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 throat. My body stiffens;

more times

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

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

toward him whether

that gravity feels like a

our eyes lock. There’s a

in

you might be here,” he finally says,

the kitchen.

my voice laced with more

taking on a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

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

culinary crime scene. “I came to talk about

my eyes, the back of them practically sore from how

I murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony I

thick.

at my tone, and I almost feel bad.

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

to me? This competition, this opportunity—it’s

to make it about you,

that’s not

didn’t mean to do, Karl,”

and if you can’t be happy

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

presence is too overwhelming, too

last time we talked, you made it

felt about my success.”

stung by my accusation. “I am happy for

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

the competition would get in the

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

“You’re right. I said some stuff last night that I

more than you

his, searching for any sign of insincerity. All I find is a quiet regret that

things, Karl. You being angry

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

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

make it right.”

keep the skepticism out

back? Because those are two

and I involuntarily hold my