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

soft clearing of a throat. My body stiffens; that sound has

my senses more times

up, I find Karl standing at the entrance of

how someone can fill a space even

things toward him whether he means to

feels like

a lingering moment where neither

unsaid hangs heavy in the air between

you might be here,” he finally says, taking a

the kitchen.

my voice

on a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

the mess in the sink, and the ingredients sca

a culinary crime scene. “I came to talk

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

words coated with a layer of irony I can’t help

thick.

flinches at my tone, and I almost feel bad.

off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot left unwatched.

how much this means to me? This competition, this opportunity—it’s everything I’ve

to make it about you, about

not fair.

care what you did or didn’t mean to do,

my career, and if you can’t be

to talk,” he finally says.

presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history

Because last time we

felt about my success.”

“I am happy for

believe it?” I retort, gripping the edge of

that the competition would

like he’s measuring each breath, weighing each word

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

Way more than you realize. And I’m

meet his, searching for any sign of insincerity. All I find

even angrier. “Sorry doesn’t just erase things, Karl. You being angry about my success tells

room for that kind of

unwavering. “I want to be supportive, Abby. I messed up.

make it right.”

the skepticism out of my voice.

to win me back? Because those are two very

and I involuntarily hold my