Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Abby

Applause begins to ripple across the studio audience, but all I see is Karl, sitting

in the back, staring down at me. He’s wearing a blue surgical mask, but I know

it’s him. I can tell by his eyes, by the way that my wolf stirs ever so slightly just

from looking at him.

“Wow, Abby,” Sarah says, drawing me back to the present, back to the interview.

“That was lovely. Your staff must be really grateful to have you.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m lucky to have them.”

“Well, that’s all, folks,” Sarah says, turning back to face the crowd. “Everyone

give a big round of applause for Abby, the owner of La Belle Vie Bistro!”

Enter title…

Another wave of applause washes over the room, smattered with a few cheers.

The cameraman gives me my cue, and I stand, waving as I jog off stage. Once

backstage, the assistant from before gives me a nod and a thumbs-up, then

points for me to head back to the greenroom.

As I head down the hall to the greenroom, I feel like I’m floating on air. So that

was it; that was the interview. I did it!

The greenroom is a modest room, furnished with a couple of sofas, a coffee

table littered with fashion magazines, and a snack bar.

The walls are adorned with photos of previous guests who came on the show,

from famous musicians to local artists. There’s a bathroom in the back, and

feeling like I’ll be sick now from the nerves of it all, I head to the bathroom to

splash some cold water on my face.

I lock the door behind me and let out a sigh, knowing that this is just one step in

the process. Tomorrow, I’ll be headed to the cook-off, and that will be an entirely

different beast. I feel as though the real fight has only just begun.

As I splash some cool water on my face to calm myself, I look up into the mirror.

The makeup still jars me, but I can still see myself: just Abby, the small chef, the

woman with an army of amazing friends behind her.

After a few moments, I’m about to head back out to grab my things when I

suddenly hear a voice in the other room, and I freeze.

“No, you don’t understand, this is a serious competition. I’ve been training for

months, and I can’t afford to be distracted by—by amateurs!”

I recognize the voice instantly: Daniel. My ears perk up. Amateurs? In a room

full of accomplished chefs, who could she possibly be talking about? I tell myself

not to eavesdrop, but then she says it.

“Hah! Abby? She’s a complete non-factor. No, seriously, have you seen her socalled ‘restaurant’? What

a joke.”

There’s a pause, as though he’s listening to someone, likely over the phone. My

heart feels like it’s about to pound out of my chest as she continues.

“Look, she’s nothing but a fangirl with no real experience. You know what she

is? She’s nothing but a silly little homemaker who can barely cook halfway

decent food without the help of her male chefs—one of whom is a dirty

homeless man!”

The air in the room gets thick; his words are a punch to the gut.

Here I am, in a field dominated by men, and being beaten down once again.

He’s attacking not just me, but the essence of La Belle Vie, where everyone,

regardless of their background, is part of a community.

Our resident ‘dirty homeless man,’ as he so insensitively put it, is one of the

most gifted chefs I’ve ever met.

“Oh, please,” Daniel continues, his voice fading. “I’m not worried about her. Not

in the slightest…”

With that, Daniel’s voice fades away. I can hear his shoes clicking on the

hallway floor, and then they fade into nothing. Only then do I finally turn the

bathroom door knob with shaking hands, letting out a shuddering breath as I

slowly step out of the room.

The room, although it’s empty, feels like it’s shrinking. I stand here for a

moment, and it’s as though I can still hear Daniel’s words bouncing around in

my head like an awful, haunting echo.

Fangirl. Amateur. Homemaker. Silly.

My heart feels like it’s dropping into my stomach. How can a fellow chef speak

about another professional like that? I knew that this was a male-dominated

field, but it still stings.

For a second, I even consider walking out and confronting him, really laying into

him for belittling me and my team like that.

I take a few tentative steps toward the door, my hand reaching for the door

knob, but then I freeze.

My hand trembles, hovers, then drops back to my side. I can’t do it. I feel like

I’ve lost my voice.

“God, get a grip, Abby,” I mutter to myself, feeling the hot tears starting to form. I

turn away from the door and sink down onto the couch, burying my face in my

hands. I can’t hold it in any longer, and a couple of tears escape, trickling down

my cheeks.

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I wipe away another tear as a wry chuckle escapes my lips.

“I can’t believe I’m crying over this,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head.

Spotting a tissue box on one of the vanities at the back of the room, I stand and

walk over to it, dabbing at my tears in the mirror.

The perfect mask of makeup that the artist so painstakingly created now has

cracks and fissures in it, like the TV-ready Abby is finally giving way for the real,

raw, emotional Abby.

Suddenly, before the tears have even had a chance to dry, there’s a knock on

the door. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, the door opens.

And in the reflection of the mirror, I see Karl step in, his surgical mask pulled

down, and a bouquet of flowers in his hand.