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 dug

senses more times than I can

find Karl standing at the entrance of the

space even when they’re

things toward him whether he means to or

feels like a

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

unsaid hangs heavy in the air between

the lights were still on. Thought you might be here,” he finally says,

the kitchen.

Karl?” I ask, my voice laced with

on a defensive stance I

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

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

eyes, the back of them practically sore from how many times I’ve

“Of course you did,” I murmur, the words coated with a layer

thick.

and I almost feel bad. Almost.

pent-up emotions spilling over

this means to me? This competition, this

And you want to make

that’s not fair. I

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

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

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

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

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

felt about my success.”

narrow, stung by my accusation. “I am happy for

I retort, gripping the edge of the

You said yourself that the competition would get in the way of

like he’s measuring each

last night that I shouldn’t have,

you, Abby. Way more than you realize.

sign of insincerity. All I

things, Karl. You being angry about my success tells

don’t have room for that kind of negativity in my

eyes intense and unwavering. “I want to be supportive, Abby. I

make it right.”

can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Or is this

me back? Because those

between us, and I involuntarily