Page 9 of Off-Limits to the Grizzly

It’s a bedroom. All done out in wood paneling, with a pretty plaid curtains and a huge, king-size bed, covered in a downy white comforter.

“Ohh—” I spin around, startled.

Mr Johnson is lingering in the main room, elbow propped against the door frame. “I live here full-time now.”

“What about the old place?”

He shrugs. “Sold it.”

“B-but why? It was such a beautiful house,” I say, remembering how much I used to love playing there as a kid. Hanging out in the den with Kayla. Sitting in the huge kitchen-diner, chatting to Mr Johnson and helping him prepare those delicious stews he used to make.

“After my wife, and then Kayla left, it got too big for me, all by myself. Too many ghosts.”

He gives a dry laugh, but I catch a shadow of pain chasing across his handsome features.

“It’s not a lot, but it’s enough for me,” he continues.

“And this room?” I point at the other door, the one that’s closed.

“Go ahead,” he says.

I push it open, step inside, and gasp.

It’s full of Kayla’s stuff. Her old childhood bedroom has basically been recreated in here—the white filigree bedframe; the pink velvet armchair; the Halestorm and Evanescence posters on the walls; the battered old pinboard. I pick up a sparkly silver photo frame from her old nightstand. Behind the glass is a photo of the two of us. I know it well. We’re in Mr Johnson’s old yard, and it’s a beautiful fall day. The two of us are clutching each other and giggling. Probably at some silly joke that nobody would get, but us. Kayla’s hair is brick red. I remember she’d just dyed it, and her green eyes are sparkling with mischief.

All of a sudden, my own eyes tear up. Despite everything, I still miss her so much.

“It probably looks like a shrine or something,” Mr Johnson says, rubbing at the back of his head.

“No, it’s really, really nice,” I say.

“Just couldn’t bring myself to throw all her old stuff away.” Then he says, so quietly I almost miss it, “guess I hoped she might come back one day.”

“Oh, Mr Johnson.”

He sits heavily on the bed and I join him. I’ve got the strongest urge to throw my arms around him.

His shoulders are slumped and he stares down at Kayla’s fluffy white area rug. “You must’ve missed her when she left?”

“Like crazy,” I say. “And I felt so guilty.”

His head snaps toward me. “But why?”

Automatically I turn mine too, and that lightning-bolt shock hits me again. Energy crackles from his ice-blue gaze, and I don’t trust myself to keep looking into his eyes. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his powerful body.

My heart is pitter-pattering beneath my shirt, making me all jittery.

“Because I should’ve made her stay,” I manage to say.

His forehead crumples. “Oh, sweetie, there was nothing you could do to make her stay. It was Kayla’s time to leave.”

“What do you mean?”

Emotions pass across his face, too quick for me to identify them. “There are some things I should tell you. But later. I need to go out, get some food. And you probably need to sleep some more.”

“Oh, I’m okay. Are you going to the supermarket? I can come with—”

“Stay here,” he says, in a voice that brooks no disagreement.

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