Page 10 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
The last year’s worth of posts mostly show Ben solo: he’s got a great body but a painfully awkward approach to thirst-traps. Jackson chuckles under his breath, watching how Ben tries poses that never quite look comfortable.Why post them, then?Jackson wonders, though he’s not necessarily hating their existence.
There’s a batch of photos from last December featuring some Paul-Bunyan-ass motherfucker in every frame: full beard, rotating wardrobe of flannel, ‘fuck-boy’ written all over his bored expression. In half of them, he’s basically ignoring poor Ben, who’s clearly overcompensating. Jackson, who shouldn’t care, ends up feeling a bristle of secondhand offense.
Before he has a chance to pinpoint exactly why, Eli appears on screen. The same Eli who captainsThe Trans Atlantic.Fuck, that explains his hesitancy to get involved.In some ways he should have guessed. It is basically the destiny of all small town gays todate their way through huge swaths of the available dating pool.
For three uninterrupted years, he and Ben look positively delirious with happiness: beaming sunrise selfies, sweet embraces during campus Pride events, spontaneous beach picnics, and more than a few shots tangled together on a boat deck. It’s the kind of lovey-dovey couples feed that makes Jackson feel like he’s intruding. Of course, all those romantic tableaus can hide all manner of things.
He has to consider that Eli might just be an ex with a grudge. By all rights, he should kill this story right now. Filed DOA under ‘unreliable primary source.’
He stares a beat longer at an anniversary selfie: Ben and Eli on some dock, grinning like the world couldn’t touch them. It bugs him how much it bugs him. He drums his fingers on the desk, reminding himself he’s just a reporter collecting facts.
The fact was Eli hadn’t come to him slinging mud. In fact, the minute Jackson mentioned Whitaker Seafood, the guy clammed up completely. That hardly screamed ‘bitter ex hell-bent on revenge.’ If anything, it only heightens Jackson’s curiosity about whatdidgo down between them.
He forces a breath, scrolling back to the top of Ben’s feed. A gym selfie of Ben in a snug white t-shirt, pecs and biceps front and center, cheeks decidedly pink with either exertion or self-consciousness. Probably both. Jackson’s mouth quirks upward in spite of himself.What a dork.
He can’t drop it, he is compelled at this point. He tells himself it’s a professional concern: ignoring so many unanswered questions feels sloppy, and refusing to dig deeper might cost him a solid piece. Journalism isn’t meant to be comfortable.
He studies Ben’s photo one last time before locking his phone. Jackson can’t imagine walking away. Not yet.
Chapter 9
Ben
Ben steps off the production floor with an unfamiliar sense of ease, which, of course, only serves to immediately convince him something is about to go spectacularly wrong.
The plant’s humming along without a hitch today, no jammed machines, no missing shipments, and even the morning’s manifests check out fine despite Tom huffing loudly every time Ben turned a page on his clipboard. The day’s major tasks are handled by ten, leaving Ben free for a visit he’s been meaning to make.
He heads down four floors to Pina Cattaneo’s cubicle. It’s tucked away in Procurement, a cheerful basement corner lit by a pink Himalayan salt lamp. She’s swapped out her quote since he last visited, “I’m here for a good time, not overtime” now gracing the whiteboard in lavender bubble letters. She’s flipping through a Uline catalog, legs crossed at the ankles, her chocolate-cherry hair twisted into a claw clip. Her lip gloss matches the color perfectly, and her winged eyeliner looks sharp enough to cut. She flicks her gaze up as soon as Ben approaches.
“What do you want?” she asks suspiciously.
He’s not bothered by the somewhat hostile welcome; they’ve known each other most of their lives. Her mother has worked upstairs in Accounts Payable for forever, and Pina babysat him regularly when he was a kid. She still has a makeup tutorial starring a semi-reluctant pre-teen Ben in full glam, forever ready to embarrass him.
He slides a folder aside so he can perch on the corner of her desk. “Maybe I just came by to say hi.”
“Nice try. You don’t visit me on the clock. I visit you. I drag you out of your office, force you into lunch breaks, bring you coffee, gossip, moral support. These are the pillars of our friendship.” She sets the catalog aside, crossing her arms. “But you only come to see me when you need something official, you bore.”
He offers a small, guilty shrug. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m playing favorites.”
“But Iamyour favorite. I’m still waiting for my special treatment.” She levels him with a pointed look. “Now out with it, Benjamin, why are you here?”
The way she uses his full name, like she’s still scolding a middle schooler, makes him flash back to Pina in high school, giving him a glittery manicure while they watched cartoons well past his bedtime in the family room. ‘Benjamin, sit still. You’re gonna smudge them.’
Ben fights a grin at the memory. “I’m just running spot checks before next week’s audit. You know how my dad likes everything. And if something’s off, well…”
“Ugh, I know, you’ll get the blame.” Pina waves a dismissive hand, but a note of sympathy undercuts her teasing. “You realize I’m good at my job, right? There’s nothing to worry about.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I know, I do. I just?—”
“Can’t help being a Type A neurotic?” she finishes his sentence for him. “I know, sweetie. I forgive you.”
She spins in her chair, running a glossy peach nail down the row of neatly labeled binders shelved behind her. “What do you want to see specifically?”
Ben clears his throat, trying for casual. “Maybe the hard copies of the waste disposal agreements?”
She hands him the stack without argument. “All yours. Knock yourself out. Literally, they might put you to sleep. Boring as shit.”
The files feel strangely heavy in his hand. He works a thumb over a plastic tab. “Mind if I hold onto these for a bit before bringing them back?”
