Page 20 of Grizzly's Grump
I kick a loose stone near the firepit, and it skips across the dirt with a dry clatter before disappearing into the shadows. The sudden movement doesn’t make me feel any better—just more exposed. The heat licking at my cheeks has nothing to do with the dying flames. It’s the memory of his hands, the press of his mouth, the silence that followed.
It flashes me back—hard—to the afternoon I brought tacos back to the food truck as a surprise and stepped inside to find Troy going down on Lola. I’d been humming, stupidly proud of myself for picking up his favorite order, thinking we’d curl up on the bench seat and talk about our future. That maybe we were finally in sync. Instead, I got cheap salsa, betrayal, and the image of my best friend’s hand tangled in my fiancé’s hair. A memory so sharp it still cuts.
I remember the silence that followed. No screaming. No slammed doors or broken plates. Just a hollow, echoing stillness lived in my chest, as if someone had sucked out all the air andnothing would ever fill it again. I stood there, tacos cooling in the paper bag, unable to move or speak, while the image seared itself into my brain.
It should have hurt more—should have cracked me open like glass—but all I felt was this sharp, surreal clarity. It was like the world tilted without warning, and I was left standing in the wreckage, too numb to cry.
But this? Calder’s retreat? That kiss followed by nothing? It scrapes the raw parts that I didn’t even know were still there.
“I’m not made of glass,” I mutter, echoing myself. “And I sure as hell don’t shatter this easily.”
But something in me is cracking, anyway. Not loud, not dramatic—just this slow, splintering ache behind my ribs, like a fault line spreading through stone. I’ve taken hits before. Big ones. But this? This feels quieter. More dangerous. It’s like the kind of break you don’t notice until everything collapses beneath you.
The trees sway in the night breeze. The air tastes strange—sharpened with an electric edge that reminds me of the time I licked the end of a battery on a dare when I was ten. And the wind keeps pulling my gaze toward the edge of the woods, the place Calder carried me away from as if someone had mined it with explosives.
Ley lines, he'd said.
Energy. Surges. Flare.
Sensitive, he called me. Unshielded. Like I’m some kind of live wire.
I snort. “Says the guy who lights up the forest every time he scowls.”
He’s probably holed up in whatever fortress of solitude he calls home—some stone cabin with no cell signal and a fireplace that glows faint and cold, much like the icy control he wraps around himself—pacing the floor like a restless animal, stewingin his own silence. Brooding, growling, refusing to explain a single damn thing. Because heaven forbid he just use words like a normal person instead of glowering like a thundercloud and vanishing into the night.
I stand and grab my thermal hoodie, jamming my arms through the sleeves with more force than necessary. I’m not the kind of girl who waits around for answers—especially from a man who kisses like that and then acts like I’m the problem. If he won't answer my questions, I'll just have to go find them for myself.
Leaving the food truck, I make a beeline for the trees.
I’m done waiting. If Calder won’t give me answers, I’ll find them myself. The woods took something from me tonight—and I want it back.
I want answers. I need answers. I deserve answers, even if they aren't what I want to hear. I want to know what he meant about ley lines and flares and sensitivity—what any of it has to do with me. I want to understand why this town feels like it's stitched together with secrets and moonlight. If none of them, including Calder, will tell me, I’ll find the answers myself.
The path looks different at night—less like a trail and more like a dare. The trees lean inward at odd angles, warping the edges of the path in strange and shadowy relief. Landmarks I passed earlier feel altered now, their shapes unfamiliar, cloaked in a hush that prickles across my neck.
This is the same way Calder carried me before, but without him, the woods stretch farther and darker. Each sound feels sharper, every step heavier. The trees don’t feel passive anymore—they seem watchful. Their limbs hunch over as if they’re listening, curious. The air grows dense, weighted with something unspoken. It clings to my skin and catches in my throat like a warning I can’t quite translate.
It’s not just the dark playing tricks on my senses. There’s an awareness in the woods that wraps around me like a weighted blanket of tension—unseen, but undeniable.
The forest is watching. Not with eyes exactly, but with presence. I feel it in the brush of air across my neck, in the hush between branches. Not curious. Not malicious. Just... waiting. Like it knows something I don’t, and it’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
The wind threads through the branches, carrying the scent of wood smoke, pine, and something deeper—something musky and wild that I can’t quite place. It prickles across my skin, but I keep walking.
I used to think I had a sixth sense for places. Markets, festivals, cities—I could read them like books. I knew which vendors were shady, which food stalls were worth the wait, which alleys whispered danger if I turned the wrong way. But this forest? It’s an entirely distinct language. One I can’t translate. One that rewrites the rules every time I think I’ve learned them.
With every step, the path feels less familiar—rearranging itself underfoot, trees pressing inward, narrowing the way until the world feels drawn tight. The woods seem to close in, warping space and distance in a way that defies reason.
Each footstep stirs a louder echo inside me. My thoughts clamor for attention. My breath grows ragged. My heart pounds against my ribs like it wants out. Maybe I shouldn’t be out here alone. Maybe Calder had a reason for carrying me away from the break in the line.
But I’m tired of being handled.
The truth is out here somewhere. And I want it. Calder knew. He warned me. He carried me away from here once, like he sensed what was coming. So why won’t he tell me the truth? What is he afraid I’ll find?
My boots press through leaves and twigs as I push deeper into the woods, flashlight beam flicking across tree trunks and underbrush. I don’t know what I expect to find—maybe glowing rocks or one of those ley line cracks Calder mentioned. I don't see either. What I find is stillness. Heavy, pressing, alive. The kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.
The heavy and alert air tightens around me, making it seem like the forest itself is poised in expectant stillness, preparing for something unseen to stir.
I stop.
