Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Chatper 251

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

myself in a world

not sure how much time passes. Hours, maybe. I feel

cheap wine, and

today—the truffle dish, the disdainful look in Logan’s eyes, the trophy

kiss with Karl—keep playing in front of me, crowding out

movies on the screen.

whisper to myself as I

now, especially when I was so sure that I

that I lost, either; it’s that I

had, insults

were ignored.

be a culinary laughingstock.

out of my own

I can’t even bear to glance

know I’ll be barraged with a chorus of

just want to

point, the bottle of wine finally empties.

head is enough proof. Groaning, I push

where another bottle waits for me in

pop that open, too, and make my way back to the living

standing in the doorway

scene on the TV, that I hear

of

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

forward?”

slap to the face, or

by surprise in

slips from my grasp, wine splashing onto the

out loud and nearly fall onto the tile

kitchen for a

me,” I say out loud as I grab the towel

falling to my knees and dabbing it into the carpet before

“Now I’ve

Abby?” My

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