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

more times than

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

can fill a space even when

always has, pulling things toward him whether he

feels like a

pulse quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither

unsaid hangs heavy in the air

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

the kitchen.

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

stance

eyes darting to the discarded apron, the

evidence of a culinary crime scene.

from how many

words coated with a layer of irony I can’t

thick.

flinches at my tone, and I

pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot left unwatched.

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

to make it about you, about some

that’s not fair. I

mean to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to him. “Right now,

if you can’t be happy about that, then I

came to talk,” he finally says.

too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve been trying

talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly

felt about my success.”

“I am happy for you, Abby. I

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

changed. You said yourself that the competition would get in

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

last night that I shouldn’t have, because I was angry. But

more than you realize. And I’m

eyes meet his, searching for any sign of insincerity. All I find is a

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

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

“I want to be

make it right.”

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

back? Because

the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold my breath. “I can’t lie and