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 from

passes. Hours, maybe.

wine, and

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

Karl—keep playing in front of

movies on the screen.

whisper to myself as I take

now, especially when I was so sure that I

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

were had, insults were thrown, and my

were ignored.

culinary laughingstock. Hell, I might

of

I can’t even bear

with a chorus of sympathies that will

now, I just want to

the bottle of wine finally empties. I don’t remember

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

shuffle into the kitchen, where another bottle

and make my way back to the living

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

scene on the TV, that I hear

back of

misery,

forward?”

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

takes me completely by

my grasp, wine splashing onto the carpet—a vibrant

white fibers. I curse out loud and nearly

into the kitchen

out loud

to my knees and dabbing it into the carpet

spread. “Now I’ve spilt

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