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

let out a sigh, knowing that this

the cook-off, and

the real fight has only

water on my face to

makeup still jars me, but I can still see myself: just Abby,

of amazing

a few moments, I’m about to head back out to grab

the other room, and I

a serious

I can’t afford to

Daniel. My ears perk up. Amateurs?

accomplished chefs, who could she possibly be

to eavesdrop, but then she says

have you

pause, as though he’s listening to someone,

to pound out

a fangirl with

a silly little homemaker who can barely

her male chefs—one of

homeless man!”

air in the room gets thick; his

in a field dominated by men,

just me, but the essence of La Belle Vie,

is part of

he so insensitively put it, is

chefs I’ve

voice fading. “I’m not worried

in the slightest…”

I can

nothing. Only then do

letting out a shuddering breath as

out of

it’s empty, feels like it’s shrinking. I stand

it’s as though I can still hear

an awful, haunting

Fangirl. Amateur. Homemaker. Silly.

like it’s dropping into my