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

into my senses more times than I

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

can fill a space even when they’re trying to make

gravity about him, always has, pulling things toward him whether he

feels like

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

unsaid hangs heavy in the air between

lights were still on. Thought you might be here,” he finally says, taking a hesitant

the kitchen.

I ask, my voice laced with more

a defensive stance I wish I

eyes darting to the discarded apron, the mess in the

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

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

with a layer of irony I can’t

thick.

my tone, and I almost

cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a

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

want to make it about you, about some

that’s not

mean to do, Karl,” I

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

to talk,” he finally

his presence is too

came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly

felt about my success.”

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

I retort, gripping the edge of the counter to

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

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

that I shouldn’t have, because I was angry. But I

Way more than

sign of insincerity.

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

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

and unwavering. “I want

make it right.”

me?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of

win me back? Because those are two very different

steps closer, closing the gap between us, and I