Page 71 of The Slug Crystal

"Listen to this," Ben says, clearing his throat with theatrical emphasis.

He lowers his voice to what he calls his "audiobook narrator" tone, which is really just his regular voice with more gravitas.

"Emma stared at the terrarium with mounting horror as realization dawned.

She hadn't just purchased a crystal with magical properties.

She'd accidentally subscribed to the worst transformation service in history.

One star, would not recommend turning your ex-boyfriend into a gastropod, no matter how satisfying the initial shell shock. "

I groan at the pun, but can't help the laugh that follows. "The shell shock line stays, but we need to cut the subscription service joke. It's anachronistic to the rest of the chapter."

"It's funny," Ben protests, though he's already making a note in the margin. "Everyone gets subscription jokes. Very relatable content."

"And very 2023," I counter, leaning over to tap a paragraph further down the page. "This part where I'm crying in the Venice hotel room, needs to be more raw, less quippy. We can't undercut every emotional moment with humor."

"Disagree. Undercutting emotional moments with humor is literally my entire personality." Ben chews on his pen cap, leaving teeth marks that match all the others. "But fine, I'll dial it back. Slightly."

Marco looks up from his laptop at the small desk we've wedged into the corner of the dining room. It’s his designated workspace until the office Jake is working on is completed.

We discovered early on that he can't concentrate in his university office because, in his words, "the undergraduate chatter creates a cognitive dissonance that's incompatible with scientific thought.

" Or, as Ben translated: "Kids these days are too damn loud. "

"I've been researching gastropod reproductive cycles," Marco announces, adjusting his glasses. "I've prepared extensive footnotes for Chapter Nine when you reveal the baby snails. The reproductive capabilities of?—"

"We're not including gastropod porn in our memoir," Ben interrupts, brandishing his pen like a sword. "This isn't National Geographic."

"It's not pornographic, it's scientific," Marco argues. "And considering the central metaphor of your narrative hinges on a reproductive?—"

"The central metaphor of our narrative," I cut in before they can really get going on this familiar argument, "is about transformation and unexpected connections. The snail babies are a plot point, not a biology lesson."

Marco sighs with scholarly resignation. "At least consider a brief appendix. The scientific accuracy would lend credibility to an otherwise fantastical account."

"We'll discuss it during revisions," I promise, which is our code for that’s probably not happening, but I don't want to argue about it now.

Marco recognizes the deflection but accepts it with a nod, returning to his research with only minor muttering about "missed educational opportunities." Which I pretend not to hear. Pick your battles and all that.

Luca sweeps in from the kitchen, lurking until it’s time to head out for his flight after a few delays from his client. "Word count?" he asks, peering over my shoulder at the manuscript. "We're still on schedule for completion before Bali, yes? Two weeks, four days, approximately?"

"Give or take," I hedge, exchanging a quick glance with Ben.

We're actually ahead of schedule, but we've learned not to tell Luca exactly how far along we are.

His uncanny desire to plan trips for all of us to spend time together means he'll immediately compress all deadlines if given the opportunity.

"Perfect," Luca declares, scrolling through something on his tablet.

"Because I've been looking at retreats in Ubud.

Private villa, infinity pool overlooking the rice terraces, personal chef.

Very conducive to creative breakthroughs for thinking about your next book.

Or adding a last chapter to bring this one full circle.

" He flashes the screen toward us, showing a stunning property that makes my fingers itch to pack immediately.

"We haven't even found this Sarah woman yet," Ben points out. "Bit premature to book the victory lap and write her in already, isn't it?"

"We will find her," Luca replies with his trademark confidence. "My contacts in Bali have narrowed down three possible retreat centers matching the description from the candle shop woman. And regardless, the writing retreat stands. You need a proper atmosphere for your conclusion."

Before I can respond, Jake appears silently at my elbow, replacing my empty coffee mug with a fresh one, steam rising from the perfect caramel-colored surface.

I hadn't even realized I'd finished the last cup.

He moves around the table, refilling Ben's mug, placing a fresh cup at Marco's elbow, and setting Luca's favorite espresso cup on the sideboard within his reach.

"Thanks," I murmur, catching Jake's hand briefly as he passes. His fingers squeeze mine in acknowledgment, warm and solid.

"The chapter where Emma realizes it's not actually Alex," Ben says, flipping back through earlier pages. "We're still missing something there. It needs more emotional punch."

"It needs truth," Jake suggests quietly, pausing behind my chair. "How it actually felt in that moment."

I look up at him, remembering how he steadied me when that revelation hit, how all of them had been there, witnessing my world tilt sideways. "It felt like everything was a lie," I admit. "But also... like a door opening instead of closing."

Ben's pen hovers over the page. "That. Write exactly that."

This is how we work, each bringing something essential to the process.

Ben crafts the humor that makes the absurdity digestible, his sarcasm masking the genuine emotion beneath.

I provide the raw truth of the experience, the heart beneath the strange circumstances.

Marco contributes unexpected insights, seeing patterns and connections the rest of us miss.

Luca keeps us organized and moving forward, always planning the next step before we've completed the current one.

And Jake, Jake grounds us, his quiet presence and practical observations cutting through when we get too tangled in words or metaphors.

The manuscript sprawls between us, chaotic but taking shape, much like our relationship.

It’s improbable, unconventional, sometimes messy, but working in ways I never could have predicted.

What started as a bizarre misunderstanding with a blue snail has become a story worth telling, a life worth living.

"Read the next part," I urge Ben, reaching for a red pen to attack the paragraph he's just finished. "The part where we discover the snail babies. "

Ben grins, flipping to the next page with dramatic flair. "Chapter Nine: 'How to Become a Grandmother to Fifty Blue Gastropods Without Really Trying.'"

Marco makes a small noise of scholarly distress at the title, but his eyes are smiling behind his glasses.

Luca leans against the sideboard, sipping his espresso while scrolling through Balinese villa options.

Jake settles into the chair beside me, his knee brushing mine under the table as Ben begins to read, bringing our strange story to life one perfectly imperfect page at a time.

A few hours later, I close my laptop with a satisfied click, hunching my shoulders in that particular way that makes Jake instinctively reach for a blanket even when I'm not cold.

The morning has stretched toward noon, sunlight shifting from pale yellow to vibrant gold as it streams through the dining room windows.

My coffee has gone cold again, but I finish it anyway, savoring the last bitter-sweet dregs along with the pleasant ache in my fingers from hours of typing.

There's something magical about reaching the end of a chapter, both on the page and in life, that moment when all the messy pieces suddenly align into something that makes perfect sense.

"Did you finish?" Marco asks, glancing up from his research notes. He's been so quiet for the last hour that I'd almost forgotten he was still at the small desk in the corner, surrounded by academic journals and his own meticulous handwriting.

"Almost," I say, setting my empty mug aside. "Just need the final line."

Ben looks up from where he's sprawled across the couch, manuscript pages balanced on his chest. "Please tell me it's not something sentimental about how the real treasure was the friends we made along the way."

"Your publisher specifically requested we avoid that particular cliché," Luca reminds him without looking up from his tablet. He's moved to the armchair by the window, legs crossed at the ankle, sunlight highlighting his gray eyes in a way that still makes my breath catch sometimes.

Jake emerges from the kitchen, dish towel slung over his shoulder. "I liked the line about the unexpected journey," he offers, his quiet voice carrying easily in our shared space.

I reopen my laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I consider.

We've been stuck on this ending for days, trying to find the perfect note to close the chapter about our return to Boston.

Something that captures both the humor and the heart of our story without being too precious or too crude.

The pressure of four pairs of eyes watching expectantly doesn't help.

But then it comes to me, sudden and perfect. My fingers fly across the keys, a smile spreading across my face before I've even finished typing.

"Got it," I announce, turning the laptop slightly so the screen catches less glare. "The perfect ending to Chapter Twelve: 'Turns out the real revenge isn't turning your ex into a snail. It's moving on. And maybe getting railed in Italy by four of the hottest men you've ever seen.'"