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

soft clearing of a

my senses more times than

find Karl standing at the entrance of the kitchen,

even when they’re trying to make themselves

things toward him

feels like

quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering

unsaid hangs heavy in the

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

the kitchen.

voice laced with more bitterness than I intend. I cross

defensive stance I

the discarded apron, the mess in the sink, and

crime scene. “I came to talk about

from how many times I’ve done

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

thick.

my tone, and I almost feel

pent-up emotions spilling over

means to me? This competition, this

make

not fair. I

do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to him. “Right now, this

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

I just came to talk,” he finally says. “If you

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

to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you

felt about my success.”

stung by my accusation. “I am happy

the edge of the

yourself that the competition would get in the way of the

like he’s measuring each breath, weighing

that I shouldn’t have, because I was angry. But

more than you

of insincerity. All I find is a quiet

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

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

up, his eyes intense 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

to win me back? Because

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