Page 56 of Benson
Kyle stared at the screen; the timestamp was clear. Benson had called while they were at the beach. While he was laughing in the waves, trying to forget. While his phone sat silent and charging, Benson had reached out.
And Kyle hadn’t been there.
A wave of emotion crashed over him—regret, disbelief, a sharp ache that settled in his chest like a bruise. He’d wanted Benson to call. Had imagined it. Had longed for it. And now, the moment had come and gone unnoticed.
He felt sick. Like he’d missed something sacred.
“He called,” Kyle whispered, voice cracking.
Juan stepped closer, reading the screen over his shoulder. “Then it’s not over.”
But Kyle couldn’t speak. He just stared at the missed call, heart aching with the weight of what might have been said, what might still be waiting.
And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel like rejection—it felt like a chance he hadn’t known he’d been given.
Kyle sat on the edge of his bed, the missed call from Benson still glowing on his screen like a question he didn’t know how to answer.
“See you at the club. Got to go.”
“Thanks for listening. See you later.”
The condo was empty now that Juan and his music were gone, and the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner. He stared at the phone, thumb hovering over Benson’s name.
He didn’t think. He just tapped “Call.”
The line rang once. Then twice. Then again.
Kyle held his breath, heart thudding in his chest. Maybe Benson would pick up. Maybe he’d say his name in that steady, low voice that always made Kyle feel like he belonged somewhere.
But then the voicemail clicked on.
Kyle froze.
The automated message played, familiar and distant. He could speak. He could say something. He could tell Benson hesaw the missed call, that he was sorry, that he missed him more than he knew how to say.
But the words wouldn’t come.
He waited in silence as the seconds ticked by, then he ended the call without leaving a message.
His hand dropped to his lap, phone still warm in his palm. The silence felt heavier now—like something he’d chosen, even though it hurt.
Kyle lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Benson had been nervous when he called. Wondering if he’d hoped Kyle would answer. Wondering if he’d felt the same ache Kyle felt now.
He didn’t know what came next. He knew the distance between them had never felt so large.
Chapter Thirty
Benson
Petoskey, Michigan
Benson spent the morning at the long boardroom table at the family company. His voice was punctuated by the gentle hum of the overhead lights as he discussed rent adjustments and winter subsidies with the board. It was routine, but necessary—he believed in fairness, in keeping homes warm and affordable,especially during the holidays. By the time he returned home, the sky had dimmed to a soft gray, and the house was still. He settled at the dining room table, pen in hand, and continued writing Christmas wishes for tenants and staff. Each note was personal, a loving gesture to remind people they mattered.
The doorbell rang just as he was finishing a card for Mrs. Ellison, who’d lost her husband in the spring. He stood fiddling with his tie and opened the door. His father stood there, stiff-backed and unreadable.
Benson let him in without a word, guiding him to the kitchen and offering a drink—bourbon, neat, the way his father liked it. The silence between them was taut, but Benson had learned to navigate it. Or so he thought.
“You’re dating a prostitute,” his father said, voice cold and clipped.
