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

a throat. My body

my senses more times than I

of the kitchen, his posture stiff

space even when they’re trying to

toward him whether he means to or not. And

feels

as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering

heavy in the air

might be here,”

the kitchen.

ask, my voice laced

stance I wish

the discarded apron, the mess in the sink, and the ingredients sca

like evidence of a culinary crime

from

with a layer of irony I can’t help but slather

thick.

tone, and I almost

off, my pent-up emotions spilling over

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

want to make it about

not

did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to him. “Right now,

be happy about that, then I don’t know

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

him; 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

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

competition would get

he’s measuring each breath, weighing

that I shouldn’t

Abby. Way more than you

meet his, searching for any sign of insincerity. All

just erase things, Karl. You being

have room for that kind

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

make it right.”

keep the skepticism out

back? Because those are two very different

between us, and I involuntarily hold