Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Abby
The air in the studio feels dense with anticipation as Karl and I walk back to our
station together. The crowd murmurs as they become aware of the implications:
that only Daniel and I are returning, and Bryan, the third contestant, is nowhere
to be found despite the fact that the winners of the second round were never
officially announced.
“You okay?” Karl murmurs as we take our spots, standing next to each other
with our shoulders touching.
I nod and shrug at the same time, a sense of guilt and trepidation washing over
me. “Yes. Sort of. Maybe. I don’t know,” I murmur, clearing my throat subtly.
Enter title...
Karl shoots me a confused look from beneath his blue surgical mask. “What
does that mean?” he asks, worry lacing his voice.
I can’t contain my sigh. “It means that, if it weren’t for Bryan’s mother dying, I
wouldn’t be standing here right now,” I say quietly. “And I’m not sure how to feel
about it, if I’m being honest.”
Karl is silent for a moment before he speaks. “Listen, Abby, I know it’s a shock.
But—”
Suddenly, before he can finish, the director holds up his fingers and begins
counting down from three. The stage falls silent, and the cameras begin rolling.

The announcer makes his way across the stage, his face more somber now
than it was before. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he starts, “before we proceed to the
final round, we have an announcement to make.”
My fingers are curled tightly around the edge of my station. I can feel Daniel’s
eyes on me, intense and unyielding, even as we face the crowd. A quick glance
over at him only serves to prove me right; his eyes are still glinting with that
malicious sort of glee. Jerk.
“Bryan will not be joining us for the final round,” the announcer continues.
Murmurs ripple through the live audience. “Due to a personal tragedy, he has
chosen to withdraw.”
The murmur turns into a low hum, the audience looking around at one another.
The announcer continues. “Bryan’s mother has passed away. Let us have a
moment of silence.”
As the silence stretches over the crowd, I feel my head bow all on its own. It
feels strange, being a finalist only due to a death. A wave of guilt washes over

me, knowing that I don’t belong here after my performance in the second round.
Finally, the announcer clears his throat and continues. “Now... the final round
will be the biggest test of skill,” he announces. The atmosphere seems to shift, a
mixture of tension and excitement winding through the air again. “Our two
finalists will be preparing a dish that is both intricate and savory—farro
mafaldine with black truffle butter and mushrooms.”
My heart lurches.
That dish. My dish.
The one I’d practiced until my hands moved with the memory of it, the one for
which I had hunted down those elusive truffles as if they were treasure. It can’t
be a coincidence. It feels like fate. It feels like a trap.
“No way,” I murmur, my breath hitching in my throat.
Karl leans a little closer. “I thought they weren’t—”
“Me too,” I hiss, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter even harder now.
“Trust me, I thought so, too.”

Suddenly, the announcer’s voice booming over the microphone brings us back
to the moment at hand.
“Our finalists have shown exceptional skill to get this far,” he booms, breaking
through the noise of the crowd. “And now, they will face their final challenge.
The stakes have never been higher for Abby and Daniel.”
Karl and I shoot another glance at each other. But then, beyond Karl, I see him:
Mr. Thompson, standing on the sidelines, looking directly at me.
I shoot Mr. Thompson the subtlest of looks as if to say, “What the hell?” because
after all, the last time I saw him in person, he heavily implied that the truffle dish
would not be chosen due to the email mishap. And yet, here I am, being
expected to cook it.
Mr. Thompson, in return, shoots me something that I don’t expect.
A thumbs up and a grin.
He knew. All this time, he knew. He knew that I was in that email chain—maybe
he was even the one to add my name to the list—and he knew that the truffle
dish would, in fact, be chosen. Is it possible that it was intentional? A way to give
me a leg-up when he knew I needed it?
I can’t be sure. All I know is that right now, all of this feels like one big happy
accident—because I know how to make this truffle dish like I know the back of
my hand. What felt like countless hours were spent practicing with Anton,

getting everything perfect, down to every little texture and flavor.
This is it. This is my chance to win this. This is the edge I have over Daniel,
whose face looks like it’s made of stone when I glance over at him. His
shoulders are stiff, his hands clasped behind his back, that smirk on his face
nothing but a ghost now.
Suddenly, Karl nudges me, bringing me back to reality. I glance up at him to see
a glint in his eyes, a grin beneath his mask.