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

it—a soft clearing of a

senses more times than

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

even when

gravity about him, always has, pulling things toward him whether he means to or

gravity feels like

There’s a lingering

unsaid hangs heavy in the air

still on. Thought you might be here,” he finally

the kitchen.

you doing here, Karl?” I ask, my voice laced with more bitterness

defensive stance I

discarded apron, the mess in

like evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came to

roll my eyes, the back of them practically sore from how many times

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

thick.

tone, and I almost feel

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

you want to make it about you, about

not fair.

you did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I

can’t be happy about that, then

talk,” he finally says.

too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve been trying

last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear

felt about my success.”

“I am happy for you,

gripping the edge of the counter to keep

yourself that the competition would get in the way

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

mouth. “You’re right. I said some stuff last night that I shouldn’t have,

you, Abby. Way more

insincerity. All I

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

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

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

make it right.”

I can’t keep the

Because

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