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

myself in a world away

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

and even cheaper food. But the

truffle dish, the disdainful look in

Karl—keep playing in front of me, crowding

movies on the screen.

I whisper to myself as I take

now, especially when I was so sure that I would win.

that I lost, either; it’s that I was humiliated on live

tussles were had, insults were thrown,

were ignored.

be a culinary laughingstock. Hell, I might

out of my own

bear to go there tonight. I can’t even bear

with a chorus of sympathies that

want to hide my head

point, the bottle of wine finally empties. I

is enough proof. Groaning,

and shuffle into the kitchen, where another bottle waits

open, too, and make my way back to

as I’m standing in the doorway with

on the TV, that I hear it: my wolf’s voice, clear

back of my

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

forward?”

a slap to the face, or a

takes me completely by surprise in my current

bottle slips from my grasp, wine splashing onto the carpet—a

I curse out loud and

the kitchen

have warned me,” I say out loud

to my knees and dabbing it into the

I’ve

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