Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 134

Abby

It takes a moment for me to process John’s words. I’m standing here, on the subway platform, with my phone in my hand and my coffee in the other, feeling like my life is spiraling out of control.

The buzz of the city, the sleepy commuters shuffling past me, and the distant clatter of subway cars fade into the background as I realize my situation is getting desperate.

“Okay, okay. Don’t panic, Abby,” I mutter to myself, opening my contacts to find Anton’s number. Anton is a skilled chef, and he’s been working with me for a little while now. He could fill in for John in a heartbeat, I’m sure of it.

My thumb hovers over the call button for a second, considering, but then I tap it. I’ve got no other options right now, the clock is ticking, and Anton will be a shoe-in. The line rings, and with each passing second, I can feel my nerves becoming even more tightly wound.

Finally, Anton answers. “Abby. What’s going on?”

I suck in a deep breath. “Anton, are you busy today? Specifically, in the next couple of hours?”

“Well… Not really… Why?” He sounds a little off, not quite like his normal chipper self, but I chalk it up to the early hour, and continue.

“Look, Anton, I’m in a bind. John is really sick, like, food-poisoning sick, and he can’t be my sous chef for the cook-off. I know it’s super last-minute, but can you please step in for him? I-I’ll give you a week’s bonus.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough for my heart to drop to my stomach. Then Anton coughs. It’s not a casual, just-woke-up kind of cough. It’s a deep, guttural, I’ve-been-sick-all-night-puking-my-brains-out sore throat kind of cough.

“Anton, are you okay?” I ask, my eyes widening, my voice tinged with disbelief and a sudden spike of dread.

He sighs. “I, like John, have been throwing up all night, Abby. I can barely get out of bed.”

“What? You too?” My voice rises with each word, high-pitched and incredulous. “How is this even possible? What the hell did you guys eat?”

“If John is also sick, then it must have been something we both ate,” Anton muses. “You think it could be from last night? At your good-luck party?”

The mention of my party sends a ripple of disbelief through me. I can’t even fathom that my innocent party could be the cause of all of this. “But… But you and John cooked everything yourselves! In my restaurant kitchen, which, I might add, is impeccably clean!”

“I know, I know. We cooked everything with the same professionalism as we always do,” Anton assures me with another cough.

“So, what the hell happened? Are we talking about cross-contamination, bad produce, what?”

Anton coughs again, and I can hear the strain in his voice. “Honestly, Abby, if I knew, I would tell you. All I can say is that I followed every procedure perfectly. It had to have been a freak accident.”

I wince and scrunch my eyes closed for a moment, secretly hoping that this is all just an anxiety dream. But when I open them again, the subway station is still there, and Anton is still coughing on the other end of the phone.

“Anton, this is crazy,” I find myself saying. “How can both of my go-to sous chefs be incapacitated on a day like today, of all the days this could have happened? What should I do?”

“Merde. I wish I knew, Abby,” Anton says softly, his voice tinged with regret. “If I could crawl out of this bed and help you, you know I would. I am sorry.”

The words echo in my ears, mingling with the cacophony of the waking city around me. Sorry. Is that what it all comes down to? Months of preparation, of blood, sweat, and tears, all up in smoke because of a bad piece of... what? Chicken? Fish?

“I just can’t believe this is happening,” I say, my voice breaking a little. “This is like some sort of nightmare.”

“Yeah, it is,” Anton agrees, the exhaustion evident in his voice. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”

The timing is beyond terrible; it’s catastrophic. I close my eyes for a moment, taking in the sounds around me—the muffled chatter of people on their morning commute, the distant laughter of a group of teenagers on the way to school, the soft cooing of a baby.

Life is moving on, unfazed by my little disaster. I wish I could say the same for myself. Because right now, I feel like I’m trapped in a motionless void of suffering.

“Well… you need to rest, Anton,” I finally say, resigned. “Focus on getting better. This... this is just one of those things. Bad luck, or fate, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Yeah, bad luck doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Anton mutters.

“Alright,” I say, swallowing. “Get better, Anton. See you.”

As I hover my thumb over the red ‘end call’ button on my phone, a thought suddenly strikes me. “Wait, Anton, how come I’m not sick? I ate the same food everyone else did, right?”

“You didn’t eat the seafood dish, did you?” Anton’s voice has a trace of realization in it.

“Seafood dish?” I think back to last night. “Oh right, the one with shellfish. No, I didn’t. I’m allergic.”

Anton’s voice tenses. “That must be it, Abby. That has to be the dish that got us sick. Someone should check on everyone who ate that.”

A wave of dread washes over me. “Do you think everyone else is sick?”

“Now, let us not panic yet,” Anton counters, coughing a little. “I’ll send a group text. To check if anyone else is feeling ill.”

“You don’t have to do that, Anton. You’re sick.”

“It’s the least I can do, Abby, especially since I cannot be your sous chef. You’re screwed, aren’t you?” Anton’s voice is filled with guilt.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I admit, forcing a laugh. “But it’s not your fault. Get better, okay?”

“Will do. Good luck finding someone.”

I finally press the ‘end call’ button and stand here for a moment, shaking. Then, it finally comes out.

“Shit!” I yell, chucking my coffee and croissant into the nearest trash can with as much force as my arm can muster. I ignore the puzzled looks from commuters walking by as I huff angrily, gripping my hair. It feels as if the universe is playing some sort of cruel joke on me, and I’m not amused.

I pace back and forth for a few moments, thinking about who might not be sick. But then, my phone starts to buzz. Group texts start rolling in.

Ethan: “Feeling like crap. Threw up twice this morning.”

Chloe: “Same here. I’ve never felt so sick.”

Leah: “I can barely get out of bed. What happened last night?”

My heart sinks further with each message. My friends are sick, my team is incapacitated, and the cook-off is in hours.

For a moment, I almost consider throwing in the towel and pulling out of the competition, like it’s a sign from the universe.

But I can’t pull out now; I’ve worked too hard for this opportunity. It’s not just about the competition; it’s about proving to myself that I can do this, that I am as good as I think I am.

As I stare down at the group text, though, one name doesn’t pop up in the chat. One person, a lifeline, someone who maybe, just maybe, might not be sick.

Karl.