Page 60 of Benson
Kyle held on a moment longer, then stepped back. “Thanks for everything. For rides. For listening. For not judging. And finding that frozen ticket. That was life-changing.”
Juan grinned. “You were never boring, Kyle. And so much fun to be around. I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too. Keep in touch.”
Kyle stood there, arms crossed, watching Juan go.
The condo, the ocean, the porch light—they all blurred behind him as the motorcycle pulled away.
And Kyle whispered to himself, “Let this be the start of something real.”
At three in the morning, Kyle was surrounded by half-zipped bags and scattered clothes. The condo was quiet—the kind that made every sound feel louder. He paused by the sliding glass doors, looking out at the ocean. The waves shimmered under the moonlight, soft and endless.
“Goodbye, California,” he whispered. “Thank you for everything. Even the hard parts.”
He called an Uber, then stood in the doorway one last time, letting the salt air fill his lungs. It was less than an hour’s drive at this hour with little traffic.
LAX was half-asleep, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Kyle stood in line, backpack slung over his shoulder, hoodie pulled tight.
“When’s the next flight to Pellston Regional Airport?” he asked the attendant.
“Twenty minutes,” she said. “You just made it. But you have one stop in Detroit.”
“How long is the flight?”
“Eight hours and thirty-eight minutes, which includes your stopover.”
Kyle nodded and handed her the ticket voucher.
She checked him in quickly, and he walked toward the gate, heart thudding. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and the air smelled like coffee, jet fuel, and nerves. He’d never flown before. Not once. Not even as a kid. And now he was about to be suspended in the sky for eight hours and thirty-eight minutes—long enough to rethink everything, long enough to feel every inch of distance between California and Michigan. No time to back out. No time to second-guess. Just a boarding pass and a gate number and the panic of stepping into the unknown. The plane waited like a promise—unwritten, uncertain, but his.
As he settled into his seat, Kyle buckled the belt with trembling hands. The cabin was dim, with the hum of the engines already vibrating through the floor. He stared out the window, watching the tarmac blur under the early morning light. His palms were damp. His chest felt tight. He tried to breathe evenly, but the fear crept in any way—what if the plane dropped? What if he couldn’t handle the altitude, the confinement, the sheer unnaturalness of flying?
But beneath the fear, something stronger pulsed: love.
He didn’t know what Michigan would bring. He didn’t know if he’d be met with silence and closed doors. But he knew he had to try. Benson wasn’t just someone he cared about—he was someone Kyle needed. Needed in a way that made his chest ache, in a way that made him leave behind his other dream.
Kyle loved Benson with his entire being. Not the kind of love that was easy or convenient, but the kind that made you pack your life into a bag and board a plane for the first time in your life. The kind that made you risk rejection just to stand in front of someone and say, I choose you.
As the plane taxied down the runway, Kyle gripped the armrest and whispered to himself, “Please let this be worth it.”
And somewhere between fear and hope, the plane lifted off.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Benson
Petoskey, Michigan
Benson stayed home after the fight with his brother.
It wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was to book a flight to LAX, to walk through the terminal with nothing but a duffel bag and the hope that Kyle would meet him at the gate. But the pull to stay was stronger. He had five hundred tenantsdepending on him—families, retirees, single parents—people who trusted him to keep their rents fair, their homes secure. If he walked away now, too many would suffer. And Benson had never been the kind of man who could stomach letting people down.
So he had to stay in Michigan. And tried to breathe through the ache.
He sat in the study, Rusty curled in a tight ball on the windowsill, barely stirring. Della had left for the weekend to visit her mother, leaving the house empty. Benson picked up his phone and dialed Kyle, hoping maybe they could plan a weekend—just a few days to bridge the distance, to remind each other what they were fighting for.
But the call didn’t go through.
