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

into my senses more times than I can

standing at the entrance of the kitchen,

a space even when they’re trying to

things toward him whether he means

feels like

our eyes lock. There’s a lingering

unsaid hangs heavy in the air

lights were still on. Thought you might be here,” he

the kitchen.

my voice laced with more bitterness than

stance I wish

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

like evidence of a culinary crime

the back of them practically sore from how many times

course you did,” I murmur, the words coated with a

thick.

I

my pent-up emotions

me? This competition,

want to make it about you,

not fair.

mean to do, Karl,” I

if you can’t be happy about that, then I don’t know what to

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

can’t look away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve been

Really? Because last time

felt about my success.”

“I am happy for you, Abby. I

I retort, gripping the edge of the counter to keep

You said yourself that the competition would get in the way

measuring each breath, weighing each word before

some stuff last night that I shouldn’t have, because I was angry. But I

you, Abby. Way more than

for any sign of insincerity. All I find is a quiet regret

things, Karl. You being

I don’t have room for that kind of negativity in

“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 of

Because

and I involuntarily hold my breath. “I can’t lie and say