Chapter Twenty-One
Benson
Newport Beach, California
Benson packed quietly that morning, folding his clothes with slow, deliberate hands.
The condo was still dim, the light just beginning to stretch across the floor.
Kyle didn’t come to bed last night, which Benson understood so he hadn’t pushed.
If he had, it would have been more difficult to leave.
There was a weight between them, not heavy with anger—just the kind that comes when two people know something is ending, even if it’s not forever.
After breakfast, they sat cross-legged on the rug and opened their presents.
Benson had wrapped Kyle’s in Santa Claus paper with elves and red ribbons.
Inside was a sketchbook with thick, textured pages and a set of colored pencils—tools for capturing the quiet moments Kyle always noticed but rarely spoke aloud.
Tucked into the back cover was a pressed leaf from the tree they’d sat under, its veins delicate and gold.
Kyle smiled faintly, fingers brushing the leaf. “You remembered,” he said.
“Of course I did,” Benson replied, voice low. “You see things no one else does.”
Kyle handed him a small box wrapped in faded blue tissue. Inside was a silver compass, old and worn, the kind that had clearly lived a life before this one. On the back, Kyle had etched a single word: home.
Benson swallowed hard. “You’re trying to kill me,” he said, half-laughing, half-breaking.
Kyle looked down. “I just wanted you to know what you are to me.”
“You can change your mind and come home with me.” Benson watched Kyle’s painful expression; the kind that settled behind the ribs and made it hard to breathe.
Kyle wouldn’t meet his eyes. He just stared at the floor, voice barely above a whisper. “My answer’s the same. I’m not ready to leave.”
The words weren’t new, but they still landed like lead.
Benson had hoped—maybe foolishly—that something had shifted.
That Kyle might look up and see how much he was wanted; how much he was already home.
But Benson saw the same guarded distance in Kyle’s posture, the same need to prove something to himself.
And it hurt. Not because Kyle was wrong, but because Benson understood.
He saw the conflict in Kyle’s eyes when they finally met his. He saw how it tore at him to cause pain, even unintentionally. Benson didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice. He just nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.
The Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner, casting a warm light over the scattered wrapping paper and half-drunk mugs of cocoa. Two more presents remained beneath the branches, one for each of them. Benson handed Kyle his with a small, tentative smile, and took his own.
They opened them at the same time. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were matching red sweaters—soft, thick-knit, and unmistakably chosen with care.
Benson’s fingers brushed the fabric, and something in his chest tightened.
It was simple, really. Just a sweater. But it felt like more.
Like a silent offering. A reminder that even if Kyle wasn’t ready to leave, he was still seen. Still loved.
Kyle looked over, sweater in hand, and for a moment, Benson saw something flicker in his expression. Not certainty. Not surrender. But maybe a crack in the wall. Maybe the beginning of something softer.
They sat in silence for a moment, the gifts between them. Then Benson reached under the tree again, where Kyle’s last present had been, and pulled out a folded envelope.
“I paid for the condo for the next month,” he said. “And if you need anything—money, help, anything—just call. I mean it.”
Kyle opened the envelope and saw the cash, thick and quietly generous. There was a picture of an enormous home on a lake and on the back a note reading: 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.
He didn’t speak immediately. Just looked at Benson, eyes unreadable.
“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” Benson said, voice cracking. “Leaving you here. Walking away when all I want is for you to get on that plane with me and then build something with you.”
He felt Kyle lean in and the warmth of the kiss on his lips. When Kyle pulled back quicker than Benson wanted, Kyle whispered, “Thank you. For everything.”
Benson nodded, trying to hold himself together.
“I love you, Kyle, and always will. But I need to be in Michigan. I thought I could stay here with you, but I need to make sure people don’t become homeless because I wasn’t there.
That’s what would happen if I stayed here. ” His voice trembled, close to tears.
“I’m sorry I have to stay,” Kyle said. “I promised myself I would. I’m sorry if I made it seem like I might leave with you. I need to know whether I could make it here. If I could be someone I’m proud of.”
Benson didn’t argue. He just held Kyle’s hand for a long moment, then stood. They hugged tightly; the kind of hug that says more than words ever could. Then they said goodbye.
Tears poured down Benson’s face as he drove the van to the airport. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. The road blurred, but he kept going. At the terminal, he sat in the gate area, staring at nothing, feeling everything.
The flight was quiet, but not peaceful. Benson stared out the window, watching clouds drift past like ghosts. He hated leaving Kyle alone. Hated the empty seat beside him. Hated the way his heart felt like it had been left behind in a condo by the sea.
He thought about the compass. About the word etched onto its back. Home. And he wondered if Kyle would ever point it toward him again.
The compass sat heavy in Benson’s pocket as he boarded the plane, its weight far more than metal. Kyle hadn’t said ‘I love you.’ Not when they hugged. Not when they kissed goodbye. Not even when Benson stood in the doorway, eyes burning, heart cracked wide open.
It broke him.
He tried to tell himself it didn’t mean Kyle didn’t feel it.
He had said it in Arizona. Maybe Kyle was just scared, or stubborn, or protecting something fragile inside himself.
But the silence where those words should’ve been echoed louder than anything else.
Benson had given everything—his heart, his plans, his future—and Kyle had kissed him, thanked him, and let him go.
The plane lifted off, and Benson stared out the window, watching the coastline shrink beneath him. He hated this flight. Hated the way the seat beside him was empty. Hated the way his chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and left behind in that condo by the sea.
He was flying to Michigan because he had to. Because if he didn’t show up, the board would vote without him. The rents would rise. Families would be forced out. People would lose their homes. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.
But it felt cruel, this choice. Like he was being punished for caring too much in too many directions. He wanted to be the man who stayed. Who chose love. Who built a life with Kyle, slow and steady, like the waves they’d watched together. But instead, he was the man who left. Again.
And Kyle hadn’t asked him to stay or to visit him on his next vacation. Nothing.
That was the part that stung the most. Not just the absence of I love you, but the absence of don’t go.
Benson pressed his forehead against the window, eyes burning. He thought about the envelope he’d tucked under Kyle’s gift, thick with cash, a safety net. He thought about the condo, paid for a month in advance. He’d done everything he could to make Kyle feel supported. Wanted.
But maybe Kyle didn’t want to be wanted. Not like that. Maybe he needed to prove something to himself first. Benson understood that. He respected it. But it didn’t make the ache any less.
He felt foolish. Vulnerable. Like he’d opened his chest and handed over everything inside, only to be met with a gentle smile and a closed door.
He loved Kyle. Deeply. Fiercely. And he didn’t regret having said it. But God, it hurt not to hear it back.
As the plane cut through the clouds, Benson closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He told himself this wasn’t the end. Maybe Kyle would find his way back to him. That maybe, the compass would point home again.
But for now, he was alone. And the silence Kyle left behind was louder than any goodbye.