Page 12 of Benson
“Do you know if it is a girl or a boy?” Kyle asked.
“It’s a boy.”
“Awe!”
“Thank you again, Kyle.” She winked.
It went on like that, name after name: Jada, Tasha, Isabel, Kayla. Each time Benson read a name, the girl’s hand shot up. Kyle delivered the gifts with a smile that never wore out.
One girl, Lila, asked him if he was single. He stammered something about not dating non-elves, and the entire room cracked up.
Benson mostly let Kyle have the spotlight. It was good for him, good for both of them. Seeing Kyle light up in that room, surrounded by laughter and curiosity, made Benson’s chest ache in the best way. He needed to have a serious conversation with Kyle; the weight of the matter pressed heavily on his chest. He wanted to make Kyle his boy.
Sister Amelia came in once all the gifts were handed out, her long black habit swishing as she beckoned everyone down the hall. The dining room was enormous, with mismatched chairs and a table that looked salvaged from an old schoolhouse. Cake slices were already plated, glistening with too-sweet frosting. Coffee steamed in mugs. The girls dug in and askedquestions between bites: How old are you? Do elves drive trucks? Is Benson really your dad?
Benson let Kyle field most of it, enjoying the buzz. He leaned back, the coffee warming his hands, and let himself drift. The girls, for all their teenage bravado, still clung to a kind of wonder. It felt fragile and real—like something worth protecting.
Eventually, they said goodbye, with more hugs and some whispered thank-yous that stuck longer than they should’ve. After they’d changed their clothes, they returned to the truck. Kyle hoisted himself into the passenger seat.
“That was wild,” Kyle said, buckling in. “They were sweet. Kind of chaotic, but sweet.”
Benson nodded, settling behind the wheel. “You handled it like a pro.”
Kyle smiled out the window, watching the home disappear behind them. “It made them so happy.”
“Kindness goes a long way,” Benson said. “More than you know.”
“But I do know.”
He didn’t say the rest out loud: that places like St. Catherine’s held pieces of the world that most people ignored. Twelve girls. Twelve stories. Too many unanswered letters and uncelebrated birthdays. But for one afternoon, they got wrapped presents with their names. A goofy elf with frosting on his sleeve. And someone who showed up just to say they care and they matter.
Benson’s hand tightened on the wheel, eyes scanning the snowy road ahead. He wasn’t sure what kind of man Santa was supposed to be, but maybe for today, he’d got close enough.
Chapter Seven
Kyle
Missouri
The gas station smelled of smoke from nearby chimneys and rubber, and Benson took his sweet time at the pump. Kyle leaned back in the passenger seat, watching the sky fade from dusty pink to winter gray. They’d been on the road all day—the silence mostly relaxed, broken only by Benson’s occasional humming along to classic rock.
When they finally pulled into a motel in St. Louis, Missouri, it was one of those roadside places with flickering signs and a half-empty parking lot. The room Kyle shared with Benson was filled with a sense of warmth, their easy friendship making the space echo with comfortable silences and easy conversation. Benson took his shower first and steam still hung in the air when Kyle rushed in to take his. Kyle felt fatigue in his bones. The hot shower helped. It melted the long miles off his skin and gave him room to breathe.
“Kyle,” Benson casually called through the bathroom door.
“I’m finished.” He wrapped a fluffy white towel around his waist and walked out of the steamy bathroom.
Benson stood by the window in tight jeans and a royal blue sweater.
“There’s this bar—a little gay club, not far from here. Could be fun.”
Kyle froze for half a second, nodding like it was no big deal. “Yeah, sure.”
But his thoughts twisted as he changed into a clean pair of jeans and shirt. He wondered if “fun” meant Benson would find someone, someone charming and sexy and maybe a little reckless. Someone easier to love. And he’d leave Kyle in a booth nursing his drink, pretending it didn’t sting.
They got there around ten. The place was loud without being overwhelming. Old brick walls, rainbow string lights draped across the ceiling, and a dance floor that pulsed with bass and glitter.
Kyle had expected discomfort. Awkward watching. But Benson bought their drinks—bourbon for himself, something fruity for Kyle—and looked at him like he wasn’t just tagging along.
