“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 go
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
“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, ta
Karl The incessant buzzing of my phone’s alarm is drowned out by the pounding inside my head—a lingering reminder of last night’s… festivities. Why did I think that having one more whiskey was a good idea? I was already pretty drunk last night by the time I got home, but I couldn’t stop thinking
“Abby? What’s going on? Shouldn’t you be at the studio?” I ask, blinking in confusion. Did I sleep through the whole day or something? Did I miss the cook-off? She pushes past me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe like a worried mother as she makes her way into my apartment. “Karl, you’re not
“Look, I know how you feel,” he says, growing exasperated himself. “But with the way my approval ratings are dropping right now in my pack, if word got out that I was working as ‘just a sous chef’ for my ex-wife, people would go feral. It would be a nightmare. For both of us.” “You’re overthinking
Abby Five minutes feels like an eternity. I pace Karl’s kitchen as he quickly gets ready in the other room, not even taking a moment to take in the fact that this is Karl’s apartment, and I’m here for the first time ever. The whole place is awash with his scent in an almost intoxicating way, the
Abby We exit hair and makeup, and I can’t help but feel like an impostor beneath this mask of perfectly-caked makeup. Just like yesterday, it feels like an uncomfortable facade, a porcelain mask covering the real Abby. I can’t help but wonder to myself: why is this amount of makeup necessary for