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

of a

more times

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

can fill a space even when they’re trying to

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

feels like a

quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a

heavy in the

you might be here,” he

the kitchen.

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

a defensive stance I wish I

the discarded apron, the mess in

culinary crime scene. “I

the back of them practically sore from how many times I’ve done that

coated with a layer of irony

thick.

my tone, and I almost feel bad.

I cut him off, my pent-up emotions

idea how much this means to me? This competition, this

to make it

that’s not

or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to him.

and if you can’t be happy about that,

he finally says. “If you don’t want to,

from him; his presence is too

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

felt about my success.”

my accusation. “I am happy for you, Abby. I

retort, gripping the edge of the counter to keep my hands from shaking.

that the competition would get

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

night that I shouldn’t have, because I

Way more than you realize. And

for any sign of insincerity. All I find is a

doesn’t just erase things, Karl. You being

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

“I want

make it right.”

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

win me back? Because those

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