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

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

passes. Hours, maybe. I feel like

wine, and even cheaper food.

truffle dish, the disdainful look in Logan’s

playing in front of me, crowding out

movies on the screen.

I whisper to myself as

pathetic now, especially when I was so sure that

either; it’s that I was humiliated on live

tussles were had, insults were

were ignored.

laughingstock. Hell, I

of my own

go there tonight. I can’t even bear

know I’ll be barraged with a chorus of sympathies

now, I just want to hide my head in the

wine finally empties. I don’t remember

in my head is enough proof. Groaning, I push my way

kitchen, where another bottle waits for

and make my way back

standing in the doorway with the second wine

TV, that I hear it: my wolf’s voice,

back of my

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

forward?”

the face, or a rush of cold wind on a

by surprise

my grasp, wine splashing

out loud and nearly fall onto the tile

kitchen

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

knees and dabbing

I’ve spilt wine

Abby?”

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