Page 46 of Benson
Benson showered and wore the matching red sweater he and Kyle had. When he had bought them, he imagined them wearing them at the same time. The sweater made him feel closer to Kyle. The ache of missing him settled in his chest.
Benson drove slowly, letting the winding road to his parents’ house stretch longer than it needed to. Della sat beside him, silent but present, her gaze flickering between the trees and her phone, sensing the tension in him without naming it. Benson’s stomach tightened every time he thought about what might wait at the end of the drive.
His parents’ home stood just beyond a grove of old oaks, a wide colonial with pale stone and deep green shutters. It was lit with Christmas lights. The porch wrapped around the front like an embrace, and the windows glowed with warm light. The Christmas tree lights were displayed behind sheer curtains. Inside, the rooms were filled with soft rugs, framed family photos, and the scent of rosemary and roast drifting from the kitchen. It was a house built for comfort, for tradition—but tonight, it felt like a place where old wounds might stir.
As soon as Benson and Della stepped into the foyer, Mr. Willis, the butler, ushered them to the large living room. His mother, always gracious, kissed his cheek and hugged Della tightly. His father gave a quiet nod from his armchair, a glass of bourbon in hand. Then, a figure emerged. It was Logan holding a glass of red wine. Some people said they looked alike, their features mirroring each other as if they were twins. He was just a year older than Benson. They stood at the same height, both tall, muscular, and had deep blue eyes with dark hair.
“Where’s your little boy toy?” Logan asked, his voice sharp, not curious but cutting.
Benson froze. The words weren’t just a question. They were a jab, a reminder, a dismissal. Logan stood with his arms crossed, the same smug tilt to his mouth that Benson remembered from childhood arguments and teenage fistfights. His brother hadn’t changed. Divorce had made him bitter, not softer. Logan didn’t speak or approach Della in anyway. She was nothing to him. Benson held a deep-seated hatred for everythinghis older brother represented. Despite their similar features, they had distinct personalities, making them extremely different individuals.
“He’s not here,” Benson said, already bracing.
Logan scoffed. “Guess he couldn’t handle a traditional family.”
That was enough.
“Mind your damn business, asshole,” Benson snapped, his voice louder than he meant, but not louder than he felt. “You don’t get to talk about him like that.”
The room went still. His mother’s hand paused mid-reach for a serving tray. His father looked up, eyes narrowed. Della shifted closer, her presence grounding him.
Logan stepped forward, but Benson didn’t flinch. “You always act like you’re better than everyone,” Logan muttered.
“No,” Benson said, jaw tight. “I just don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”
The argument fizzled into silence, heavy and unresolved. Benson didn’t apologize. He didn’t need to.
Dinner was served in the dining room, where the table was set with care—red linen napkins, polished silver, and the roast his mother had spent all afternoon preparing. There were roasted carrots, buttery potatoes, and warm rolls that steamed when broken open. Benson ate quietly, the food rich and familiar, but his appetite was dulled by the ache in his chest and the sting of his brother’s words
After dinner, Benson heard his mother’s voice before he saw her—soft, deliberate, with the faintest trace of concern tucked beneath the words. “Come to the kitchen,” she called, and he followed, knowing she’d already set the kettle on and folded a napkin just so beside the mug she always saved for him.
His mother stood by the window, framed in Christmas lights. Her light brown hair had some golden highlights. She wastiny, almost fragile-looking, with a kind of elegance that came from years of standing at chalkboards and listening more than she spoke. Her blue eyes, still sharp, held the kind of clarity that made people tell her things they hadn’t meant to say. She had been an English teacher for most of her life, and even now, retired, she carried herself with the same gentle authority—never demanding, but impossible to ignore.
“I’m glad you didn’t stay in California,” she said, turning to him with a look of both relief and apology. “I was afraid you were so angry about what happened with Logan…about the rents…that you were walking away. From all of it.”
He didn’t answer right away. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, her embrace light but steady. It was the kind of hug that said more than words could—one that reached back through years of scraped knees, late-night phone calls, and disappointments neither of them had spoken aloud.
Then she pulled back just enough to look at him. “And the young man?” she asked gently.
Benson hesitated, his gaze drifting to the steam rising from the kettle. “It’s complicated,” he said. “But I hope.”
She didn’t press. She just nodded, her expression softening, as if hope itself was enough for now.
Outside, the night deepened. Inside, Benson sat beside Della, grateful for her muted loyalty. And though the house was filled with family, he felt the absence of Kyle like a shadow across the table.
After they shared dessert and exchanged gifts, Benson and Della left.
Later, when Benson was alone in his office, he sat at the desk in his study, the lake just beyond the window, its surface dark and still beneath the evening sky. The house was so still—Della had gone to the bungalow, and the only sound was the soft ticking of the old clock on the wall. He stared at the blank sheetof paper in front of him, the pen heavy in his hand. He hadn’t planned to write. But the silence had grown too loud, and the words had nowhere else to go.
He began slowly, the ink catching on the page.
Kyle,
I don’t know whether you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever send it. But I need to say something, even if it’s just to the quiet.
His handwriting was steady, but his heart wasn’t. Every word felt like a thread pulled loose.
I miss you. Not just the way you smiled when you were trying not to laugh, or the way you always knew when I needed space before I even asked. I miss the way you made any place we stayed feel like it could be ours. Even though you aren’t here, I’m imagining you in every room.
