Chapter 18
Ben
Ben wakes to the sound of his alarm clock feeling... well, not hopeful, exactly. Certainly not optimistic. But definitely steadier.
His own bed smells like clean laundry. He just slept there for a full eight hours. His brain, for once, isn’t spiraling the second his eyes open. There’s still a weight on his chest, but one he thinks he can carry today.
“Ben,” his father says when he picks up, brisk, like they’re already mid-conversation. “Kent tells me no one saw you on the floor yesterday.”
“Morning, Dad,” Ben mutters, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He needs to shave before he heads in. “I had meetings.”
“Everyone has meetings, Ben. That’s not an excuse to disappear.”
Ben walks into the kitchen, his bare feet on cold tile. “I didn’t disappear,” he lies. “I just needed to focus.”
“What you need is to stop hiding behind your calendar. Floor presence is non-negotiable.”
Ben opens a cabinet and pulls down a mug, gripping the handle a little too tight. “I’ll make a point to be out there today.”
“I need you locked in this week. Maybe you don’t think it matters, but people are watching how you handle yourself while I’m gone. You’re the Whitaker on-site; that means eyes on you, every day. You’re setting the example.”
Ben wonders what it would be like to just simply exist. Clock in, clock out, without every move feeling like it’s part of some never-ending performance review.
He shuts the cabinet harder than necessary. “I get it, Dad. I’ve been out there every day. Yesterday was just busy.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end, but not the comforting kind. The kind that means Dad’s loading his next expectation into the chamber.
“Don’t let me down, Benny.”
Ben closes his eyes. “I won’t.”
Ben will. He already is.
The line goes dead, the call ending as abruptly as it started. Ben stands in his quiet kitchen, the phone still in his hand, the walls suddenly too close. His chest is tight and his stomach feels sour. Whatever steadiness he woke to is long gone. He hasn’t even had a coffee yet.
His phone buzzes again as he starts a pot. A new text. Jackson.
Was just reviewing your ledger notes. I regret to inform you that, according to an extremely legitimate handwriting expert I interviewed last month, the way you cross the loops of your lowercase G’s indicates that you’re a repressed romantic with control issues and a deep need to create color-coded sub-categories during emotional crises.
Ben’s thumb hovers over it. He rereads the message at least three times. It’s unsettlingly accurate.
He usually finds being seen uncomfortable, but it’s not so bad when Jackson does it. In fact, Ben’s smiling so hard it almost hurts. Butterflies fizz stupidly under his ribs. He starts to type a reply, stops. Starts again.
Another message arrives.
Also that you were probably a horse girl in a past life.
Ben makes an outraged noise.
That’s slander.
Hey, I’m just reporting the pseudoscience.
Also, technically, it’s libel.
Giving you my number was a mistake.
It definitely was.
Can I call you?
Ben hesitates only long enough to pull the sugar bowl out and drop two teaspoons into his mug.
Yeah. Facetime okay? About to start making breakfast.
His phone rings two seconds later.
Ben answers and props it against the knife block. The screen steadies at the same time he does, tension sliding out of his shoulders at the sight of Jackson curled up on his couch, be-sweatered and cozy, his laptop balanced on one knee.
“Morning,” Jackson says, easy as anything. “What are we cooking?”
“Scrambled eggs.” Ben opens the fridge with one hand, grabs butter and eggs with the other.
“Look at you, making sure you eat a proper meal. Proud of you, bud.”
Ben shoots him a look, because yes, he knows he’s being teased, but that doesn’t stop the idiotic grin tugging at his mouth. Because hearing it from Jackson, even as a joke, lands somewhere embarrassingly soft.
“Any chance I can stop by the plant tonight? Around 6?” Jackson asks. “Thought we could regroup.”
Ben fumbles the butter just slightly, his face flushing hot as he drops it into the pan. “Yeah. Um. Yeah, that’d be…good. I’ll be there.”
“Do you have access to a master key? Think you could get me into Tom McKenna’s office?”
“I, uh, yes? I mean, I can probably figure that out. Why?”
“Because you named your Logistics Supervisor as your number one suspect,” Jackson tilts his head lazily, like it’s obvious. “And we don’t ignore our instincts, Ben.”
Ben hesitates. “He’ll be so pissed if he finds out I went in there.”
“He won’t find out.” Jackson waves it off. “And if he gives you trouble, I’ll just let the air out of his tires.”
Ben lets out a startled laugh. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m kidding. Absolutely nothing is going to happen to Thomas Padraic McKenna’s 2019 black Dodge Ram with plates ending in C82.”
Ben cracks the egg he’s holding a little too hard, bits of shell going into the bowl. “How do you know all that?”
Jackson takes an unbothered sip of coffee. “I’m a reporter. Finding things out is my entire job.”
“That’s… slightly terrifying.”
“You want terrifying?” Jackson says, brightening. “McKenna’s been divorced three times. His credit score starts with a four. He has a secret Pinterest board of reclaimed barnwood projects he’s never going to build.”
Ben groans. “Please stop. I absolutely hate this.”
“It’s a disease. I’m sorry. Totally incurable.”
“Do you do this level of invasive research on everyone?”
Jackson pauses just long enough to be suspicious. “You won your sixth-grade school science fair for a project called ‘Greywater Recycling: How Much Can One Household Save?’”
Ben makes a strangled sound, somewhere between abject horror and laughter.
“I found the photo,” Jackson continues.
“You did not.”
“Ben,” Jackson says solemnly. “There was a tri-fold poster board with glitter glue. You wore a child-sized blazer. It was adorable; you were one of the gayest 11 year-olds I’ve ever seen.”
Ben drops his head into his hands. “I’m hanging up.”
“No, no, no, wait.” The camera wobbles wildly for a second, then Smokey’s face fills the screen, all judgmental whiskers and indifference. “Smokey wants to say hi.”
Ben bites down on a grin, tilts the pan of eggs onto his plate, and, of course, doesn’t hang up.
Jackson just talks like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Through breakfast, as Ben eats standing at the counter.
Through brushing his teeth, shaving, getting dressed (he turns the phone around while he’s pulling on pants,) Jackson’s still on speaker.
They chat about the local articles he’s working on.
An antique lobster boat up for auction, a pod of seals causing mischief in the harbor, a bakery reintroducing their seasonal gingerbread amaretto tart.
It’s not performative. Not peppy or pointed. Just a low, even rhythm that makes space instead of demanding it.
By the time he pulls into the plant parking lot, the edge has worn off completely. That tight, sour tension from his father’s call is drowned out by something better.
He wishes that he could borrow Jackson’s confidence like this every day.
For a moment, as he shuts off the engine and watches the first hint of sunrise slant across the dashboard, he lets himself imagine a version of this that’s real.
Mornings where they don’t need a phone call because Jackson’s already there in the kitchen, making coffee and talking to the cat.
Where the steadiness isn’t something Ben borrows, but something that stays.
He shakes himself out of it before he gets lost in it, but the image stays warm in his chest anyway.
Ben reaches for the phone, already missing the sound of Jackson’s voice. “I gotta head in, Jacks,” he says reluctantly.
Onscreen, Jackson stills for a beat, just looks at Ben like he’s trying to memorize something. Then he leans forward, one forearm braced on his knee, the edge of the coffee mug still visible in his hand. “Go get ‘em, tiger. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
Ben smiles, small, real. “Okay. Yeah. Tonight.”
He ends the call before he can talk himself out of it. Outside, the early morning chill bites at his collar. Light filters thin and golden through the low clouds, reflecting off the windows of Whitaker Seafood
For the first time all week, Ben doesn’t dread walking in.
Ben grabs his hardhat from the hook outside his office and heads straight for logistics. Might as well rip off the bandaid.
Tom’s already there, leaning against a steel table, arms crossed, clipboard in hand.
He holds the clipboard out as Ben approaches, tight-lipped and sullen.
Ben takes it, flipping through. The stack is thicker than usual.
Yesterday’s manifests are still attached, signature lines scribbled over in something that barely qualifies as handwriting.
“Tom,” Ben says, holding up one of the sheets. “What is this?”
Tom doesn’t flinch. “The paperwork.”
“I can’t read it.”
Tom’s jaw works, like he’s chewing on how much he wants to push back. “Look, no one actually checks who signs these. Long as the box is filled, it moves.”
Ben frowns, the unease rising fast and sharp. It’s not just the handwriting. It’s the timing. It’s the way Tom won’t quite look at him. “Well, I check.”
He signs today’s manifests slowly, deliberately, making sure each letter of his signature is legible. Then he hands the clipboard back. “We do things right. Or we don’t do them.”
“You weren’t on the floor yesterday.” Tom lets out a low scoff. “What was I supposed to do, hold everything up until you decided to grace us with your presence?”
Ben doesn’t take the bait. Just looks at him. “My job covers a lot of ground, Tom. Yours is just this. If I’m not down here, you come to me. That’s not optional. Understood?”
Tom looks up, startled.
“Yes, sir,” he says after a beat. Not mocking. Just surprised.
Ben gives a single nod, then hands the clipboard back. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”