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 throat. My body stiffens; that

senses more times than I

of the kitchen, his posture stiff and

fill a space even when they’re trying to make themselves smaller.

toward

gravity feels like

quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering

in the air between

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

the kitchen.

are you doing here, Karl?” I ask, my voice laced with more bitterness than I intend.

defensive stance I wish I didn’t

apron, the mess in the sink, and

the counter like evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came

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

course you did,” I murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony I can’t

thick.

my tone, and I almost feel bad.

listen,” I cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot left unwatched. “Do

me? This competition, this opportunity—it’s

make it about you, about some

not fair.

to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to

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

he finally says. “If you don’t want

away from him; his presence is too

Because last time we talked, you made

felt about my success.”

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

edge of the counter to keep

said yourself that the competition would

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

night that I shouldn’t

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

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

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

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

looks up, his eyes intense and unwavering. “I want to be supportive, Abby. I messed

make it right.”

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

back? Because

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