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

it—a soft clearing of a

into my senses more times than I can

up, I find Karl standing at the entrance of the kitchen,

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

things toward him whether

feels like a

There’s a lingering moment

hangs heavy in the air between

on. Thought you might

the kitchen.

ask, my voice laced with more bitterness than

defensive stance I

the discarded apron, the mess in the sink, and

like evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I

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

I murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony

thick.

at my tone, and I almost feel

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

to me? This competition, this

make it about you, about

not fair.

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

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

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

away from him; his presence is too

talk? Really? Because last time

felt about my success.”

my accusation. “I am happy for you, Abby. I wish you

edge of the counter to

that the competition would get in the way

slowly like he’s measuring

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

Way more than you realize. And

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

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

me, and I don’t have room for that

want to be

make it right.”

really want to support me?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of

me back? Because those

I involuntarily hold my breath. “I