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

hear it—a soft clearing of a throat. My body stiffens; that sound has dug

into my senses more times than

I find Karl standing at the entrance of the kitchen,

a space even when they’re trying to

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

gravity feels

eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where

unsaid hangs heavy in

on. Thought you might be here,”

the kitchen.

I ask, my voice

stance I wish I didn’t

the

culinary crime scene. “I came to talk

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

murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony I

thick.

my tone, and I almost feel bad. Almost.

my pent-up emotions spilling over like a

how much this means to me? This competition, this

you want to make it

not fair. I

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

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

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

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

Really? Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear

felt about my success.”

stung by my accusation. “I am happy for

retort, gripping the edge of the

changed. You said yourself that the competition would

like he’s measuring each breath, weighing each word

that I shouldn’t have, because I was

more than you realize. And

of insincerity. All I find is a quiet

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

me, and I don’t have room for that

“I want to be

make it right.”

the skepticism out of my voice. “Or is this just

me back? Because those are

closer, closing the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold my breath.