Page 30 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Ben walks into the kitchen, his bare feet on cold tile. “I didn’t disappear,” he lies. “I just needed to focus.”
“What you need is to stop hiding behind your calendar. Floor presence is non-negotiable.”
Ben opens a cabinet and pulls down a mug, gripping the handle a little too tight. “I’ll make a point to be out there today.”
“I need you locked in this week. Maybe you don’t think it matters, but people are watching how you handle yourself while I’m gone. You’re the Whitaker on-site; that means eyes on you, every day. You’re setting the example.”
Ben wonders what it would be like to just simply exist. Clock in, clock out, without every move feeling like it’s part of some never-ending performance review.
He shuts the cabinet harder than necessary. “I get it, Dad. I’ve been out there every day. Yesterday was just busy.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end, but not the comforting kind. The kind that means Dad’s loading his next expectation into the chamber.
“Don’t let me down, Benny.”
Ben closes his eyes. “I won’t.”
Ben will. He already is.
The line goes dead, the call ending as abruptly as it started. Ben stands in his quiet kitchen, the phone still in his hand, the walls suddenly too close. His chest is tight and his stomach feels sour. Whatever steadiness he woke to is long gone. He hasn’t even had a coffee yet.
His phone buzzes again as he starts a pot. A new text.Jackson.
Was just reviewing your ledger notes. I regret to inform you that, according to an extremely legitimate handwriting expert I interviewed last month, the way you cross the loops of your lowercase G’s indicates that you’re a repressed romantic with control issues and a deep need to create color-coded sub-categories during emotional crises.
Ben’s thumb hovers over it. He rereads the message at least three times. It’s unsettlingly accurate.
He usually finds being seen uncomfortable, but it’s not so bad when Jackson does it. In fact, Ben’s smiling so hard it almost hurts. Butterflies fizz stupidly under his ribs. He starts to type a reply, stops. Starts again.
Another message arrives.
Also that you were probably a horse girl in a past life.
Ben makes an outraged noise.
That’s slander.
Hey, I’m just reporting the pseudoscience.
Also, technically, it’s libel.
Giving you my number was a mistake.
It definitely was.
Can I call you?
Ben hesitates only long enough to pull the sugar bowl out and drop two teaspoons into his mug.
Yeah. Facetime okay? About to start making breakfast.
His phone rings two seconds later.
Ben answers and props it against the knife block. The screen steadies at the same time he does, tension sliding out of his shoulders at the sight of Jackson curled up on his couch, be-sweatered and cozy, his laptop balanced on one knee.
“Morning,” Jackson says, easy as anything. “What are we cooking?”
“Scrambled eggs.” Ben opens the fridge with one hand, grabs butter and eggs with the other.
