Page 8 of The Slug Crystal

Instead, I suggest a bar.

Jake doesn’t argue. He just pulls into a spot, kills the engine, and says, “You need to eat something that isn’t gas station jerky.”

I don’t disagree, but I have a suspicion this isn’t about food.

It’s about stalling, about not wanting to find a hotel room quite yet, or continue to fill the silence, or the fact that we’re about to drive another six hours in the morning because eight-hour car trips aren’t actually eight hours.

Oh, and I still haven’t figured out how to reverse a curse, or say I’m sorry, or fix any part of my mess.

I grab the terrarium and cradle it against my hip as we cross the lot, the snail inside still blissed out and oblivious.

The bar is called The Spotted Dog, which is either a nod to local wildlife or just a weird choice, generally.

Inside, it smells like fryer oil, cheap beer, and a faint undercurrent of wet dog.

Maybe the name is actually relevant, due to the odor.

The walls are paneled with fake wood, festooned with signs for defunct cigarette brands and two TVs playing the same baseball game on a ten-second delay.

I do a quick threat assessment. Two older men at the end of the bar, one couple in a booth, she’s crying, he’s texting, and a lone man at a high-top, wearing a leather jacket that’s seen more life than I have.

There’s a dartboard in the corner, a battered jukebox, and a bartender who looks like she could bench-press Jake without breaking a sweat.

Jake and I claim a booth near the window, and I set the snail on the table between us, facing outward. Jake slides in opposite me, takes one look at the beer list, and orders from the bartender when she ambles over to our table. “Whatever is cold and comes in a pitcher.”

I say, “Same,” then add, “and can I get a plate of fries, extra crispy, with whatever sauce comes recommended?”

The bartender grins, showing a silver canine tooth. “You want the Devil’s Ranch or the Scream Cheese?”

“Surprise me,” I say, beyond the ability to ask about either of those names and assuming they’re both spicy. Then I lean my forehead against the glass and exhale.

We sit in silence for a minute. Jake fidgets with his napkin, folding it into increasingly elaborate triangles.

I steal glances at him. His jaw is tense, eyes fixed on the snail, as if hoping it will offer advice.

I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid the answer will be, “that you’ve lost your mind, and also my respect. ”

Instead, I look over at the dartboard, which is illuminated by a single, too-bright spotlight, and the man in the leather jacket who has migrated towards it.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, maybe early thirties, with a shock of dark blond hair and a beard that’s more manicured than I expected from a place like this.

He’s playing alone, flicking the darts with mechanical precision, and every so often, he catches my eye with a lazy, self-satisfied smirk.

He’s a lot. I mean, I’ve dated a “lot” before, but this is a different taxonomy. It’s not just the wannabe biker-jacket thing. It’s the way he stands, like he’s waiting for a dare, or a disaster or maybe hoping for both.

Jake follows my gaze. “You want to play him?”

I shrug. “He’s clearly the alpha predator here. I just want to watch him work.”

Jake snorts. “We could probably take him.”

This is how I know Jake is humoring me. He’s seen me try darts. The last time I played, I ricocheted one into a beer tap and almost blinded a stranger.

The beer arrives, cold and foaming, in two pitchers accompanied by two mugs with chilly condensation dripping down the sides.

The fries come in a mound so large it seems like a challenge.

I eat three in quick succession. The burn of the surprise sauce stings my lips, and making me feel a little bit human again.

The man from the dartboard saunters over, carrying his own glass of beer, and slides into the booth beside Jake without invitation.

“You two look like you could use a challenge,” he says, voice pitched for late-night radio.

Up close, his eyes are green, not the light, translucent kind, but the color of grass stains after a ball game that went three hours too long.

His beard has just enough copper in it to appear intentional rather than natural.

I see Jake tense, but the man is all charm. He holds out his hand, and when I hesitate, he grins wider. “Benjamin,” he says. “But everyone calls me Ben. Or, you know, sometimes ‘the guy who hustled them at darts.’”

I take his hand, his grip is warm and dry, and he holds on just a second too long, like he’s testing my pulse through my fingers. “Emma,” I say. “And this is Jake. And that’s, uh?—”

“Your mascot?” he interrupts, gesturing at the snail. “It’s a good luck charm, right?”

I want to laugh. “Something like that.”

Ben’s gaze lingers on the snail, then slides back to me. “You play?”

“I lose, mostly,” I say, but my pride spikes. “But I’ve never been hustled by a man in a bar with this many expired cigarette signs, so maybe tonight’s the night.”

He laughs, deep and genuine, and it fills the booth, warming me to him a little more. His joy pulls me in like a magnet.

Jake interjects, “What’s the buy-in?”

Ben’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Loser buys the next pitcher.”

Jake says, “You’re on,” and I know instantly he is going to regret this. We both are.

We gather at the dartboard, Ben distributing darts like a priest handing out sacraments.

He lets me go first, which is both a flex and a warning.

I plant my feet, inhale, and aim for the twenty, but hit the edge of the board.

The second dart lands in the twelve. The third, miracle of miracles, lands dead in the center of the bullseye.

Ben whistles. “Beginner’s luck,” he says, but I catch the flicker of surprise.

Jake is next. He’s methodical, like everything he does, and lands three solid hits in the double ring. Ben goes last, and his throws are surgical, each one thwacking into the board with the satisfaction of a nail being hammered home as they hit the bullseye, one after another.

The first round is close, but Ben wins by a hair. He raises his glass to me. “Double or nothing?”

Jake says, “Careful, she’s a sore loser,” but I’m already nodding.

We play again, this time best of three. I lose the first, win the second, and the third comes down to the last dart. I wind up, release, and it ricochets off another dart in the center of the board, landing in the carpet with a thud.

Ben claps, triumphant. “You know what, I like you. But I like winning more.”

He gestures for the bartender. “Two more pitchers, please. And a round of shots, on me.”

I grab my beer and nurse it, trying not to sulk. Jake throws an arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “You did great,” he says, and I feel the stupid prickle of tears at the corners of my eyes. I did much better than last time, but I hate losing.

The shots arrive, tequila, because of course, and Ben slides into the booth again, this time sitting directly across from me. We take the shots and talk a bit, with Ben asking some questions about where we’re from and what we’re doing in town. The latter we answer vaguely.

“Alright,” he eventually says, “you ready for the real bet?”

I raise an eyebrow. “There’s a real bet?”

Ben leans in, eyes glinting. “Winner takes your snail. One round. No do-overs.”

I blink. “You want my snail?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most normal request in the world. “It’s a cool snail. Never seen one with a shell like that.”

Jake starts to protest, but I raise a hand. I look at snail Alex. He’s pressed to the side of the terrarium and waving his antennae at the world, blissfully unaware it’s about to become a pawn in a bar game .

“Fine,” I say. “But if I win, you have to tell me why you really want it.”

Ben’s face lights up. “Deal.”

The whole bar is watching now, the old men turning in their stools, the bartender leaning on the counter. The couple in the booth has stopped fighting.

Ben lets me throw first. My hand is shaking from the tequila, but I land two on the board, the third just missing the triple. I step to the side, and Jake’s hand is a warm, steady pressure at my back as he steps close to me to watch. I focus on the sound of his breathing to steady myself.

Ben’s turn. He closes one eye, lines up, and hurls the first dart. Bullseye. The next one, twenty. The third, another bullseye.

I swear under my breath. The bar erupts in applause. Ben bows, exaggerated, then holds out his hand for the terrarium.

I hesitate, looking at Jake. His jaw is set, but his eyes say, It’s okay. I made the bet, I have to follow through.

Returning to our booth, I slide the snail across the table. Ben holds it up to the light, inspecting the shell with a reverence usually reserved for ancient relics or very expensive watches. He looks at me and grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him.”

The game is over. The adrenaline drains out of me, leaving a hollow behind my ribs. I want to ask for the snail back, to make a scene, but the rules are the rules, and I hate breaking them more than I hate losing. I look at Jake, and he nods.

“Let me play you for him,” Jake offers. “If you win again, I’ll give you $100. If I win, I get the snail back.”

Ben taps his chin. “Nah, I think I’ll take the snail.” He stands, tucking the terrarium under his arm, and tips an imaginary hat. “Pleasure doing business, Emma. Jake.”

He walks out into the night, leaving the bar quieter, the air softer.

The bartender brings over the last pitcher, along with a basket of pretzels. “That was the best darts I’ve seen in years,” she says, setting them down with a smile.

I stare at the table, the loss settling in.

Jake nudges my foot under the booth. “You okay?”