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;

senses more times than I can

of the kitchen, his posture stiff

can fill a space even when

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

feels like

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

unsaid hangs heavy in the air between

Thought you might be here,” he finally says, taking

the kitchen.

my voice laced with more bitterness than I intend.

defensive stance I wish

sighs, his eyes darting to the discarded apron, the mess in the sink, and the

culinary crime scene. “I came

sore from how many times I’ve done

words coated with

thick.

my tone, and I almost

pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot

how much this means to me? This competition,

to make it about you, about

not

or didn’t mean to do, Karl,”

be

he finally says. “If you don’t want

is too overwhelming, too filled with a

last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear

felt about my success.”

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

believe it?” I retort, gripping the edge of the

competition would

like he’s measuring each breath, weighing

that I shouldn’t

Way more than you realize.

of insincerity. All I find is a

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

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

want

make it right.”

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

me back? Because those are two very different

closer, closing the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold my breath. “I