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

clearing of a throat. My body stiffens; that sound has dug

more

the entrance of the kitchen, his posture stiff

can fill a space even when they’re

toward him whether he

gravity feels like

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

hangs heavy in the air

you might be here,”

the kitchen.

ask, my voice

stance

sighs, his eyes darting to the discarded apron, the mess in the sink,

counter like evidence of a culinary crime scene.

them practically sore from how many times I’ve done that in the

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

thick.

my tone, and I almost feel bad.

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

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

want to make it

that’s not fair.

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

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

can’t look away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve

“You came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear how

felt about my success.”

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

retort, gripping the edge of the counter to keep my

said yourself that the competition would get in

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

right. I said some stuff last night that I shouldn’t have, because I was angry. But I

Abby. Way more than you realize. And I’m

insincerity. All I find

erase things, Karl. You being

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

looks up, his eyes intense and unwavering. “I want

make it right.”

keep the skepticism out

me back? Because those are two

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