Chapter 20
Ben
Ben’s phone has more or less lived in his hand all day, his finger hovering over Jackson’s name. He’s almost texted him a dozen times. Not with anything of value, just: Are you still coming tonight? or ETA? God help him he came pretty close to: About last night…
But now, without warning, the screen lights up:
Here.
He almost yelps.
Ben moves toward the door, trying to summon a calm he absolutely does not feel, as if he hasn’t spent the last thirty minutes roaming the floors of his father’s home, getting in every caterer’s way, muttering “Sorry, sorry, sorry” like an apologetic Roomba.
Through the beveled glass, he spots Jackson standing on the porch in the most ludicrously stylish suit he has ever seen. Rich oxblood, crisp white shirt, slim black tie, pocket square folded just so.
Ben’s knees go a little watery. Be cool. Be relaxed.
He opens the door. “Hi,” Ben says and then immediately winces as his voice cracks like he’s in the eighth grade.
Jackson’s grin sharpens. “Hi yourself.” He steps inside, and it’s even more overwhelming up close. Jackson smells incredible. Like cedar, cardamom and pure distilled confidence.
Ben trails behind him, conscious of how his own three-piece suit suddenly feels like a woolen coffin. “You look…I mean, you always look…but that suit is…” Oh God. He’s somehow worse at this now that they’ve kissed. He is dying. He is actively dying. “Wow.”
“Thank you,” Jackson says, with the easy cadence of a man who is extremely used to being given compliments. “And you look… formal.”
Ben fidgets with his cufflink. “Stiff, you mean.” He’s absolutely right, but it’s the only way Ben knows how to armor up for nights like this.
“Not exactly,” Jackson says, head tilting thoughtfully. “Traditional. Like someone whose family tree has a coat of arms.”
Ben snorts. “It does. It’s hanging in the upstairs hallway along with a sword I’m not allowed to touch.”
“You’re a grown man. Just touch the sword, Ben.” Jackson’s eyes flick toward him, and whatever’s in them makes Ben’s stomach do something that should require a seatbelt.
The memory of last night’s kiss picks that exact moment to stage a full-body ambush. Heat prickles across his skin. His brain, unhelpful as ever, starts running through a list of things he’d like to touch. None of them are cold metal swords. All of them are Jackson.
“And for the record,” Jackson adds, “I didn’t mean you don’t look good.”
Ben’s already overheating under the layers. “It’s just a suit,” he mutters, trying to sound composed and not like a man about to expire from being perceived. “My mom always liked when we dressed up for parties. She said if we looked the part, we’d feel like we belonged in the room.”
Jackson’s smile softens, just slightly. “Smart woman.”
“Yeah, well, her family was in textiles,” he says, shrugging. “I think she might’ve had a bias.”
Ben clears his throat, pointless, since it does absolutely nothing to steady him. “Thanks again for coming early,” he says, stumbling forward. “I thought we could… uh… strategize?” The word sounds ridiculous the second it leaves his mouth. Probably because it is.
Ben does not, in fact, want to strategize.
He doesn’t want to think about Tom McKenna (whose office turned out to be aggressively un-incriminating, save for a truly surprising cabinet full of tiny glass dolphins, but tackiness was not really the crime in question.) or the forged signatures currently set to ruin Ben’s entire life.
What he wants to do is drag Jackson upstairs, push the entire concept of family legacy out a second-story window along the way, and make out with him until he forgets his own name.
Because now Ben knows how soft Jackson’s mouth is.
How composed he can look even mid-kiss. How easily he can wreck a person’s sanity with a single thumb hooked into a collar.
“Or do you want the tour first?” Ben asks, a little too eager.
“Of course I want the tour,” Jackson replies, low and entirely too pleased with himself, like he’s reading exactly what’s on Ben’s mind and is having an excellent time doing it. “Lead the way.”
Ben does, falling back on playing tour guide. His mom had made him practically memorize the spiel years ago.
“This place is known as Hildebrandt Hall,” he says, gesturing around the foyer.
“Built in 1842. It’s classic Cape Cod meets Greek Revival: big wraparound porch, widow’s walk, cedar shingles, fanlight windows.
But modernized along the way. We, uh, enjoy indoor plumbing now.
” He flashes a smile. “It’s a mix of keeping what’s good and adapting to the times. ”
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 and come 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 how not normal 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 is All 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.