Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Abby

Applause begins to ripple across the studio audience, but all I see is Karl, sitting

in the back, staring down at me. He’s wearing a blue surgical mask, but I know

it’s him. I can tell by his eyes, by the way that my wolf stirs ever so slightly just

from looking at him.

“Wow, Abby,” Sarah says, drawing me back to the present, back to the interview.

“That was lovely. Your staff must be really grateful to have you.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m lucky to have them.”

“Well, that’s all, folks,” Sarah says, turning back to face the crowd. “Everyone

give a big round of applause for Abby, the owner of La Belle Vie Bistro!”

Enter title…

Another wave of applause washes over the room, smattered with a few cheers.

The cameraman gives me my cue, and I stand, waving as I jog off stage. Once

backstage, the assistant from before gives me a nod and a thumbs-up, then

points for me to head back to the greenroom.

As I head down the hall to the greenroom, I feel like I’m floating on air. So that

was it; that was the interview. I did it!

The greenroom is a modest room, furnished with a couple of sofas, a coffee

table littered with fashion magazines, and a snack bar.

The walls are adorned with photos of previous guests who came on the show,

from famous musicians to local artists. There’s a bathroom in the back, and

feeling like I’ll be sick now from the nerves of it all, I head to the bathroom to

some cold water on

out a sigh, knowing

the cook-off,

the

water on my face to calm myself, I look up into the

me, but I can still see myself: just Abby, the small chef,

of amazing friends behind

I’m about to head back out to grab my

the other

a serious

can’t afford to be distracted

Daniel. My ears perk up.

accomplished chefs, who could she

eavesdrop, but then she says

a complete non-factor. No, seriously, have

listening to

it’s about to pound out of my chest

with no real experience. You know what

but a silly little homemaker who can

the help of her male chefs—one of whom is

homeless man!”

air in the room gets thick; his words are a punch

field dominated by men, and being beaten

the essence

of their background, is

he so insensitively put it, is one of

gifted chefs I’ve

Daniel continues, his voice fading. “I’m not

in the slightest…”

that, Daniel’s voice fades away. I can hear

nothing. Only then

with shaking hands, letting out

step out

feels like it’s shrinking. I stand here for

and it’s as though I can still

head like an awful, haunting

Fangirl. Amateur. Homemaker. Silly.

like it’s dropping into my stomach. How can a