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

into my senses more times than I can

of the kitchen, his

someone can fill a space even when they’re

about him, always has, pulling things toward him whether he means to or not. And

feels like

pulse quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither of us

unsaid hangs heavy in the

you might be here,” he finally says, taking a hesitant

the kitchen.

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

a defensive stance I wish I

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

a culinary crime scene. “I came to

roll my eyes, the back of them practically sore from how many times I’ve done that

with

thick.

flinches at my tone, and I

emotions spilling over like a pot left unwatched.

this means to me? This competition, this

want to make it

that’s not

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

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

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

can’t look away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too

“You came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear

felt about my success.”

my accusation. “I am happy for you,

can I believe it?” I retort, gripping the edge

the competition would get in the way

down, exhaling slowly like he’s measuring each breath, weighing each word before it

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

Way more than

meet his, searching for any sign of insincerity. All I find

things, Karl. You being angry about my success

not supportive of me, and I don’t have room for

unwavering. “I want to

make it right.”

keep the skepticism out of my voice.

me back? Because those are

the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold my