Page 34 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Chapter 19
Jackson
Whitaker Seafood’s glass-windowed lobby turns into a brightly lit aquarium after dark, and Ben, pacing tight little circles, phone in hand, is the only fish on display. The moment Jackson steps out of his Corolla, Ben is already through the doors, closing half the parking-lot distance before Jackson even shuts his door.
“You made it,” Ben exhales, more relief than greeting. He jerks his chin toward the loading dock, where a grimy MarineSelect rig squats under the floodlights. Workers feed pallets into its hold. “There’s another waste shipment going out tonight.”
Ben’s voice is flat, almost bleak, like this isn’t exactly the break Jackson’s been chasing. He’ll have everything: plates, route, and dump site. It’s iron-clad proof. He’s already picturing the photographs lining up alongside his notes.
“I’ll stay on the truck,” Jackson says, half to himself, brain already sprinting ahead. “You dig around Tom’s office and?—”
Ben’s face doesn’t crumple, it just freezes as he shuts off visible emotion with practiced quickness. It’s the resigned, barely-there shift of someone used to being set aside, left to dealwith a problem on his own. Jackson’s stomach bottoms out as he watches it.
Ben’s trust is part of this story, as much as the documents or the photographs. It deserves to be handled just as carefully.
“Ben,” Jackson says firmly, head shaking once. “I want you with me. I want to do this right.”
And God, that part’s so fucking true it almost makes his throat close.
“We’ll follow the truck together. Come back, hit Tom’s office after. We’ll still get where we need to go.”
The tension eases out of Ben’s face, just enough to show how much it matters. “Yeah. Okay.” And then, because he’s Ben, he immediately extends something back, almost sheepish. “I’ll drive.”
Jackson slides into the passenger seat without argument. Outside, workers shout instructions as metal clangs and forklifts beep. Inside the Jeep, the cab feels close. Ben’s foot bounces lightly against the floor mat; Jackson taps a pen against his notebook, watching the loading dock. Or trying to. His eyes keep drifting back to Ben.
The truck is the story. But the man sitting beside him, the one who risked everything to hand it to him, is why Jackson’s really here.
“So, uh, there’s this Christmas party tomorrow night,” Ben says suddenly.
It’s such an unexpected curveball, Jackson’s sure he misheard. “A party?”
“Company thing. I’ll text you the details,” Ben says quickly. “It’s cheesy, but… everyone will be there. Tom. The board. The managers. Most of the staff. It’s the one time you could look at all of them in one place, maybe pick up something useful.”
There’s a little hitch in his voice, though, something earnest, shy, like that’s only half the reason.
Oh.
The feeling catches Jackson square in the chest. It’s not jagged like the guilt he’s been carrying since Boston, but gentle, deep, a want so fierce, it penetrates to his very core. In that moment he knows redemption isn’t just about getting the story right. It’s about the wild, dangerous hope that he could have more than just the story.
He lets a teasing smile pull at the corner of his mouth, holding onto the moment the only way he knows how. “Before I RSVP, what’s the dress code? We talking ugly Christmas sweater? Or blazer that says ‘I am a small child with very earnest opinions on glitter and water conservation?’”
Ben laughs, and it’s so good, Jackson can barely breathe. He wants to memorize that sound. He wants to be the reason for it over and over. He wants to build his whole damn life around it.
“It’s cocktail attire,” Ben says, cheeks pink, eyes bright. “So if those are your only options, I’d stick with the blazer.”
“Open bar?”
“Two drink tickets, then cash.”
Jackson tuts. “Dance floor?”
Ben gives a tiny shrug. “If you’re brave enough.”
“Brave enough?” Jackson echoes lightly, though his fingers flex slightly against his knee. He’s sure he could hold onto this closeness between them forever if he just squeezed tight. “Ben, if ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’ comes on, you are going to witness things you will never recover from.
“But as long as you’re okay with a little secondhand embarrassment,” he pauses, just long enough for the teasing to fall away, for the truth to slip in, “I’d be happy to come.”
Ben ducks his head, biting down a smile so pleased, so soft, Jackson feels it light up every corner inside him. A part of him knows that it’s lunacy to allow himself this. He’s fallen for a source before a line of story has been published. It’s everythinghe never would have allowed himself to do five years ago. Today it doesn’t even feel like a choice.
