Page 46 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Jackson has no reason to lie, not about this.
Suddenly the picture snaps into stark relief. It’s not just tonight. It’s not just one overheard conversation at a bar. It’s the way Kent brushed off the MarineSelect concern in the meeting, how quickly he pivoted, changed the subject, turned the room against Ben with a single condescending smile. Kent had made surehetold Ben’s father about the cod line before Ben had the chance, even though Ben was the one dealing with it. Undermining him, stealing credit, making him look slow and indecisive. Kent had made certain that Dad heard about the one day, onelousyday, that Ben missed rounds on the floor.
The past week’s been a highlight reel of Kent quietly sawing off the legs of Ben’s credibility while smiling right through it.
The party swells around Ben, music and laughter, clinking glasses, tinsel glinting off flushed, happy faces. But none of it feels real anymore.
He stares through the crowd at Kent’s back. How long has this been going on? Months? Years?
Ben can’t even pinpoint when it soured. Just that it’s gone now. Pulled out from under him like a tablecloth. It leaves him standing in the center of a party he’s currently hosting, for a company he’s spent half his life trying to prove himself worthy of, feeling stupid and used.
When Kent finally stumbles off toward the bathroom, Ben still doesn’t feel ready. There’s a part of him that still wants it to be a mistake. A misunderstanding. Anything butthis.
Then Jackson looks at him. Doesn’t say a word. He just gives him a small, determined nod.
Ben doesn’t know how it happened so fast, or why it feels so easy. But it does. There’s no strain to it. No performance. Nohoops to jump through or metrics to meet. Just trust. Quiet and whole. Even in the middle of this nightmare, that part feels solid.
They move together.
Past garland-strung doorways and flickering votives, past sugar cookies on silver trays, past pine and perfume and the sticky sweetness of overpoured eggnog and toward the quieter part of the house, where the walls aren’t lined with people.
Kent is staggering out of the guest bathroom just as they turn the corner. He startles at the sight of them, but he recovers fast, too drunk to hide the stumble, too practiced to show the shame.
“Hey,” he says, a little too jovial. “You boys enjoying the party?”
Ben forces a polite smile. “Sure. You?”
“Free drinks were a nice touch this year. Though it’s all bar rail shit.” He jerks his thumb behind him. “Your dad still keep the good stuff in here?”
Kent pushes into the study without waiting for an answer and heads straight for the scotch. The decanter lives by the window, on the antique walnut console table with elegant spindly legs and hand-carved scrollwork. Ben remembers running toy cars across that edge when he was too small to reach the top. He hasn’t thought about that table in years, not really, but now he can picture it with his mother’s crystal vase. Peonies in spring. Dahlias in fall.
Kent takes a long drink, scanning the study, a curl of something sour in his voice. “Must’ve been nice, huh? Growing up with all this.”
“I wasn’t exactly knocking back a lot of scotch when I was a kid,” Ben says flatly.
Kent chuckles, but it’s empty. “Helluva speech, by the way. Legacy and future and all that bullshit. Very inspiring.” He swivels, tumbler dangling from his fingers. “Does your dad know you’re already shuffling him off to a cozy retirement?”
Ben doesn’t bite. “Does my dad know you’ve been forging my signature on contract waivers?”
The shift is instant.
Kent lowers his glass. No more grin. “Come again?”
Ben swallows. “I think you heard me. MarineSelect. I didn’t sign those contracts. I think you did, Kent.”
For a moment, Kent doesn’t move at all. Then his face twists, grotesque, mean, all the more terrifying in how sloppy he is. “That’s a serious fucking allegation, kiddo,” he says. “Didn’t think you did anything but mince through the office with your little clipboard and your feel-good mission statements.”
Ben’s spine straightens. “That contract could’ve ruined us.”
“Oh, spare me. I’m thinking you just forgot you signed it, because maybe I want to believe you’re not such a fucking pussy.” Kent steps forward, scotch sloshing over his fingers. “Jesus, kid. No wonder your dad had to park you in middle management with training wheels. The waste gets hauled off-site; what happens after that isn’t our concern. You really think anyone in this industry gives a shit where the trucks end up?”
“Ido. And the people who live here would too,” Ben says.
Kent snorts, dismissive, like he’s swatting away a fly. “This is how grown-ups do business. I keep this place afloat while you jerk off about eco-audits.”
“You didn’t just break the rules, Kent. You gambled with everything my father built.”
“And what about what I built?” He laughs again, bitter this time. “That MarineSelect deal is the road to everything I should’ve had years ago. If I had been offered something to push it through, well, let’s just say I fucking earned it.”
