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

That’s when I hear it—a soft clearing of a throat. My

more times than

the entrance of

a space even when they’re trying to make themselves smaller.

him, always has, pulling things toward him whether he means to or

feels like a

as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither of us speaks,

heavy in the air between

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

the kitchen.

are you doing here, Karl?” I ask, my voice

taking on a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

to the discarded apron, the mess in the sink, and

like evidence of a culinary crime scene.

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

“Of course you did,” I murmur, the words coated with a layer of

thick.

I almost feel

you listen,” I cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot

idea how much this means to me? This

you want to make it about you, about

not fair. I

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

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

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

from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled

Because last time we talked, you made it

felt about my success.”

narrow, stung by my accusation. “I am happy

I retort, gripping the edge of the counter to

the competition would

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

that

you, Abby. Way more

for any sign of insincerity. All I find

just erase things, Karl. You being angry about my

room

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

make it right.”

can’t keep the

to win me back? Because

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