Page 66 of The Slug Crystal

Jake approaches with a soft, cream-colored blanket draped over his arms. His eyes hold that particular look I've come to recognize. It’s a gentle but determined expression, as if my comfort is a mission he's personally responsible for ensuring.

"You looked cold," he says, though the Italian summer heat makes this patently untrue. He unfolds the blanket with precise motions and lays it carefully across my knees, his fingertips brushing my legs through the fabric. The weight of it is somehow comforting despite the warmth.

"Thanks," I murmur, pulling the edges around me like armor against my own despair.

All of us are tiptoeing around the topic of Bali. I know we need to discuss what’s next, if anything, as a group, but I’m just… not ready yet .

Marco circles the couch, arms laden with an assortment of pillows collected from various bedrooms. His forehead creases with concentration as he assesses the space around me.

"The proper arrangement of cushions can significantly affect both physical comfort and psychological well-being," he explains, placing pillows with scholarly precision on either side of me.

"I'm creating what might be termed a 'comfort fortress'. It’s a semi-enclosed space that produces feelings of security while maintaining optimal lumbar support. "

Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch. "Is there research on comfort fortresses, Professor?"

"Extensive," he replies seriously, though a spark in his eyes betrays his attempt at lightening my mood. "Though my current methodology is admittedly more intuitive than empirical."

Ben emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with olives, cheese, and sliced bread. He sets it on the coffee table with a flourish, then immediately plucks three olives from the bowl.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, adopting the tone of a circus ringmaster, "prepare to be amazed by talents that have impressed dozens, okay, well, maybe half-dozens, of bar patrons across two continents."

His choice of food on the platter brings memories of last night, and with them a rush of heat to my cheeks. Marco catches my eye and winks, making my flush burn hotter.

Ben seems oblivious as he tosses the olives into the air one by one, catching them in a rhythm that would be impressive if his hand-eye coordination were slightly better.

One olive veers off course, threatening to land directly in Alex's terrarium.

Jake lunges forward, snatching it from the air inches above the glass top.

"Maybe juggle something less likely to traumatize our snail friend," Jake suggests, flicking the olive back to Ben, who catches it in his mouth with surprising dexterity.

"Everyone's a critic," Ben sighs dramatically, dropping onto the couch beside me. His shoulder presses against mine, warm and solid. "For my next trick, I'll need a volunteer and possibly some life insurance."

Luca appears with an open bottle of wine and five glasses balanced expertly between his fingers.

He sets them on the coffee table and pours with the practiced flourish of someone who's worked in hospitality or simply enjoys showing off.

With Luca, it's impossible to tell which, but is more than likely the second.

"A toast," he declares, distributing glasses with elegant efficiency.

He raises his own, the ruby liquid catching the light.

"To Alex Petersen. He is officially the most well-traveled snail in Italy.

May his shell stay blue, his lettuce stay fresh, and his next transformation involve considerably less mucus. "

A laugh escapes me. It’s hollow and slightly rusty from disuse, but genuine. "That's terrible," I tell him, accepting the glass he offers.

"Yet you're smiling," he points out, his gray eyes dancing with satisfaction.

A sudden buzzing interrupts my response, the vibration against my hip so unexpected I nearly jump.

My phone. I'd forgotten I even had it on me, had been leaving it disconnected from service to avoid international charges, connecting only occasionally to WiFi, but most of the time that didn’t even work.

I’d gotten so used to it not working, I barely checked it anymore.

The screen lights up with Alina's face, her wide smile, and blonde hair filling the glass surface. A FaceTime call. I scramble to answer, nearly knocking over the wine glass Luca just filled as I sit up straight.

"Careful!" Jake steadies the glass as I fumble with my phone, my fingers suddenly clumsy with urgency .

"It's Alina," I explain unnecessarily as her name scrolls along the screen. My thumb finally slides across the screen to accept the call.

The men exchange curious glances, shifting closer as if magnetically drawn to this connection from my world outside this adventure.

"Is that your roommate?" Ben asks, peering over my shoulder at the connecting call.

"Best friend," I correct automatically, my heart racing with unexpected emotion. How long has it been since I spoke to someone who isn't in this room? Someone who I wasn’t connected to because of magical crystals and snail transformations?

The call connects, the little buffering wheel disappearing to reveal Alina's face filling my screen.

Her blue eyes are wide with urgency, her expression tight with something that looks unsettlingly like panic.

She's hunched forward, her voice coming through in a hushed whisper that immediately puts me on edge.

"Emma! I've been trying to reach you for forty-five minutes!"

"I'm so sorry," I stammer, adjusting my position so the Villa's WiFi signal doesn't drop. "My phone isn't connected to cell service. I only catch WiFi when I'm at the Villa, but it’s sporadic."

Alina's eyes dart nervously around whatever space she's in, and I suddenly realize I haven't even asked where she is or why she looks so frantic. The guys crowd around me, their bodies creating a warm semicircle of curiosity. "Is everything okay?" I ask. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Who are all these men?" Alina whispers, her eyes widening as she takes in the crowded faces around me. "Where exactly are you? Your last text just said 'Italy' with a pasta emoji."

"It's... complicated," I begin, suddenly aware of how impossible it will be to explain everything. Venice, Florence, Milan, the men, all our traveling. It’s so much that I’m not sure where to start. “We’ve been trying to fix Alex?—"

"Em, that's exactly why I'm calling," Alina cuts me off, her voice dropping even lower. She glances furtively over her shoulder. "You'll never believe who I just saw."

My heart stutters in my chest. Something in her tone, in the way her eyes keep darting around, sends a chill down my spine despite the villa's warmth.

"Who?" I ask, though a strange premonition is already forming, an impossible thought I immediately try to dismiss.

"Hold on," Alina whispers. "Let me show you."

The image on my phone blurs as she flips the camera. For a moment, all I see is motion and fragments of images, bits of the ceiling of what appears to be a coffee shop, a hanging plant, and then the edge of a chalkboard menu. Finally, the image stabilizes, and my entire world tilts sideways.

There, leaning against the counter with one elbow propped casually on the surface, stands Alex.

Human Alex. Not snail Alex. My ex-boyfriend, with his familiar dark hair slightly too long at the collar, the same smirk that used to make my heart race, wearing the gray henley I bought him last Christmas.

He's leaning toward a barista in a rosy apron, his body language screaming flirtation even from this distance.

I can't breathe. My lungs have forgotten their purpose.

My brain stalls on an impossible contradiction.

My eyes flick from the phone screen to the terrarium on the coffee table, where blue-shelled Alex continues his leisurely exploration of lettuce, completely oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding above him.

"Emma? Are you still there?" Alina's voice comes through as she flips the camera back to her face. "That's him, right? That's definitely Alex? "

"That's..." My voice fails me. I swallow hard and try again. "That's Alex. Where are you right now?"

"Cornerstone Coffee. You know, the one near our apartment?

" She angles the phone slightly so I can see the familiar exposed brick wall behind her.

"I came in for my usual and nearly dropped my latte when I saw him.

He's been here for like twenty minutes, totally hitting on that new barista, Maddie. "

The men around me have gone completely still, a tableau of frozen confusion. I feel Jake's hand tighten on my shoulder, hear Marco's soft intake of breath. Ben leans closer to the screen, his eyes narrowed as if expecting a trick or illusion.

"Show him again," Luca requests, his voice tight with controlled tension. He’s never even seen human Alex, so I’m not sure why he needs another look.

Alina complies without question, flipping the camera once more.

This time, I force myself to look more analytically, searching for any detail that might prove this isn't really Alex. Like maybe he’s a doppelg?nger or a mirage.

Literally anything that would make sense of the impossible scenario before me.

But it's him.

The way he stands with his weight shifted to one hip.

The specific gesture he makes when emphasizing a point, right hand cutting through the air.

Even the scar on his cheek from a childhood accident.

It's Alex Peterson, completely, unmistakably human, standing in our local coffee shop thousands of miles from the blue snail in the terrarium in the Villa’s living room.

"Has he... has he been around? Back home?" I manage to ask when Alina returns to the screen. Then I grab my wine glass and take a huge gulp.