“Then you’ll know,” she said. “But right now, you’re sitting here hurting and pretending silence is safer than honesty.”
He looked at her then, eyes tired, heart heavy. “I don’t know what I’d say.”
“Say what you what’s in your heart,” she whispered. “Say you miss him.”
The wind stirred the trees behind them, and Benson felt the weight of her words settle into his chest. He didn’t know whether Kyle would answer. He didn’t know whether it would change anything. But maybe silence wasn’t the protection he needed anymore.
He looked down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen.
And for the first time, he considered calling.
Benson sat alone on the back porch, the lake stretching out before him like a mirror too still to trust. The mug of tea Della had made had long gone cold in his hands, but he hadn’t moved. The silence pressed in around him, thick and unrelenting. He stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Kyle’s name.
He hesitated. Then he called.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times. Then it went to voicemail.
Benson didn’t leave a message. He just stared at the screen, heart sinking with each second of silence. He waited, hoping maybe Kyle would call back right away. Maybe he’d just missed it. Maybe he’d been reaching for his phone at the same time.
But nothing came.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Still nothing.
Benson’s chest tightened. The ache that had been quietly humming beneath the surface now roared. He tried to reason with himself—maybe Kyle was busy, maybe he was out, maybe he was asleep. But the doubt crept in fast, sharp and unforgiving.
What if he saw the call and chose not to answer?
What if he’s done?
What if I’m the only one still holding on?
The thoughts hollowed him out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Benson
Petoskey, Michigan
The next day, he stood and walked down to the edge of the lake. The stars were beginning to scatter across the sky, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was the weight of the silence between them. It felt deliberate now. Like Kyle had drawn a line and Benson had just crossed it.
He wanted to believe in grace. In patience. In the possibility that love didn’t vanish just because someone needed space. But tonight, it felt like Kyle had disappeared. Like Benson had reached out and found nothing waiting on the other side.
He returned to his indoor back porch and sat down in a chair facing the lake, phone still in hand, and stared at the dark screen. No missed calls. No messages. No sign that Kyle had even thought of him. Benson, for the first time since he had left Kyle in California, believed he wasn’t ready to move in with him.
Benson sat on the back porch, legs stretched out, a half-full glass of wine cradled in his hand. The lake was quiet tonight, moonlight brushing its surface like a whisper. He hadn’t turned on the porch light. He didn’t want to be seen. The silence felt safer than conversation, even if it was heavy with everything he couldn’t say.
He’d called Kyle. The voicemail had picked up. And now, the silence still lingered—no message, no missed call, no sign that Kyle had even noticed. He took another slow sip, the wine warm and bitter on his tongue. It didn’t help. Nothing did.
The screen door creaked open behind him, and Della stepped out, barefoot, wrapped in a soft cardigan. She didn’t speak right away. Just sat beside him, her presence gentle, like she knew the ache without needing to ask.
“You didn’t eat my homemade chicken pot pie,” she said quietly. “All fresh ingredients.”
“I wasn’t hungry, but I appreciate you making that for me. I froze it for another time.”
She nodded, watching the lake with him. “You called him.”
Benson didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
