Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Abby

My apartment is dark when I finally get home tonight. It still smells faintly of

fresh paint from the new coat that my landlord put on, but I can still sense the

lingering scent of smoke, too.

I decide to avoid the harsh glow of the kitchen lights as I plop the wine glass

that’s been tucked under my arm onto the counter island, followed by the bag of

takeout food that I picked up on my way home.

It’s still warm, the grease beginning to seep through the bag as the faint smell of

garlic and onions permeates through the air. On any other night, I might be

delighted to dig in; but honestly, I have no appetite tonight. Even the thought of

Enter title…

food makes me sick after everything, after all of the failed dishes. But I know I

need to eat, and if I don’t, I know I’ll regret it later.

For a moment, I dig through my cupboard for a plate and some silverware, but

eventually decide to opt out of the plate.

The cork gives a subtle pop as I open the wine. No glass, I decide. Not tonight. I

take a swig straight from the bottle, the sharp taste of alcohol momentarily

cutting through the numbness. It’s a start.

I crash onto the couch, the plush cushions a welcome comfort after being on my

feet all day. The TV flickers to life with a soft buzz a moment later, and I navigate

N*****x to drown myself in a world away

time passes. Hours, maybe. I feel like I’m caught

cheap movies, cheap wine, and even

the disdainful look

playing

movies on the screen.

whisper to myself

when I was so sure that I would win.

lost, either; it’s that

had, insults were thrown, and

were ignored.

tomorrow, I’ll be a culinary laughingstock. Hell,

out of

I can’t even bear to glance at

I know I’ll be barraged with a chorus of sympathies that will

worse. Right now, I just want to hide my head in

some point, the bottle of wine finally empties. I don’t

head is enough proof.

into the kitchen, where another bottle waits for

too, and make my way back to the living

standing in the doorway

a romance scene on the TV, that I

back of my

just going to wallow in misery, or are you going to keep

forward?”

presence is like a slap to the face, or a rush of cold

It takes me completely by surprise

my grasp, wine splashing onto the carpet—a

and nearly fall onto the tile

kitchen

out loud as I grab the towel off of the

and dabbing it into the

spread. “Now I’ve spilt

really your main concern, Abby?” My wolf’s voice is