Chapter 27
Jackson
Jackson is early on purpose.
Partly for the light, as the orange winter sun sinks behind the horizon. Mostly, he just wants to see Ben before Ben sees him. Before that soft-panic face kicks in.
Josh, a freelancer with a good eye and the requisite patience, blends into the background, camera already up.
Ben stands at the serving table, ears a little pink, ladling chowder one-armed with stubborn determination. His sling’s tucked neatly beneath an apron. He was cautioned against this exertion, but he was determined to meet his commitments.
“Jesus,” Jackson mutters under his breath. “Get that picture. He looks like a Hallmark Channel leading man who’s one snowstorm away from saving the rec center.”
Josh snaps diligently. “You sure he won’t murder you for this?”
“Fifty-fifty shot,” Jackson says, grinning. “Totally worth it.”
Ben glances up mid-ladle and startles. “Jackson?”
Jackson waves, ties on an apron, and slides in beside him.
“You’re early,” Ben says, narrowing his eyes like he’s not charmed. “Why is there a photographer here?”
“I’m doing a story.”
“What story?”
Jackson shrugs, unapologetic. “Told you about it when we met. Community spotlight? Whitaker Seafood’s holiday philanthropy? Just got a little delayed.”
“Didn’t you just make that up to get in the office?”
“Not if I actually write the article. Don’t worry, Josh is good. These will flatter you. You’ll look so noble and only a little tragic.”
Ben gives him a long-suffering sigh that doesn’t quite hide his smile. He’s flagging though, Jackson can see it in the stiff line of his shoulders, the careful way he favors his left side.
“Okay,” Jackson says, gentler now, tugging the ladle from his hand. “You’re still on injured reserve. Go take a break.”
Ben sits without protest, a pleasant surprise.
Jackson expected at least a token resistance, maybe a grimace paired with a questionable “I’m fine,” followed by ten more minutes of stubborn service.
But instead, Ben just folds down onto the bench with a sigh, chin in hand, eyes fixed on Jackson like he’s got the best seat in the house. He’s learning.
Jackson works the ladle; Ben heckles from the sidelines with soft, fond precision.
“Not to critique your form, but you did almost land that scoop directly into the bread basket.”
The line is softened by a smile, a little glow that rises to his cheeks every time Jackson glances over at him, mock-offended, genuinely amused. Between the two of them, they’re running the least efficient, most endearing soup line station in Massachusetts. The hour glides by.
When they’re finished, Jackson helps Ben out of the apron and into his coat. Outside of the steamy church basement, the chill hits hard. The sky’s gone full winter’s eve, the air crisp and glittering.
Ben links their arms without thinking. Jackson draws a little closer, guiding them along the icy sidewalk, automatically adjusting to Ben’s pace. He keeps an eye on Ben’s face, and sees the pain he’s masking.
“We can skip this. Just sit somewhere,” Jackson offers.
But Ben shakes his head. “I’m good.” Then, seeing Jackson’s raised eyebrow, he squeezes his arm gently, his smile shy and devastating. “Promise. I really want to do this with you.”
Jackson’s freezing. He’s never felt warmer.
The square is alive and tugging at every sense: Nat King Cole rasping through grainy speakers, children shrieking as they race across the snow covered green, woodsmoke and the scent of kettle corn curling over everything.
Jackson’s still taking it all in when Ben tugs him gently toward a stall, hand already fishing for his wallet, and buys them each a hot chocolate.
“For your heroic ladle work,” he says, passing over a cup studded with mini-marshmallows.
Jackson accepts it with mock gravitas. “At last. My tireless service acknowledged.”
They meander through the crowd. Jackson spots Mort, completely outnumbered, corralling a gaggle of grandkids bouncing off his coat like pinballs. He elbows Jackson on the way past “Look at you, freezing your ass off with the rest of us locals.”
Jackson chuckles. “Silver Shoals wore me down.” He drops his voice a little, “Keep an eye on your inbox. I’ve got something big brewing.”
Mort hums. “Pulitzer incoming? You’ve certainly taken your time on this one.”
“I’ll settle for a special feature spread and an ‘I told you so.’ But maybe leave some room on the mantle, just in case.”
They keep walking. Jackson’s arm presses warm against Ben’s as they pass through knots of neighbors, families, college kids home for the break.
He spots Eli tucked beside Alex, both of them huddled close over travel mugs.
Billy waves wildly from beside a man in all black and eyeliner, grinning like a golden retriever.
Billy has discovered the only goth in Silver Shoals.
Jackson offers up a silent prayer for his survival. The goth, that is.
Ben’s phone buzzes. He checks it, blinks, then lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Audit’s been pushed. January at the earliest.”
Jackson bumps Ben’s shoulder gently. “Christmas miracle.”
The mayor climbs the steps of Town Hall and starts a speech that Jackson will absolutely not remember later and that Mort will definitely yell at him for not taking notes on. He doesn’t care. His eyes are on Ben, cheeks pink, lashes tipped in gold, smile quiet and honest and so, so full.
Jackson’s gone. Hopeless.
And then: the switch flips.
One clean spark, then the whole square blooms with soft light, a thousand points of warmth. Strings of bulbs loop from storefront to lamppost, outlining every roofline and window in quiet magic. The evergreen in the center glows like something sacred.
Jackson’s not immune to it. He sighs softly, leaning closer. “I could do quite a few of these with you I think. How do you feel about extremely early, extremely public proposals?”
Ben doesn’t even pause. “I think I’d rather be audited, thanks.”
Jackson grins. “Shit. What am I supposed to do with 400 tealight candles and a children’s choir now?”
Ben laughs, leans in, his breath a brush of warmth at Jackson’s ear. “You’re gonna have to ghostwrite my vows, you know.”
Jackson’s voice drops, velvet over gravel. “I’m workshopping some ideas.”
Ben turns, lips parted like he wants to say something more. But Jackson kisses him before he can.
Ben melts into it, fingers curling in Jackson’s coat, body folding into his with a soft, surrendering sigh that undoes Jackson. Ben kisses like he means it, with a promise of endless tomorrows.
Jackson kisses him back like it’s the most important story he’s ever been trusted to tell.
Because it is.
And he intends to write it with Ben. Every day. Every season. Again, and again, and again.