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

hear it—a soft clearing of a throat. My body stiffens; that sound has dug

my senses more times than I can

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

space even when they’re trying to make themselves

this gravity about him, always has, pulling things toward him

feels like a

our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither of us

heavy in the

Thought you might be here,” he

the kitchen.

you doing here, Karl?” I ask, my voice

a defensive stance I wish I

to the discarded apron, the mess in the

of a culinary crime

sore from how many times I’ve done that

the words coated with a layer of irony I

thick.

and I almost feel

off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot

this means to me?

you want to make

that’s not fair. I

did or didn’t mean to do,

can’t be happy

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

presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history

last time we talked, you

felt about my success.”

happy for you, Abby. I wish you would

edge of the counter to keep my hands from shaking.

that the competition would get

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

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

for you, Abby. Way more than you realize. And

searching for any sign of insincerity.

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

me, and I don’t have room for that kind

intense and unwavering. “I want to be

make it right.”

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

to win me back? Because those are two

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