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

much time passes. Hours, maybe. I

and even cheaper food.

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

kiss with Karl—keep playing in front of

movies on the screen.

myself as

must look pathetic now, especially when I was so sure that I would

either; it’s that I was

were had, insults were thrown, and

were ignored.

I’ll be a culinary laughingstock. Hell, I might even be

of my

couldn’t bear to go there tonight. I

with a chorus of sympathies

want to hide my head in the

point, the bottle of wine

proof. Groaning,

and shuffle into the kitchen, where another bottle waits for

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

as I’m standing in the doorway with the second wine bottle

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

back of my

just going to wallow in misery, or are

forward?”

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

takes me completely by surprise in my

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

white fibers. I curse out loud and nearly fall

into the kitchen for a

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

and dabbing

spread. “Now I’ve spilt

concern, Abby?” My wolf’s