Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 222

“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

Enter title…

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.

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