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;

more times than I can

standing at the entrance of the kitchen, his posture stiff and

a space even when they’re trying

him, always has, pulling things toward him whether

gravity feels like a

eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where

heavy in the

Thought you might

the kitchen.

Karl?” I ask, my voice

on a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

discarded apron, the mess in the

evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came to talk about last

them practically sore from how

words coated with a layer

thick.

my tone, and I almost feel bad. Almost. “Abby,

my pent-up emotions

means to me? This competition,

you want to make

that’s not fair. I

to do, Karl,” I snap,

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

he finally says. “If you don’t

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

“You came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you made

felt about my success.”

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

edge of the counter to keep my hands from shaking.

yourself that the competition would get in

exhaling slowly like he’s measuring each breath,

that

more than you realize. And

of insincerity. All

things, Karl.

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

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

make it right.”

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

win me back? Because those are two very different

steps closer, closing the gap between us, and I