Chapter Twenty-Five
Kyle
The next morning, Kyle wandered into a beachside shop and bought a simple navy bathing suit.
It reminded him of Daddy Benson—of the way he always gravitated toward deep, calming colors.
As he stepped back out into the sun, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
The sound made his heart leap. For a split second, he hoped—really hoped—it was Daddy Benson.
He pulled it out quickly, breath catching, but the screen showed a message from Mr. Greco.
Disappointment settled in his chest like a slow tide. He hadn’t heard from Daddy Benson. Not even a “how are you.” And yet, he kept checking his phone like it might change something.
Mr. Greco had sent pictures—snapshots of the dancers from this week’s Christmas performance. Red velvet, glitter, wide smiles frozen mid-spin. Kyle scrolled through them slowly, each image carefully chosen, each one a reminder of the world he’d left behind.
A second message followed from Mr.Greco:
Everyone misses you. Though we’re all jealous you’re in sunny California and we’re freezing our asses off in the city.
Kyle returned a text.
Thank you so much. That means the world to me. Say hi to everyone.
Kyle’s eyes began to sting. It wasn’t the heat.
It was the sudden contrast—how his comings and goings had always felt like background noise, like something people barely noticed.
But here was Mr.Greco, taking time to send him photos, to remind him he hadn’t been forgotten.It meant more than he expected.
And yet, the one message he truly wanted—the one from Daddy Benson—never came.
He sat down on a bench outside the shop,the ocean stretching wide in front of him, and let the silence settle. He didn’t cry. Not fully. But the ache in his chest was real, and it wasn’t going anywhere.
Kyle wandered down to the boardwalk and found an empty bench facing the ocean. The sun was high, the waves gentle, and the breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen. It should’ve felt peaceful. But inside, Kyle was anything but.
He sat down slowly, the plastic shopping bag crinkling at his side, and pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, heart already bracing. He opened his messages.
Still nothing.
The text he’d sent the night before sat there, unread. Just a few words. Nothing dramatic. Just “I love you.” But Daddy Benson hadn’t answered. Not even an “I miss you.”
Kyle stared at the screen, the ache in his chest tightening. Maybe Daddy Benson wouldn’t reply. Maybe he was done trying. Maybe Kyle had waited too long, asked for too much space, and now the silence was his answer.
He wanted to hear from him. God, he wanted it more than he wanted anything else. Just a sign that Daddy Benson still cared. Still thought about him.
But calling felt impossible. What if Daddy Benson didn’t pick up? What if he did and sounded distant, cold, like someone who’d already moved on? Kyle wasn’t ready to hear that. He wasn’t readyto feel that final break.
He kept his phone in hand, staring at the ocean and trying not to cry in public. The waves rolled in and out, steady and indifferent. And Kyle felt like he was drifting—untethered, unsure, and quietly heartbroken.
He tucked the phone away, leaned back against the bench, and whispered to himself, “I’m sorry,” though he wasn’t sure if it was meant for Daddy Benson or for the part of himself that had let him go.
He stopped at one of the stands to have lunch since he’d skipped breakfast.If Daddy Benson was here, he would have made him take the time to eat.
After lunch, he changed to his bathing trunks and ran through the hot sand to the ocean.
He tried not to think much about it—just knew he needed to feel the water.
Newport Beach was warm, the sun soft against his shoulders as he stepped into the ocean.
The waves curled around his ankles, then his waist, and finally he dove in, letting the salt sting his skin and clear his thoughts.
For a few minutes, he floated, eyes closed, trying to forget the way Daddy Benson had looked at him when he said goodbye.
But the ache didn’t leave. It just settled deeper.
By late afternoon, Kyle was back in his apartment, towel-drying his hair and staring at the outfit laid out on his bed. His first night at Bun Boys. The name still made him smile—half ridiculous, half endearing. He wasn’t sure what to expect, only that he needed the distraction.
When he arrived, the club was already humming with energy. Lights pulsed faintly overhead, and the scent of cologne and sweat lingered in the air. Mr. Myers, the club manager, greeted him with afirm handshake and picked up an iPad from a vacant table.
“You’ve got one hour,” he said, leading Kyle to the dressing room. “Christmas show tonight. Cute costumes, easy choreography. You’ll be fine.”
Kyle nodded, nerves fluttering in his chest. Mr. Myers sat him down with the iPad and hit Play. The video showed dancers in red velvet shorts, candy cane suspenders, and glittering Santa hats. The moves were playful—hip rolls, spins, synchronized steps with just enough sass to make the crowd cheer.
As Kyle watched, another dancer walked in—tall, tan, with a warm smile and a confident stride. His dark hair was long and matched his eyes.
“You’re the new guy?” he asked, pulling off his hoodie.
“Yeah. Kyle Foster.”
“Juan Garcia,” he said, offering a fist bump. “Stick with me tonight. I’ll make sure you don’t crash and burn.”
Kyle laughed, grateful for the kindness.“Thanks. I’m a little nervous.”
Juan shrugged. “Everyone is their first night. Just smile, hit your marks, and don’t forget to breathe. Oh, and if someone tips you with a twenty, wink. Trust me.”
They ran through the steps together,Juan counting out loud and correcting Kyle’s footwork with gentle taps and quiet encouragement.
By the time the lights were dimmed, and the music started, Kyle felt something close to ready.
The other four dancers introduced themselves to Kyle which made him feel part of the dance squad.
He appreciated their support especially on his first night.
The opening set was filled with flirtatious smiles and rapid, energetic movements to the tune of “Jingle Bell Rock.” Kyle moved with the group, his body catching the rhythm, his smile growing more real with every cheer from the crowd.
He spun, winked, and let the music carry him.
The audience loved him—hands reaching out, laughter rising, tips tucked into his waistband with playful grins.
The second set, starting with the song“Santa Baby,” unfolded with a slower, more sensual tempo and a sultry twist. Kyle danced with deliberate grace, letting his movements speak.
He caught Juan’s eye once, who gave him a thumbs-up mid-spin.
By the end of the number, Kyle was breathless, flushed, and surprised by how alive he felt.
But when the music faded and he stepped offstage, the rush gave way to silence. He sat in the dressing room with a towel draped around his neck and thought of Daddy Benson.
He imagined him back in Michigan, maybe sitting by the lake, maybe staring at the stars like they used to. Kyle missed the way Daddy Benson listened, really listened. The way he made silence feel safe. He missed the steadiness, the warmth, the way Daddy Benson’s hand had fit perfectly in his.
He pulled out his phone, stared at Daddy Benson’s name in his contacts, and didn’t call. He still hadn’t returned Kyle’smessage from last night.
Instead, he whispered to himself, “I hope you’re okay,” and tucked the ache away, just for tonight.
Before he left, he invited Juan to the condo to swim and practice more dance steps for other routines. They exchanged phone numbers and addresses, and he learned Juan had a motorcycle and lived in Costa Mesa near Bun Boys.