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 madesilence 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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kyle
Newport Beach, California December26th
Kyle stepped into his condo after midnight, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The adrenaline from the club still buzzed faintly in his limbs, but it was fading fast, replaced by the quiet hum of exhaustion and something heavier—something he didn’t name out loud.
The space was clean, modern, and a little too quiet. Pale hardwood floors stretched beneath his feet, and the windows overlooked the Pacific Ocean and above at the glittering distant stars. He dropped his bag by the door, removed his shoes and socks, and walked barefoot to the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator. The silence pressed in around him, familiar now. Unwelcome.
He thought about the show—how the crowd had cheered, how Juan had clapped him on the back after the second set and said, “You killed it, bro.” Kyle had smiled, laughed even, but it hadn’t reached all the way in. Not where it mattered. He was living his dream, and still he wasn’t happy. Without Daddy Benson, he was miserable, his usual cheerfulness replaced with a deep sadness. Perhaps his new dream had taken over his old one, completely replacing it.
He carried his drink to the living room and sat on the edge of his couch, still in his costume, glitter dusting his shoulders, and pulled out his phone. Daddy Benson’s name was still pinned at the top of his messages. He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t dared.
