Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

#Chapter 68: Reconciliation
Abby

The night weighs heavy on me, each mile that separates Karl and me adding to the burden I didn’t

think I’d ever have to bear again. I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning in bed, trying to bury

the memories of our argument and the sting of his words. It’s infuriating that he would have the

audacity to be mad about my accomplishment.

He should be thrilled for me.

Shouldn’t he?

…

I wake up the next day with dark clouds lingering in my head, mirroring the ones outside my window. I

head straight to the kitchen to work it all off. When emotions get messy, the kitchen has always been

my sanctuary. But today, even my sanctuary seems to be turning against me.

The day passes by in a blur. Before I know it, the restaurant is empty, the day having been a whirlwind

of rushes and demanding customers. Finally, I find myself alone amidst a storm of spices, ingredients,

and equipment. At least now, in the empty kitchen, I can think.

But the thing is, I’ve attempted this delicate souffle five times now. It keeps collapsing.

“D amn it!” I snap, tossing my whisk into the sink with an unwarranted amount of aggression. My apron

follows, flung across the counter as I grip the edge, my knuckles going white.

This is one of the key dishes I want to practice for the competition. I’ve never had good luck with

souffles, and it seems as though that bad luck is still getting in the way.

My heart is pounding like I’ve run a marathon, and I feel so stu pidly vulnerable standing here, defeated

by eggs and sugar. Tears of frustration are dangerously close, and I hate myself for it.

I can handle a hectic dinner rush, a dysfunctional kitchen, a competition. But to add Karl’s drama onto

it? It’s too much.

“Stop being such a drama queen, Abby,” I chastise myself aloud, rolling my eyes at my own

hear it—a soft clearing of a throat. My body stiffens; that sound has dug

senses more

at the entrance of the kitchen, his posture stiff and his eyes

space even when they’re trying to make themselves

has, pulling things toward him whether he means to

gravity feels like

as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment

hangs heavy in

Thought you might be

the kitchen.

I ask, my voice

a defensive stance I wish I

sighs, his eyes darting to the discarded apron, the mess in

evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came to

them practically sore from how many times I’ve done that in

murmur, the words coated with a layer

thick.

my tone, and I almost feel bad. Almost.

I cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot left unwatched. “Do you

this means to me? This

you want to make it about you, about

not fair.

to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to

and my career, and if you can’t be happy about that, then I don’t know what

just came to talk,” he finally says. “If you don’t want to,

from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve been

came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly

felt about my success.”

stung by my accusation. “I am happy for you, Abby. I

gripping the edge of

demeanor changed. You said yourself that the competition would get in the

looks down, exhaling slowly like he’s measuring each

right. I said some stuff last night that I

Abby. Way more than you

for any sign of insincerity. All I

just erase things, Karl. You being angry about

room for that kind of negativity in

up, his eyes intense and unwavering. “I want to be supportive, Abby. I messed up. Let

make it right.”

the skepticism out of my voice. “Or is this

to win me back? Because those are two very different

and I involuntarily hold my