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

in a world away

much time passes. Hours, maybe. I feel like I’m caught in

movies, cheap wine, and even

truffle dish, the disdainful look in

Karl—keep playing in front

movies on the screen.

to myself as I

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

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

swapped, tussles were had,

were ignored.

I’ll be a culinary laughingstock. Hell,

out of

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

be barraged with a chorus of sympathies that will

Right now, I just want to

some point, the bottle of wine finally empties. I

in my head is enough proof.

where another bottle waits for me in

make my way back

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

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

back of

going to wallow in misery, or are you going to

forward?”

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

completely by

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

loud and nearly fall onto the tile floor as

kitchen

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

and dabbing it into

I’ve spilt

concern, Abby?”