NovelEnglishAbby
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 leather chairs and brick walls a
perfect representation of his taste: dark, understated, and professional.
Finally, after what feels like hours, Karl finally steps out of his room. Surprisingly,
despite the time crunch, he looks... good.
His hair is combed neatly, and he’s wearing a professional button-down shirt
with black slacks and a pair of loafers. Somehow, even in his haste, he always
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manages to look put-together. I wish I could say the same; I feel like a
trainwreck right now.
However, as he puts on his blue surgical mask, I glance at the clock. My eyes
widen in horror.
“Oh my god, we have only fifteen minutes to make it!” I exclaim, my throat
feeling dry from the hectic morning.
“We’ll make it, Abby. Trust me,” he says, his words muffled behind the mask.
I swallow. “We have to run to the subway. Maybe we can still—”
Karl holds up his car keys with a chuckle that says he has everything under
control. The keys jingle against each other as he wiggles them back and forth.
“Who needs a subway when you have four wheels?” he asks.
“Drive? Through morning city traffic?” My voice leaps an octave. “Karl, we’d be
stuck forever! We’re not making it if we drive. We’re better off on foot.”
this’ look. “Just trust me, Abby.”
“Okay, fine,” I say with a sigh. “I trust you.”
With my heart in my throat, we rush downstairs and jump into his car. The
engine roars to life, and Karl zips out of the parking space moments later like a
man on a mission.
“Seatbelt,” he barks.
I click the seatbelt just in time as he swings into traffic, cutting between a taxi
and a delivery van with inches to spare. I grip the edges of the seat, whiteknuckled, my other hand clutching the pendant of my
necklace.
“Karl, are you trying to get us killed?”
“Just trying to get us there on time,” he says, his eyes never leaving the road.
I glance at the clock on the dashboard, my stomach lurching. Thirteen minutes
to spare. I can’t believe we’re really attempting this right now. It’s terrifying, and
yet I can’t help but feel a surge of invigorating adrenaline that I haven’t felt since
the day Karl and I ran from those poachers through the forest.
We approach an intersection, the light teetering dangerously between the edge
of yellow and red. Karl pushes the pedal to the floor, and I swear time slows.
The light flips red, and another car enters the intersection, horn blaring, coming
straight at us.
“KARL!”
He swerves, tires screeching, missing the other car by a hair’s breadth. We
come to a screeching halt, the other driver laying into his horn and shouting
obscenities from his window.
“Go, Karl, just go!” I urge, my eyes widening even further as other drivers begin
laying on their horns..
Karl speeds off, and once we’re out of the intersection, I punch his arm with a
worth risking our lives over!”
He looks at me, his eyes meeting mine through the rearview mirror. “And if we
didn’t make it on time because I didn’t take that risk?” he asks.
“What if we got hit?” My voice is a shaky mess, but I can’t help it.
“But we didn’t,” he says. I groan.
But then we turn a corner, and suddenly, there it is—the TV studio. Karl pulls up
to the front, and I glance at the clock again. Five minutes to spare. My heart is
racing and my body is trembling, but we made it.
“You’re insane,” I breathe, my fingers still gripping the seat.
“Maybe insane is what you need,” he says.
A few moments later we’re bursting through the double doors, out of breath from
sprinting up the steps two at a time.
Inside, it’s like stepping into another world—a world that doesn’t appreciate
tardiness. People stare. Whispers fill the room.
The other contestants are already in their uniforms, milling around their stations
to familiarize themselves and begin prep work before the show begins. They all
look up as we burst in the doors, and I can see it in their gazes, especially
Daniel’s: judgment.
“Abby!” The voice booms from across the studio. It’s Mr. Thompson. “What on
earth—”
He quickly strides over to us, his eyes squinting in disbelief. When he’s close
enough, he yanks us aside like we’re kids caught doing something we shouldn’t.
“Where the hell have you been?” He hisses, his eyes drilling into me. “And
where’s your sous chef?”
“John got sick,” I stammer, “so Karl’s stepping in.”
“Sick? Now?” His eyes narrow further, if that’s even possible.
“It was an emergency,” I quickly explain. “He got food poisoning, of all things.”
“Food poisoning?” Mr. Thompson’s eyebrows leap up. “And you’re telling me
this now?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” I reply, my
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