Page 31 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“Look at you, making sure you eat a proper meal. Proud of you, bud.”
Ben shoots him a look, because yes, he knows he’s being teased, but that doesn’t stop the idiotic grin tugging at his mouth. Because hearing it from Jackson, even as a joke, lands somewhere embarrassingly soft.
“Any chance I can stop by the plant tonight? Around 6?” Jackson asks. “Thought we could regroup.”
Ben fumbles the butter just slightly, his face flushing hot as he drops it into the pan. “Yeah. Um. Yeah, that’d be…good. I’ll be there.”
“Do you have access to a master key? Think you could get me into Tom McKenna’s office?”
“I, uh, yes? I mean, I can probably figure that out. Why?”
“Because you named your Logistics Supervisor as your number one suspect,” Jackson tilts his head lazily, like it’s obvious. “And we don’t ignore our instincts, Ben.”
Ben hesitates. “He’ll be so pissed if he finds out I went in there.”
“He won’t find out.” Jackson waves it off. “And if he gives you trouble, I’ll just let the air out of his tires.”
Ben lets out a startled laugh. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m kidding. Absolutely nothing is going to happen to Thomas Padraic McKenna’s 2019 black Dodge Ram with plates ending in C82.”
Ben cracks the egg he’s holding a little too hard, bits of shell going into the bowl. “How do you know all that?”
Jackson takes an unbothered sip of coffee. “I’m a reporter. Finding things out is my entire job.”
“That’s… slightly terrifying.”
“You want terrifying?” Jackson says, brightening. “McKenna’s been divorced three times. His credit score starts with afour. He has a secret Pinterest board of reclaimed barnwood projects he’s never going to build.”
Ben groans. “Please stop. I absolutely hate this.”
“It’s a disease. I’m sorry. Totally incurable.”
“Do you do this level of invasive research on everyone?”
Jackson pauses just long enough to be suspicious. “You won your sixth-grade school science fair for a project called ‘Greywater Recycling: How Much Can One Household Save?’”
Ben makes a strangled sound, somewhere between abject horror and laughter.
“I found the photo,” Jackson continues.
“You did not.”
“Ben,” Jackson says solemnly. “There was a tri-fold poster board with glitter glue. You wore a child-sized blazer. It was adorable; you were one of the gayest 11 year-olds I’ve ever seen.”
Ben drops his head into his hands. “I’m hanging up.”
“No, no, no, wait.” The camera wobbles wildly for a second, then Smokey’s face fills the screen, all judgmental whiskers and indifference. “Smokey wants to say hi.”
Ben bites down on a grin, tilts the pan of eggs onto his plate, and, of course, doesn’t hang up.
Jackson just talks like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Through breakfast, as Ben eats standing at the counter. Through brushing his teeth, shaving, getting dressed (he turns the phone around while he’s pulling on pants,) Jackson’s still on speaker. They chat about the local articles he’s working on. An antique lobster boat up for auction, a pod of seals causing mischief in the harbor, a bakery reintroducing their seasonal gingerbread amaretto tart.
It’s not performative. Not peppy or pointed. Just a low, even rhythm that makes space instead of demanding it.
By the time he pulls into the plant parking lot, the edge has worn off completely. That tight, sour tension from his father’s call is drowned out by something better.
