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 stiffens; that sound has dug

senses more times than

entrance of the kitchen, his

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

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

feels like

a lingering moment where

in

you might be here,” he finally says, taking

the kitchen.

are you doing here, Karl?” I ask, my voice laced with more bitterness

a defensive stance I wish I

sighs, his eyes darting to the discarded apron, the mess in the sink,

like evidence of a culinary crime scene. “I came to talk about

practically sore from how

with a layer of irony

thick.

tone, and I almost feel bad.

off, my pent-up emotions

much this means to me?

And you want to make it about you, about

that’s not fair.

what you did or didn’t mean to do,

career, and if you can’t be happy

I just came to talk,” he finally

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

“You came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you made it abundantly clear how

felt about my success.”

my accusation. “I am happy for you,

gripping the edge of the

that the competition would get

like he’s measuring each breath,

stuff last night that

you, Abby. Way more than you realize. And

sign of insincerity. All I find is

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

supportive of me, and I don’t have room for that

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

make it right.”

support me?” I can’t keep the

back? Because those are two

closer, closing the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold my breath. “I can’t lie and