Page 9 of The Slug Crystal

I force a smile, not wanting to talk about Alex in the bar. I don’t want to get kicked out if anyone overhears and decides I’m a psychopath. “It’s just a snail.”

But it isn’t, and we both know it. That bet was so stupid, and I don’t know why I let Ben goad me into it.

We finish the pitcher in silence, and my mind is reeling. I’ve fucked up so bad, and I don’t know how to fix it. When we leave, the parking lot is empty besides our truck. The Prius and the other cars are gone. Jake walks close beside me, not touching, but there.

I look up at the night sky, at the swirl of stars, and wonder if snail Alex is out there somewhere, plotting revenge.

Sunday, 6:42 PM. I don’t remember walking back into the bar. One second, I’m in the parking lot, Jake’s hand a ghost on my shoulder, the next I’m standing at the counter, the bartender’s silver tooth glinting at me through the haze of smoky, dim bar lighting.

“Hey,” I say, voice thin as tissue paper. “That guy. Ben. The one who won my snail.”

She raises an eyebrow, wiping at the same patch of counter she’s been working since we walked in. The entire surface is sticky and grimy, and the rag is so dirty the color has been stained a permanent dingy gray, so I’m not quite sure why she’s pretending to clean. “Yeah, what about him?”

I grip the edge of the laminate so hard my nails leave half-moons. “Do you know where he lives? Or works? Or, like, any way to contact him? He took my—” I stop, realize how insane I will sound if I explain the ex-boyfriend-turned-snail situation. “He took something really important. ”

She leans in heavily, like the weight of every bad night and worse customer is settling on her elbow.

“We get a lot of people looking for Bens,” she says, suddenly acting like she doesn’t know who I’m talking about when she just watched our entire game of darts not even twenty minutes ago.

“I can’t just hand out people’s info, you know.

Not even sure I know where any Ben lives around here. ”

I swallow. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me? I need to get it back.”

She looks over my shoulder, checking to see if Jake is coming to pull me away from the bar or if she’ll have to call her own muscle from the kitchen. “Sweetie, I get it. Really. But even if I wanted to, I don’t know his last name. Some people just show up, play a game, then vanish.”

I’m half a second from offering her $100, or my phone, or a kidney. Instead, I just say, “He can’t just leave with it. With the snail.”

She shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something almost motherly behind the tough. “If he’s a regular, he’ll be back. Give me a number, I’ll tell you if I see him.”

I try not to let my heart drop at the “if”, hoping she is just trying to protect Ben’s privacy in some weird way. I scribble my cell on the back of a coaster, which is half-soaked from the counter and curls as soon as I let it go. The bartender smooths it out and pins it under a salt shaker.

“Next time, keep your bets smaller. Never bet anything you aren’t willing to lose, hun,” she says, and there’s no judgment, just the steady certainty of someone who’s seen this a hundred times.

I nod, unable to find words. I know that, and I still bet something irreplaceable. I am an idiot.

Jake is waiting by the door, arms crossed, his whole body radiating equal parts relief and worry. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “She doesn’t know. He’ll be back, maybe, or not. Doesn’t matter. ”

He holds the door for me, and the air outside is colder than I remember.

I press my palms to my face and try to breathe. I feel hopeless. There’s nothing left to do but give up.

We walk back to the truck, silence thick between us.

Jake refuses to let us stay at the red-roofed motel attached to the Tavern. I think he might be worried I’ll keep going back to the bar and refuse to leave until I find Ben. It is a possibility that I also recognize, so I understand when he googles other places to stay in the area.

The drive to the motel is ten minutes of nothing but my own heartbeat and the static hum of the radio, dialed to a station that only plays commercials for men’s hair restoration and jingles for local injury lawyers.

Jake keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes on the windshield, and his posture so stiff it’s like he’s bench-pressing his feelings against the steering column.

I stare at the passing lights and try to catalog my regrets, but the only thing that comes to mind is the image of Ben holding my snail up in the neon lighting like a trophy, as if it never even belonged to me in the first place.

“Tomorrow,” Jake says, breaking the silence. “We can drive around. Check every bar, every pawn shop, every place a snail might end up.”

“Right,” I say. “Because that’s a thing. People pawn snails all the time.”

He laughs, soft and defeated. “If he’s a real mollusk fan, maybe he’ll realize Alex is pretty rare looking, and put up a flyer. Blue snail for sale.”

I don’t reply. The world outside is empty, every building closed, every streetlight flickering like it’s two seconds from dying. It’s the kind of night that feels coated in regret. Go ahead, try and make it worse, universe. I just lost my ex-boyfriend, that I turned into a snail.

The motel has a peeling stucco exterior, the lobby lit by the haunted glow of a vending machine and a desk lamp with no shade.

The woman behind the counter takes one look at us, red eyes, slumped shoulders, Jake’s shirt stained with ketchup from the bar fries, and hands over a keycard without asking for ID.

“Breakfast ends at nine,” she says. “If the toaster’s broken, just use the microwave.”

I nod, gripping the key so hard it bites into my palm. Jake takes our bags and follows me down the carpeted hallway, which smells like old gum and the kind of cleaning product that can be bought at the dollar tree and probably isn’t safe to touch.

The room is on the second floor. The door is painted a color I can only describe as regretful beige.

Inside there are two queen beds, a dresser older than me, a TV bolted to the wall, and a tiny round table with two plastic chairs.

The lamp on the nightstand flickers when I turn it on, and I have to slam the bathroom door twice before it latches.

Jake tosses his bag onto the far bed, then sits on the edge, hands folded between his knees. “You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head, kick off my shoes, and flop onto the closer mattress. The springs protest under my weight. I press my face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of unfamiliar laundry and old cigarette smoke.

Jake clears his throat. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

I snort into the pillow. “I bet him. I put the snail on the table.”

He sighs. “You lost a bet. It happens.”

“Yeah, but I always lose. That’s the problem. I suck at darts, and I wouldn’t even let you talk when you tried to stop me.”

Jake gets up, walks to the window, and pulls back the curtain. The view is the parking lot, illuminated by the harsh white security lights. He stares for a minute, then turns back, expression unreadable .

“I don’t think you lose as much as you think,” he says. “You just remember the losses more.”

I want to believe him, but my entire body is made of self-recrimination and the taste of defeat.

He crosses the room, sits on the edge of my bed, close enough that I can feel the warmth from his thigh.

“We’ll find him,” he says. “I promise.”

I close my eyes, exhausted, and my chest is full of regret and heartache. “Do you hate me?”

He laughs, the sound low and sure. “Emma, I could never hate you. Even if you turned me into a mollusk.”

I smile, barely. “You’d be a slug. No shell.”

“I’d probably still beat you at darts. You suck,” he says, and the tension snaps, just a little.

We sit like that for a long time. The two of us breathing in sync, and the TV muttering infomercials in the background.

Eventually, Jake stands, rummages through his duffel, and pulls out a pack of instant ramen. He gestures to the coffee maker on the dresser. “Want some?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Did you bring any of the extra powder packets?”

He winks and holds those up to. “Coming right up.”

For a minute, I watch him fumble with the tiny coffeepot. His light brown hair is sticking up at the crown and I see the way his shoulders relax when he thinks I’m not looking.

He makes the ramen, splits it into two plastic cups, and hands one to me. It’s salty and delicious and nothing like what I thought I wanted, but perfect for soaking up all the beer.

I finish half, then set the cup on the nightstand. I fiddle with my phone and think about texting Alina, but I don’t want her to know that I lost Alex. Instead, I just heart react to her most recent messages.

Jake watches me, eyes bright and kind. “This is going to be okay, you know. We’ll get Alex the snail back. ”

I want to believe him, so I nod. Then I lie down, pull the covers up to my chin, and try to pretend I’m asleep.

Jake turns off the light, and the room falls into a soft gray from the TV screen. Tomorrow, we’ll look for the snail. Jake has never let me down, and I don’t think he’s about to start now.