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

my senses more times than I

up, I find Karl standing at the entrance of the kitchen, his

even when they’re trying to make themselves

him, always has, pulling things toward

feels like

as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where

in the

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

the kitchen.

ask, my voice laced with

stance

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

a culinary crime scene. “I came to

them practically sore from how many times I’ve done

words coated with a layer of irony I can’t help but

thick.

flinches at my tone, and I almost feel bad. Almost.

my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot left unwatched.

idea how much this means to me?

make it about

that’s not

didn’t mean to do, Karl,”

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

finally says. “If you don’t

presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve been trying

Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear how

felt about my success.”

narrow, stung by my accusation. “I am happy for you, Abby. I

I retort, gripping the edge

competition would

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

I said some stuff last night that I

for you, Abby. Way more

of insincerity. All I find

Karl. You being angry about my success tells

I don’t have room for that

want to be supportive, Abby. I messed up. Let

make it right.”

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

win me back? Because those

between us, and I