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

when I hear it—a soft clearing of a

more times

entrance of the

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

him, always has, pulling things toward him whether he means

gravity feels

eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment

hangs heavy in the air between

on. Thought you might be

the kitchen.

my voice laced with more bitterness

a defensive stance

apron, the mess in the sink,

counter like evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I

from how many times I’ve done that

did,” I murmur, the words coated with

thick.

tone, and I

listen,” I cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling

much this means to me?

to make

that’s not fair.

or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap,

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

to talk,” he finally says. “If

away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history

time we talked, you made it abundantly clear how

felt about my success.”

by my accusation. “I am happy

the edge of

said yourself that the competition would get in the

he’s measuring each breath, weighing each word before it

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

Way more than

of insincerity. All I find

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

me, and I don’t have room for

and unwavering. “I want to be supportive, Abby. I messed

make it right.”

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

win me back? Because those

closer, closing the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold