Page 38 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Is that the motto on the family crest?”
“It’s more of a personal motto,” Ben says. “Also what I keep saying when I’m trying to get the old guys at work to use the Slack channel.”
He watches Jackson trace the curve of the banister with his palm, eyes lifted toward the vaulted ceiling like he’s trying to guess what stories the house isn’t telling. Cataloging, soaking in every detail like it might matter later. “So this is how the Seafood King lives, huh?”
Ben fumbles a laugh. “It was originally owned by my mom’s side, actually. Her family’s summer home. She was old money. My dad was… well, the scrappy upstart when they got together. From what I understand, her parents were furious that she moved here to marry some townie fisherman’s son.”
Jackson pauses beside a stern oil portrait, some great-great-great uncle of Ben’s who definitely disapproved of laughter and other frivolities. “Sometimes you’ve gotta go against expectations. Even your family’s.” He glances sideways at Ben. “Carve your own path.”
Ben feels that one land squarely in his chest. “Yeah,” he says. Not saying that wanting something else is different from believing he can actually have it.
They drift toward the parlor. The piano waits there, warm rosewood gleaming under soft lamplight. Jackson’s fingers brush the keys, absently pressing a few soft notes, testing the feel. And then, without much fanfare, he sits and plays the opening of Moonlight Sonata, the graceful, haunting notes filling the room.
Ben’s breath catches. “You’re really good.”
Jackson shrugs, still playing. “I used to dabble in college to pretend I had emotional depth.”
“Did it work?”
“Absolutely not,” Jackson says dryly. “Just made me insufferable. I was never good enough for it to be more than a hobby and honestly, piano is low on the list of instruments that will get you laid.” He looks up, his hands stilling. “You play?”
Ben shakes his head quickly, cheeks warm. “I took lessons but it never clicked. My teacher said I had ‘Trawler’s Fingers,’ whatever that means.”
“It means your teacher was full of shit. Come here.” He pats the bench. “I’ll show you something.”
Ben hesitates, flashing back to the deep psychological wound that was the Sleigh Ride Debacle of ‘08, when he panicked at the impending key change mid winter recital, burst into tears, and ran off the stage trailing a string of garland he’d somehow gotten tangled around his ankle.
Still, Jackson’s smile is too much. It’s all promise and patience andcome closer,and Ben is wildly susceptible.
He perches next to him, stiff as a folding chair, hyper-aware of every brush of their shoulders. Of how close Jackson is. Of hownotnormal his heartbeat is behaving.
Then Jackson takes his hand. Just….reaches over and takes it, like it’s nothing.
“Okay,” Jackson says, guiding Ben’s fingers to the keys. “G… G again… C… C minor… back to G… B… E minor… G… E… A minor… C minor… G…”
Ben’s tongue pokes out in concentration. He stumbles through the sequence, barely hanging on, completely distracted by Jackson’s breath right at his ear.
“Wait.” Ben pauses mid-chord. “I recognize this.”
“Do you?” Jackson says, almost innocent.
“Is this—” Ben blinks at him, letting out an incredulous laugh. “This isAll I Want for Christmas Is You.”
Jackson’s grin breaks wide, bright and shameless. “Beethoven walked so Mariah Carey could run. Now keep going,” he urges, nudging his elbow. “We’re getting to the good part.”
He launches into the melody, just slow enough for Ben to keep up. They trip through the notes, fumble the transitions, get louder on the chorus, and absolutely obliterate the tempo. Jackson sings a little falsetto on the “you-ooooh” part and Ben snorts so hard he nearly falls off the bench.
It’s chaotic. It’s ridiculous. It’s also perfect.
He glances sideways and catches Jackson mid-laugh, his head tilted, eyes alive and sparkling. Something in Ben’s chest gives way all at once.
For once, he doesn’t care how he sounds, or how he looks, or whether he fits into this house or this party or this life.
Here, on this bench, next to this wonderful, impossible man? Ben belongs.
Chapter 21
Jackson
