Page 44 of Benson
Kyle:I love you.
He hit send and let the silence settle again, softer now. Maybe Daddy Benson wouldn’t reply. Maybe it was too late. It was one in the morning here, and with a three-hour time difference, he would be sound asleep at four in the morning.
Kyle got up slowly. The only noise was the hum of the air conditioner. The air felt fresh and cold. He crossed to thebedroom he hadn’t slept in. After Daddy Benson had left he’d tucked the envelope away. Inside was the picture Daddy Benson had given him: an enormous house in Michigan, snow dusting the roof, porch light glowing like a welcome.
He turned it over, already knowing the words by heart but needing to see them again.
Kyle, this is our home and address. It’s open to you at any time of the day or night. I’ll be waiting. Love, Daddy Benson.
His chest tightened. The handwriting was steady, deliberate. Daddy Benson had meant every word.
Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, the picture resting in his hands like something sacred. The money was still there too—folded bills Daddy Benson had pressed into his palm without ceremony, just insistence when he tried to return it. In case you need to get back.
He didn’t know what to do with the ache that roared in his chest. It was too much—this pull between possibility and comfort, between the job waiting in Costa Mesa and the warmth of someone who had once looked at him like he mattered. Mr. Myers had offered him a future. Daddy Benson had offered him a home.
Kyle felt torn in a way that made him dizzy. He wanted to believe he could start fresh here, that California could be the place where things finally clicked. But the thought of Daddy Benson waiting, porch light on, heart open—it made everything else feel hollow.
He didn’t know what he was going to do the next day. He didn’t know whether he’d show up at the club or book a flight. The uncertainty pressed against his ribs like a weight he couldn’t shift.
That night, Kyle curled up under the blanket with his teddy bear, the picture still clutched in his hand. He cried quietly, the kind of crying that didn’t ask for attention—just release. Andwhen sleep finally came, it was heavy and restless, filled with dreams of snow-covered porches and voices calling his name.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Benson
Petoskey, Michigan, December 25th
As soon as Benson stepped off the plane, the Michigan air greeted him with its familiar wintry chill tinged with pine. His driver waited just beyond the terminal, a silent nod and open door the only welcome Benson needed. The ride north was long and winding, the kind that gave space for silence to stretch. Hespoke little. He didn’t need to. The ache in his chest had settled in like an old companion.
The gates to his home stood tall and weathered, navy iron against the bright snow on the ground. Beyond them, the house stood there—four stories of warm wood and deep blue trim, nestled against the curve of Lake Michigan. The lake itself lay behind the house, its surface glassy and still, broken only by the occasional ripple of wind. A stretch of sand sprinkled with snow framed the shoreline. It was beautiful. Not a sound broke the stillness. The weight of it all was too much to bear. Kyle was the only thing missing.
The driver pulled up slowly, snow crunching beneath the tires. The moment the car stopped, the silence inside him grew louder. He wondered how Kyle was doing alone. And again, his heart ached.
He didn’t move right away. Just sat there, staring at the front steps, the porch swing swaying gently in the breeze. It should’ve felt like home. It used to. But now, everything looked like a sacred scrapbook he couldn’t touch. The lake even felt hollow without Kyle’s laugh echoing through it.
Benson had asked him to come home with him several times. He wanted to beg him to leave and move in, but he feared Kyle would regret leaving the sunny California beaches.
He had pictured them here together, waking up to the sound of water lapping the shore, sharing coffee in the mornings, building something real. But Kyle wasn’t ready. Newport Beach was still his rhythm—sunlight and surf, and who knows what else he wanted from California. Michigan felt too far, too tranquil, too much like a commitment he couldn’t make.
Benson understood. He did. But understanding didn’t soften the ache. He thought about Kyle’s hands, the way they lingered on his face that last morning. The way his voice cracked when he said, “I just need more time.” Benson had nodded,kissed him once, and walked away before he could beg for something Kyle couldn’t give. The hardest part was that Kyle didn’t even ask him to reconsider leaving. He hated leaving on Christmas Day, when they had planned to celebrate together on the beach. He had to be home because the board was meeting the day after. His brother made it sound conditional on his being present for the family dinner on Christmas Day.
Now, the emptiness settled in his chest like fog. He missed the way Kyle filled a room, the way he made Benson feel seen, even in silence. He missed the plans they hadn’t made yet, the ones he’d already believed in.
As the driver opened the door, Benson stepped out slowly, the air bitter cold against his skin. The lake stretched wide behind the house, beautiful and indifferent. He walked toward the porch, each step heavy with the weight of what wasn’t. The house waited for him as always, but it wasn’t home anymore. Not tonight.
Inside, the scent of cinnamon and apples wrapped around him before he even saw her. Della McCoy—his niece, his cook, his anchor—stood in the wide kitchen with her arms already open. She was twenty-two now, all grown up, with dark hair pulled back in a loose braid and eyes the color of a storm just before it breaks. She lived in the bungalow behind the home, but she was always there when he needed her. She knew when to show up.
“Uncle Ben,” she whispered, pulling him into a hug that lasted longer than it needed to. He didn’t let go first.
They sat at the kitchen island, the lake stretching out behind the windows like a painting too large to frame. Della poured coffee into thick red Christmas ceramic mugs and slid a warm slice of apple pie in front of him with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
“Thanks, Della. What a delightful surprise!”
“Where’s your new boyfriend?” She asked as if she already knew the answer.
Benson stared outside at the lake. “It’s kind of complicated,” he said. “He wanted to stay in California by the beaches.”
Della didn’t speak right away, but she touched his hand. Her fingers were warm and steady. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you must have cared about him.”
