Page 2 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Tom barely gives the sheets a glance before moving off, barking at a group of workers unloading a truck, “You’re slower than the frickin’ Bruins’ defense last night! Pick up the pace!”
Ben stares after Tom, mouth half-open, working through imaginary retorts he’ll never use. What’s he supposed to say? “Excuse me, sir, your dismissive and aggressive tone is contributing to a damaging work environment that undermines my sense of self-worth?” Not likely.
He adjusts his tie, pastes on something that might pass as a smile, and heads for the office. He doesn’t make it far. Three steps, maybe four, before his phone buzzes. A message from his father:Remember, perfection is the standard.
Ben rolls his eyes even as his stomach twists. Another classic pep talk from Dear Old Dad. It feels like a bucket of ice water dumped straight down his collar. Fantastic. No pressure at all.
Chapter 2
Jackson
The Twisted Anchor Diner does three things better than anywhere else in Silver Shoals: brew coffee that tastes like jet fuel, fry eggs until they shimmer, and deliver hot, small-town drama with every scorched refill.
Tinsel sags from the pie display like it’s already tired of December. Jackson James leans into his usual window seat, laptop balanced on the Formica, page open and cursor blinking. Mostly white space. He scowls at the word count, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. How the hell does Mort expect him to wring three columns out of Silver Shoal’s annual tree-lighting ceremony? It’s inhumane, frankly.
Just as he considers turning the piece into an obituary for the last of his journalistic ambition, a shadow falls over his screen.
“Need a warm-up?” comes a voice so chipper it should be illegal before 9:00 am. A sneaker chirps against the linoleum.
Jackson doesn’t glance up. No need to. “If another sip of that sludge sneaks past my lips, you will have a legal responsibility for my poisoning.”
“Say that again and you’re drinking dishwater,” Billy threatens cheerfully, apron clinging to his broad frame like it’s in love, the grease spatters suggesting a Jackson Pollock whoworked exclusively with breakfast food. He tops off Jackson’s mug before dropping into the booth, ready to stir the pot, literal and otherwise.
If there were an Olympic contest for bad romantic decision-making, Jackson figures that particular fling would’ve earned him the gold. He’s not proud, but he is honest: the sex was decent even if the judgment was poor. Billy’s endless enthusiasm seemed sweet enough when Jackson first moved to Silver Shoals. He’d been comforting, uncomplicated, a little dim. At a time when Jackson needed easy, Billy had delivered.
But that shine faded fast once Jackson realized Billy didn’t have an “off” switch. Or an indoor voice. Or a bedframe. Besides, Jackson hadn’t been looking to get attached, to anyone or anything. Silver Shoals had been an emergency landing pad, not a life plan. Commitment? Not on the menu.
Still, somehow, against logic, against odds, he and Billy had stayed friends.
“Tell me what you actually came over here to talk about, Billy. But if it’s another Pukwudgie sighting,” Jackson says, tapping out a line about the town’s ‘beloved holiday traditions’ that he already wants to delete, “I’m not interested.”
“‘The truth is out there,’” Billy says, waggling his eyebrows. “Aren’t journalists supposed to be curious?”
“I don’t do curiosity before coffee.” Jackson takes a cautious sip from his mug. Immediate regret. “And this swill doesn’t qualify.”
“Alright, we get it, you don’t like the coffee.” Billy bounces in his seat so hard the vinyl squeaks. “How about some piping hot tea instead?”
Jackson tilts his laptop screen down a fraction of an inch. “Fine, I’ll bite. What’ve you got for me this time?”
Billy leans in conspiratorially. “It’s the fish.”
“Fish?” Jackson lifts an eyebrow. “Not exactly seeing the Pulitzer here.”
Undeterred, Billy continues, “Out by Scrimshaw Cove. A couple of my regulars say something’s wrong with them. Some are just floating up in pieces. Some are all bloated. And there’s this smell just coming off the water. All the fishermen from out that way are talking about it.”
Jackson feigns nonchalance, but his reporter instincts kick in. Silver Shoals’ booming fishing industry doesn’t just prop up half the local economy, it also sends a steady supply of seafood down the entire eastern seaboard. If something happened to interrupt that flow, it might graduate to national news.
It’s the kind of headline that could rattle the hinges on the door you locked your ambition behind when you swore you were done with the chase. The instinct to follow the thread and see where it frays hums beneath Jackson’s skin.
Billy knows him well enough to see it written across his face. “But, hey, if you’re not up for it, maybe I’ll take it to that new vlogger in town. What was his name? Chad? Chaz?”
“First of all, it’s Chase, as in his handle @chase_the_truth_02,” Jackson corrects disdainfully. “And second, please do. I’d love to see his hard-hitting exposé on bad tuna. Maybe he’ll film a whole TikTok series about it. He’ll go crazy for a job he can do from the beach.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?” Billy says, more fond than frustrated.
“That’s my brand.”
“Look, all I’m saying is I think there’s a story there,” Billy insists.
