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

more times than I can

the entrance of

even when they’re trying to make themselves

toward him

feels like a

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

unsaid hangs heavy in the air between

were still on. Thought you might

the kitchen.

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

a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

apron, the mess in the

culinary crime scene. “I came to talk about last

sore from how many times I’ve done that in the past

course you did,” I murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony I can’t

thick.

I almost feel bad.

off, my pent-up emotions spilling

me? This competition, this opportunity—it’s everything I’ve

you want to make it about

that’s not fair. I

don’t care what you did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping

and if you can’t be happy about that, then I don’t

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

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

Because last time we talked, you

felt about my success.”

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

it?” I retort, gripping the edge of the counter to keep my hands from

competition would get

measuring each breath, weighing

some stuff last night that I

you, Abby. Way more than you

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

just erase things, Karl. You being angry about my

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

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

make it right.”

really want to support me?” I can’t keep the skepticism

to win me back? Because those

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