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

soft clearing of a throat. My body stiffens;

more

of the kitchen, his posture stiff and his

even when they’re trying to make themselves smaller.

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

feels like

quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering

in the

still on. Thought you might be here,” he

the kitchen.

my voice laced with more bitterness than

on a defensive stance

eyes darting to the discarded apron, the

like evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came

sore from how many times I’ve done that in

I murmur, the words coated with a

thick.

flinches at my tone, and I almost feel bad. Almost.

cut him off, my pent-up emotions

much this means to me? This competition,

make it about you,

that’s not fair. I

care what you did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,”

be happy about that, then I don’t know what to

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

presence is too overwhelming, too

came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked,

felt about my success.”

narrow, stung by my accusation. “I am happy for you, Abby.

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

that the competition would get in the

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

that

more than

of insincerity. All

angrier. “Sorry doesn’t just erase things, Karl. You being

have room for that kind of negativity

and unwavering. “I want

make it right.”

keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Or

me back? Because those are two very different

and I involuntarily hold my breath.