Page 6 of The Slug Crystal

I nod. Then, he offers me his hand, steady and warm, and together we start to plan. Despite wanting to leave immediately, we decide to wait until the next morning, so Jake can head home and pack a bag.

After saying our goodbyes, I head to the couch, setting Alex on the coffee table and turning on Twilight for comfort.

Sunday, 6:04AM. The sunrise over my apartment parking lot looks exactly like an inspirational desktop wallpaper, except for the litter and the hungover guy in pajamas two cars down, leaning against his car and flicking cigarette ash onto the tops of his slippers.

I’m squinting into the light, hoodie zipped to my chin, butt resting on the seat at an angle as I tap on the paneling of the open passenger door of Jake’s dark blue Ford F-150.

The inside smells like pine-scented wipes and the ghost of a protein bar he’s recently demolished.

Jake stands at the rear bumper, trying to wedge his duffel bag into the covered bed between a spare tire and a crate full of what looks like…

emergency snacks? Eventually, he gives up and just tosses it on top of everything else.

It lands with a thud, and I cringe, hoping there isn’t anything breakable inside.

He rounds the truck, pauses, and then pops the back door of the cab to check on the real VIP. Snail Alex.

Our Alex is safely enclosed inside his portable terrarium, the whole thing burrito-wrapped in two layers of bubble wrap, per Jake’s insistence, and locked into place with a seatbelt.

"Mollusks are like eggs with consciousness. Breakable and they should be protected," he says, while checking on the terrarium. I’m pretty sure it’s a phrase he stole from Reddit.

The snail is dormant, clamped down to the fake log, which seems like a metaphor for this whole trip .

Alina’s text from ten minutes ago glows on my lock screen: knock em dead. get receipts. if you die i want the truck.

Laughing, I type out a quick reply of agreement, then twist fully into my seat and close the door behind me. Jake hops in next and starts the engine, leaving the parking lot and entering the light early morning traffic heading out of the city.

By the time we hit Route 95, the city is a rearview fantasy, and my thigh is buzzing from the heat of the sun and the nervous energy coiled in my bloodstream. I stare out the window at the zipper of the highway, counting the miles on the mile markers with a hysterical kind of focus.

The terrarium now sits on the console between us, still swaddled in bubble wrap and an old towel, while Alex-the-snail clings to the glass side with the dogged tenacity of a motivational poster.

He moved from his backseat position about twenty minutes into the drive, after I started to worry that he felt left out.

Jake drives like he runs. He’s efficient, patient, but always a little faster than strictly necessary.

There’s a soft playlist coming through the speakers, something acoustic and generically angsty, but the real music is in the way he drums his fingers on the wheel and hums tunelessly during the instrumental breaks.

He’s been quiet for most of the last hour, letting me process or maybe just letting himself process. I know his mind is spinning. He never does anything on a whim, especially not road trips involving supernatural liability and the risk of getting murdered by a stranger named Sarah Demarco.

At the next rest stop, Jake pulls over for gas and snacks.

He disappears into the minimart, and I’m left with the snail and my own self-doubt.

I poke at my phone, rereading Alina’s latest texts.

Current count: nine, most of them variations on don’t die and remember sunscreen, the UV index is insane today.

I scroll through my emails for a reply from Sarah, but there’s nothing except a new message from Snail World. Your Weekly Gastropod Fact: Some snails can sleep for three years straight!

I sigh. “Lucky bastards,” I tell the terrarium, watching Alex lay on or eat a piece of lettuce. It isn’t clear which.

Jake returns with two bottles of cold brew and a crinkly bag of protein bars. He hands me one of each, then buckles in and glances over with a look that says he’s trying to read my mind but is too polite to ask.

I rip open the bar and take a dramatic bite. “Did you know snails can sleep for three years?”

Jake looks at the snail, then at me. “I wish I could sleep for three hours.”

“Didn’t you just set a personal best on your nap app last week?”

He smirks. “You read my Strava?”

I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. “I know this is a joke because Strava doesn’t track naps.

Also, you literally made me sign up so I could follow you, even though I don’t understand why.

Everyone else who actually runs already follows you.

You’re marked as a local legend in almost every neighborhood of Boston.

You’re the LeBron James of cardio flexing. ”

He mock bows, one hand over his heart. “Thank you, thank you. Please direct all future compliments to my agent.”

I laugh, and the air in the cab lightens, just a little.

We merge back onto the highway. After a few minutes, I ask, “Do you ever think about how weird it is, the way people try to fix things?”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “You mean, like, with spells?”

“Or, like, with anything. My mom has a home remedy for every problem—cold sores, heartbreak, car trouble. She swears by duct tape for all three.”

He chuckles. “Your mom is kind of a badass.”

“Yeah, well, she still thinks I’m an intern. I can’t bring myself to tell her I quit the law office and am now working for minimum wage at event planning gigs.”

He considers this. “You could always tell her you’re an entrepreneur. Technically, you did start a small business in the last forty-eight hours.”

“What, cursing my enemies?”

He nods solemnly. “It’s a growth industry.”

I snort, then fall silent. Outside, the trees are a blur of summer green, the kind that only looks alive when you’re speeding past. I glance at Jake’s hands on the wheel, the little white scar over his knuckle, the way he taps out rhythms only he can hear.

My brain runs a catalog of questions, most of them inappropriate. Instead, I say, “Okay, random questions. Go.”

Jake doesn’t hesitate. “What dinosaur would you be?”

“Triceratops. No contest.”

“Favorite food?”

“Spicy ramen with the soft-boiled egg and extra scallions.”

He grins. “No, it’s not. You love that pizza from Gio’s. You tell everyone how you would die for that pizza. That is definitely your favorite.”

“Hmm, you’re right,” I agree. “Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?”

Jake laughs. “Are there many things we don’t know about each other at this point? It’s been like ten years.”

He has a point. “Fine.”

“If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

I have to think about that one. “Telepathy. Or teleportation. Maybe both? Imagine being able to know if someone is lying, then immediately leave the room.”

He laughs. “You’d use it to ghost people faster? ”

“Obviously. Your turn.”

He considers. “Definitely teleportation. I would never have to commute again. If you could be any cartoon character, who’d you pick?”

I lean back and think. “Probably Daria. Or maybe Kim Possible.”

Jake: “You’re way too cheerful for Daria.”

“Only on the outside,” I admit. “And you?”

He grins, all teeth. “Johnny Bravo.”

I burst out laughing, nearly choke on the protein bar. “You are not Johnny Bravo.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have more substance than hair gel. And you actually respect women.”

He shrugs, eyes on the road, but there’s a faint pink at his ears. “I grew up with sisters. They didn’t give me a choice.”

"I love your sisters," I respond.

"My entire family loves you back," he says.

I don’t know if it’s the caffeine or the sleep deprivation, but suddenly my heart is pounding louder than the engine. It kind of feels like that was Jake telling me he loves me. The moment teeters on the edge of something more, and I panic.

For a second, I force myself to take a deep breath and focus on the rhythm of the drive: the sun burning my bare arm, the clatter of empty bottles in the footwell, the rare, quiet comfort of being trapped in a moving box with someone who sees through my bullshit but never calls me on it in a way that tears me down.

Then I realize of, course, Jake loves me, but like a friend.

I glance at the snail. “What do you think, Alex? Who’s your spirit animal?”

Jake answers for him, voice low, “Garfield, probably. He just wants to nap and be left alone.”

I watch Jake’s profile, his concentration, the way he checks the mirrors twice before every lane change, and I’m hyper- aware of how close we are, how the console between us feels too narrow for my sudden, unsure feelings and too wide for my courage.

I pull back, hug my knees, and remember the mission.

This is a rescue op. Jake is my friend. Jake is my best friend. Jake is my?—

He glances over, catches me staring, and for a heartbeat, I think he knows about the turmoil his words have caused, and he’s going to fix it. Clarify it. Instead, he just smiles and asks, “What’s your move if she’s a total scammer?”

I exhale. “We eat our weight in gas station gummies and never speak of it again.”

“Deal.”

We drive north, into the sharp blue of the sky, and even though the future is an absolute mess, I force myself to believe, at least a little, that we can fix this.

Or at the very least, we can survive it together.

Jake is one of my oldest friends. I’ve known him for over ten years, and he’s been there for me through numerous breakups, heartaches, drunk nights, and bad jobs.

He knows when to put his feelings on the back burner and when to listen to mine.

I know if anyone can help me through this, it’s him.