Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 133

Abby

On the morning of the cook-off, I’m already awake before my alarm even starts buzzing.

Last night, I hardly slept at all thanks to a combination of excitement over the cook-off and my wine-induced conversation with Karl. All night, his words swirled around my mind: “I’m really proud of you,” he had said.

Hearing Karl say those words was so unexpected, yet so heartwarming at the same time. I can’t get them out of my mind, like a lost puppy who’s found her home, or a shipwreck survivor lost at sea who has found a lifeline. It’s strange how much of an impact it has had on me.

As soon as my alarm goes off, though, I pop out of bed and thrust myself into cook-off mode. Today is not the day to be thinking about my ex-husband. Today, I need to focus on winning that cook-off, otherwise all of my efforts will have been for nothing.

After a slightly-too-hot shower, I pull my hair back into a neat and tidy bun, then get dressed. I know I’ll be asked to change into a uniform for the cook-off, so I opt for something simple: a t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket.

“Okay, Abby, this is it,” I murmur to myself, checking my reflection one last time in the mirror before I head out. “Today’s the day you show them all.”

I rush down the stairs, grabbing the go-bag that I prepared last night and heading out to the cafe down my street for a quick pick-me-up before the day begins. The bell jingles over my head as I step inside, and I’m greeted by the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods.

The barista, a sweet lady named Carol, is behind the counter.

“Morning, Abby! The usual?” she asks.

“Morning, Carol. Yes, please—black coffee, one sugar, and a croissant.”

The transaction is brief, and soon I’m sipping my coffee, savoring the bitter liquid as it glides down my throat. It’s like a little cup of courage.

Then, with my coffee in one hand and a bagged croissant in the other, I start my brisk walk toward John’s apartment. The air is crisp, the sun rising in pastel hues, and I feel optimistic about today.

The streets of the city come alive as I walk, each step invigorating me further. I can already imagine John’s surprised face when he sees how pumped I am, and I hope he feels the same.

Speaking of John, I figure I should call him and check to make sure he’s awake and ready. Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone and dial his number, already scripting what I’ll say in my head.

I wait. It rings and rings but goes to voicemail.

“That’s strange,” I mumble, feeling a little bubble of concern rise in my chest. My fingers tap nervously on the screen as I dial his number again, hoping that he didn’t forget to set his alarm. Still no answer.

“I hope he’s okay,” I whisper to myself, staring at the phone as if willing it to come to life. I leave a voicemail, a twinge of impatience creeping into my tone. “John, it’s Abby. I’m on my way. We have the competition today, remember? You better be up and ready, mister.”

After I hang up, I let out a deep sigh. “Maybe he’s taking a shower,” I mutter, shaking my head. John wouldn’t play hooky on me, not with something like this. He’s never been that type.

My boots click against the pavement as I approach the subway entrance, jogging down the steps and then stopping in front of the turnstile. I reach for my subway card, but just as I’m about to swipe it, my phone buzzes.

It’s John.

I stare at the screen for a beat, my heart pounding a little faster. Good, I think to myself; he’s awake after all. With a flick of my thumb, I accept the call and hold my phone to my ear, balancing my coffee in the crook of my arm as I swipe my subway card.

“John, finally!” I call out, stepping through the turnstile. “Are you ready? I’m about to hop on the subway, on my way to your place. I’ll be there in ten minutes, max.”

“Abby,” he croaks, and instantly, I know something’s not right. I freeze in my tracks. The life and vibrancy in his voice are gone, replaced by something that sounds a lot like misery.

“John? You sound awful. Are you okay?”

He coughs. “I... I was up all night, throwing up. I feel terrible, Abby.” His voice sounds like a poker being raked over hot coals.

Instantly, the scolding mom in me surfaces. “Oh my God, John, did you drink too much last night? We talked about this—today is important! I told you we could only have a couple drinks each, no more!”

“No, no, you don’t get it,” he interrupts, his voice shaky. “I only had one drink, nothing more. I swear, Abby. It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?” I asked, my heart practically pounding out of my chest.

He sighed. “I think it’s food poisoning or something. Look, I’m really, really sick, Abby. I might even have to go to the hospital if this doesn’t let up.”

My blood runs cold, my hand tightening around my phone until my knuckles go white. “Hospital? Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. Do you think I would joke about something like this? Especially today?”

The despair in his voice cuts through me, and instantly, I feel a little bad for scolding him. He coughs again and clears his throat, and I can practically hear him wince from the pain.

“Oh, John,” I murmur, clutching my coffee cup so tight I might crush it. “Shit.”

“I’m really sorry, Abby, but I think it goes without saying that there’s no way I can be your sous chef for the competition today.”

My mind races, flipping through a whole host of emotions—worry for John, frustration at the situation, and fear for what this means for me and the competition. I need a sous chef. All of the contestants have to have a sous chef.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” I call out, more to myself than to him. “What do I do now? I have to be at the studio in two hours.”

“Listen, why don’t you call Anton?” John suggests after a beat. “He’s really good and he knows the way you operate. He could fill in easily.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?” I sigh, my fingers already navigating to Anton’s contact in my phone as I speak. “You’d better get better, John. And keep me updated. I don’t want to spend the whole day worrying about you on top of everything else, okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Abby. Just worry about the cook-off,” John’s voice trembles through the speaker. “I’m really sorry, Abby.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say softly, swallowing down the huge lump that’s begun to form in my throat. “Just... take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” he repeats, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the dial tone and my spiraling thoughts.

I hang up the phone, staring at it for a moment before I pocket it, standing in a daze at the subway entrance. All at once, a million thoughts fly through my mind, and I’m not sure which one to grasp. I want to throw my coffee cup, kick the wall and scream, but I still have one option.

Anton. And I just hope, beyond all hope, that he’s not just as sick as John.