Page 8 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“Subcontractor?” he mutters under his breath. Weird timing, though. The closest waste facility is a solid eighty miles away, and by now they’ll definitely be closed. The truck heads left, away from the highway, which is also strange, and Ben has half a mind to follow it. Just to ease his own nerves. It’snotbecause he’s been dwelling on the plant’s waste since his run-in with Tom this morning.
Andcertainlynot because that reporter, with his insinuations and his galling little smirk, had gotten under Ben’s skin.
‘You mentioned modernizing…’
Honestly,how did he expect Ben to answer? ‘Well, actually, I’m powerless to do or change anything right now, but please keep poking at my insecurities until I completely unravel.’ Not a great look for Ben or the company.
The whole thing had felt surreal. He had never spoken with a journalist who wasn’t writing a puff piece. Jackson had been positively conspiracy minded, talking about high mortality rates of marine life in the area, as if that could have anything to do with the plant.
He had looked foolish and unprepared in that office. He couldn’t let that happen again.Just hold out,he reminds himself, getting into the driver’s seat. A few more years, and he can streamline operations exactly how he wants. Make changes that have impact. You just have to show them you can earn it.
At that exact thought, his phone rings.
“Hey, Dad,” Ben says, trying not to sound exhausted.
“How’s the cod line?” his dad demands without preamble.
Ben closes his eyes. Of course Kent already told him. The belt on the automatic filleter snapped just as he sat down to lunch, swallowing Ben’s entire afternoon and most of his evening. “It’s back up and running. I stuck around to make sure it’ll be good through the night shift.”
The heat finally kicks in, warm air blasting his face. He flicks on the wipers, pulling out of the lot, making the right turn toward his house automatically. The MarineSelect truck is just a flash of taillights in his rearview. “Just heading home now.”
“Good,” Dad says. “Thanks for taking responsibility.”
Ben knows it’s the closest thing to a compliment he’ll get. “How’s Chicago?” he ventures.
“Cold,” Dad replies. “Saw the Bean. Conference is fine.” A beat passes. “Just trying to give the caterer a rough ballpark for Friday. You bringing anyone?”
Ben knows the subtext immediately; one plate won’t derail the holiday buffet his dad commissions every December for his employees. This isn’t about numbers. It’s about whether Ben has someone to bring.
He doesn’t.
“Philip, maybe?”
Ben’s foot hits the brake harder at the four-way stop than he means to, sending the Jeep into a brief fishtail. Philip had been his plus-onelast year, when Ben was so anxious to not be alone that he’d dragged his doomed situationship along to the company Christmas party.
“I don’t—no, not a good idea,” Ben stammers, bringing the car back under control. He and Philip had gone sour quicker than unrefrigerated eggnog, not even surviving till the New Year. Ben was clingy, Philip wanted casual. Things played out according to script.
Dad poses his next question oh-so-innocently: “What about Eli?”
Eli. The ex to end all exes. Ben’s longest relationship, the boat captain who’d followed Ben to Silver Shoals right after college to start a charter fishing business and a whole life together, or so Ben had naively believed.
Of course, Dad had adored Eli. Driven and ambitious in all the ways his father respected, Ben had realized too late that he was replaying everything he resented about his paternal relationship. Right down to coming home to an empty house night after night.
“Eli and I aren’t getting back together,” he replies, throat tightening in spite of himself.
“Well, maybe just as friends? Didn’t you say you’d keep in touch?” Dad presses gently. “He used to make you happy. You deserve that, Benny.”
Dad means well, he really does, but it also feels a little like he’s ticking off a to-do list item.Check in on son’s emotional well-being.He wants Ben to be ‘happy’ in the only way he understands: single-minded, productive, and building the Whitaker empire.
“I know, Dad. But I’m good. I promise.”
There is a brief and deeply unconvinced silence. “Alright. Well, drive safe. Call if there’s anything.”
“Sure. Goodnight, Dad.”
He hangs up, exhaling so hard his breath fogs the interior.
It’s not about Phillip, it’s not even entirely about Eli. He can feel himself falling off the path his father marked for him. He should be married, thinking about a family. It’s all mapped out, but he can’t help fantasizing about detours.
