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.

more

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

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

things toward him whether

gravity feels

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

in the air

Thought you might

the kitchen.

voice laced

a defensive stance I wish I

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

a culinary crime scene. “I came to talk

roll my eyes, the back of them practically sore from how many times I’ve done that in

I murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony I

thick.

I almost feel bad. Almost. “Abby,

my pent-up emotions spilling over like a

how much this means to me? This competition,

you want to make it about you, about

not

what you did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer

career, and if you can’t be happy about

talk,” he finally

is too overwhelming, too filled with a

last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear

felt about my success.”

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

I retort, gripping the edge of the counter to keep my hands from shaking.

said yourself that the competition would get in

he’s measuring each breath, weighing each word before

I said some stuff last night that I shouldn’t have, because

for you, Abby. Way more than you

his, searching for any sign of insincerity. All I find

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

have room for that kind

eyes intense and unwavering. “I want to be supportive, Abby. I messed up. Let

make it right.”

really want to support me?” I can’t keep the skepticism out

me back? Because those

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