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 throat. My body

my senses more times than I can

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

can fill a space even when they’re trying to

this gravity about him, always has, pulling things toward him whether he means to or

gravity feels like a

quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither of us speaks,

unsaid hangs heavy in

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

the kitchen.

here, Karl?” I ask, my voice laced with more bitterness than I

defensive stance I wish

eyes darting to the discarded apron, the

culinary crime scene. “I came to talk about last

roll my eyes, the back of them practically sore from how many times I’ve done

words coated with a layer of

thick.

tone, and I

my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot

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

And you want to make it about you, about some

that’s not fair. I

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

me and my career, and if you can’t be happy about that,

just came to talk,” he finally says. “If

can’t look away from him; his presence is too overwhelming,

time we talked, you made it

felt about my success.”

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

edge of the counter to keep my

demeanor changed. You said yourself that the competition would get in the way of the

he’s measuring each breath, weighing

last night that I shouldn’t have, because I

you, Abby. Way more than you

searching for any sign of insincerity. All

things, Karl. You being angry about my success

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

“I want to be

make it right.”

keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Or is this just

win me back? Because

I involuntarily hold my