Page 43 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
That earns him a smile. She extends her hand. “Pina Catteano.”
Any chance of a reply drowns beneath the DJ’s voice, less announcement, more sonic assault. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he foghorns, “put your fins together for Silver Shoals’ favorite local catch and tonight’s host, Ben Whitaker.”
Beside him, Pina tenses. Jackson feels it too, that protective, bracing unease.
There’s a death row quality to the way Ben approaches the podium, counting the steps to his own execution. Then his eyes drop to his phone, to the speech he hasn’t so much as skimmed, and something eases in the lines of his shoulders. He trusts it. He trusts Jackson.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for being here tonight. To celebrate the holidays, yes, and Whitaker Seafood, of course. But more than that, to share in what this plant, this community, means to all of us, now and in the future.”
Ben’s voice is a touch quiet, a little stiff, but steady. It’s growing warmer, gaining ground with every word.
“We’re not always built for change. But sometimes it finds us anyway. And when it does, what matters most is how we meet it: what we hold on to, and what we’re brave enough to grow into.
“Legacy isn’t just what we inherit. It’s what we choose to protect. What we carry forward, on purpose, with care. My father built this place to be something lasting. I’m here because I believe in that mission. I believe in continuing what he started, and shaping what comes next. Together.”
Jackson glances around the room; people are listening. Even Tom McKenna is silent, mouth hanging open over a shrimp skewer. But Jackson’s not watching them. Not really. He’s watching Ben.
“The future of this plant isn’t measured in margins or pounds of product. It’s written in our people. The ones who clock in before dawn, and the ones who stay late to make sure every last crate is right. It’s in the partners, the kids, the families who taste that work at their kitchen tables and know it came from us.
“And if we’re building something really good here, and I think we are, it’s not just because of what we do. It’s who we do it with. It’s because we all show up. Not for glory, but to makethings easier for each other, because we want the path we are on to feel like promise and not a risk.”
That line isn’t for the crowd. Jackson wrote it for Ben. Ben pauses and smiles slightly, his bright eyes finding Jackson, before continuing on.
God, Jackson’s in so much trouble.
“We process fish here. It’s hard to make that sound romantic, but it is hard not to look at the work you all do and feel inspired. Never feel like you can’t be proud of what you’ve done. Never misplace the importance of kindness, of persistence, of being here and just taking the time to care. Even in the coldest seasons, there are people who make this place feel impossibly warm.
“So let’s celebrate that tonight. With the food, the music, the holiday spirit, each other’s company...and of course, the open bar.”
The roomeruptsat that. Cheers. Laughter. Someone whistles. (It might be Jackson.) Ben steps away from the mic, pink-cheeked and shell-shocked like he can’t quite believe he survived it. But he did. He nailed it.
Pina leans toward Jackson. “That was you who did that?”
He’s not sure whether she means the speech or the open bar or the part where Ben looks steadier than he has all week. But Jackson claims his part in all of it. “Yeah.”
She clinks her glass to his, eyes soft now. “Nice work.”
The DJ cues something familiar, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles’Christmas Everyday. Guitars over electric organ, a little too much for the setting but just right for Jackson’s mood.
He excuses himself, slips through the crowd, and finds Ben still just a few steps from the podium. His tie’s a touch crooked. His eyes are glassy from the applause. He’s never looked better.
Jackson slides two fingers along Ben’s cuff. “Dance with me?”
Ben looks up, and for a second, Jackson sees every version of him: the anxious host, the reluctant heir, the boy who thought he had to carry everything alone. Ben’s hand finds Jackson’s like they’re magnetized.
They move to the margin of the dance floor where the hardwood catches halos of colored light. Jackson draws him in, and Ben fits there, sudden and sure, like he was built to be held exactly this way. Right hand on Jackson’s shoulder. Left hand splayed over Jackson’s heart.
His exhale is tremulous, almost shy. A little shaky from adrenaline, maybe, or maybe just the unguarded moment. Jackson gathers him in a little tighter, feels the shape of Ben against him, every line, every place they touch.
Around them, the party blurs. The rest of the world holds nothing Jackson needs at this moment.
“You’re lucky I’m still speaking to you,” Ben mutters, lips near Jackson’s collar. “Do you know what an open bar costs for a guest list this size? My dad’s going to have an aneurysm.”
“It was a strategic move, and he can afford it,” Jackson says shamelessly.
Ben makes a quiet huff and melts a little more, letting Jackson guide him gently across the floor. “We’re going to run out of ride vouchers. I need to make sure we post the cab company number by the bar.”
“Stop worrying for two seconds and trust me.” Jackson smiles against Ben’s hairline, presses a kiss there, light as a match strike. “Drunk party guests are honest party guests. Statistically, someone’s gonna confess to at least a misdemeanor by the end of the night. You should thank me.”
