowning conversation.
It's the kind of restaurant where couples lean close over shared desserts, where proposals happen, and anniversaries are celebrated.
The feeling of special moments just lingers in the air here.
The irony isn't lost on me that I'm here with four men and my ex-boyfriend-turned-snail.
"The reviews said it's been family-owned for three generations," Jake replies, looking pleased with himself. "The grandfather still makes the pasta every morning."
Alex has emerged from his shell, edging towards the walls of his glass enclosure as if he can smell the garlic and basil perfuming the air.
Our waiter approaches, a slender man with mostly gray hair and an elegant posture that suggests decades of navigating between crowded tables. His professional smile falters briefly as he notices the terrarium.
"Buonasera," he greets us, recovering quickly. "May I tell you about our specials this evening? "
We nod, and he launches into a practiced recitation of dishes that makes my mouth water despite the knot of anxiety that's been lingering in my stomach all day.
When he finishes, Ben is the first to order, followed by Marco's precise requests and Luca's rapid-fire Italian, that makes the waiter smile with appreciation.
When it's my turn, I select a linguine that sounds divine. I hesitate, then add, "And could we have a small plate of fresh lettuce? For..." I gesture toward the terrarium, feeling my cheeks warm. "For the snail."
The waiter's professional mask slips again, eyebrows rising toward his hairline. "For... il lumaca?" he asks, clearly wondering if his English has failed him.
"Yes," I confirm, fighting the urge to explain further. How would I even begin? You see, my ex-boyfriend was transformed by a magic crystal, and now we're carrying him around Italy while searching for the woman who sold it to me.
"Of course, signora," he says after a pause, making a note that probably reads "crazy tourists" in waiter shorthand. "Right away."
As he walks away, I catch Ben's eye across the table. He mimics the waiter's expression of polite confusion, and I can't help laughing. For a moment, we're just five friends, or maybe lovers now, I guess, sharing a hopefully delicious meal.
The food arrives in stages. First antipasti to share, then primi of handmade pasta, and secondi of meat and fish.
As our dishes arrive at the table, steam rises off the food, washing our table in decadent smells.
The lettuce for Alex comes on a small side plate, arranged with surprising care, as if the kitchen staff decided to embrace our eccentricity rather than question it.
I place a few leaves in Alex's terrarium, watching as he immediately approaches the offering.
"At least someone's enjoying their meal," Luca comments, pointing his fork at Alex after noticing my barely touched pasta.
I force a smile, twirling strands of linguine around my fork without bringing it to my lips.
“This is delicious,” I murmur, forcing the pasta to my lips.
I’m torn between enjoying the wonderful blessing of these men and dwelling in the guilt of my past decisions.
A stage I seem to waffle between constantly, as of late.