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

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

more times than

entrance of the kitchen, his posture stiff

fill a space even when they’re trying

things toward him whether

feels like

our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither

hangs heavy in the air

were still on. Thought you might be

the kitchen.

voice laced

stance I wish

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

evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came to

eyes, the back of them practically sore from

coated with a layer of

thick.

I almost feel bad. Almost.

my pent-up emotions spilling over like

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

And you want to make it about

not

to do,

and my career, and if you can’t be happy

talk,” he finally says. “If you don’t

can’t look away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve been trying

to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you

felt about my success.”

am happy for you, Abby. I wish you would believe

I believe it?” I retort, gripping the edge of the counter to

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

he’s measuring each breath, weighing each

I said some stuff last night that I shouldn’t

for you, Abby. Way more than you realize. And I’m

eyes meet his, searching for any sign of insincerity. All I find is a quiet

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

of me, and I don’t have room for that kind of negativity in my life

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

make it right.”

can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.

Because those are two

steps closer, closing the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold my breath. “I can’t lie and