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

a throat. My body

into my senses more times

Karl standing at the entrance of the kitchen, his posture stiff and

how someone can fill a space even when they’re trying to make themselves

things toward him whether he

gravity feels

as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where

hangs heavy in the air

saw the lights were still on. Thought you might be here,” he finally says, taking a hesitant step

the kitchen.

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

a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

sighs, his eyes darting to the discarded apron, the mess in the sink,

of a culinary crime

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

coated with a layer of irony

thick.

tone, and I almost

cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a

this means to me? This competition,

want to make it about you,

that’s not fair. I

what you did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to him. “Right

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

just came to talk,” he finally says.

away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled with

Because last time we talked,

felt about my success.”

happy for you, Abby. I wish

the edge of the counter to keep my hands

competition would

he’s measuring

right. I said some stuff last night that

for you, Abby. Way more than

eyes meet his, searching for any sign of insincerity.

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

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

“I want

make it right.”

support me?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Or is this

Because those are

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