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

I hear it—a soft clearing of a throat. My body stiffens; that

senses more times

of the kitchen, his posture

space even when

pulling things toward

feels like a

quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment

unsaid hangs heavy in the

were still on. Thought you might be here,” he finally says, taking a

the kitchen.

my voice laced

stance I

the mess in the sink, and the ingredients

evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came

sore from how many times I’ve done

course you did,” I murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony

thick.

at my tone, and I almost

pent-up emotions spilling over like a

means to me? This competition, this opportunity—it’s everything

to make it about

that’s not fair.

didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I

you can’t be happy about that, then I

came to talk,” he finally says. “If you

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

last time we talked, you made it

felt about my success.”

by my accusation. “I am happy for you,

retort, gripping the edge of the counter

the competition would

looks down, exhaling slowly like he’s measuring each breath, weighing each word

that I shouldn’t have, because I was angry. But I

Way more than

insincerity. All

just erase things, Karl. You being angry about my

don’t have room for that kind

and unwavering. “I want to

make it right.”

keep the skepticism out of my voice.

win me back? Because those are two very

us, and I involuntarily hold my breath.