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

I hear it—a soft clearing of a throat. My

more times than I can

at the entrance of the kitchen, his posture

can fill a space even when

always has, pulling things toward him whether he means to or not.

gravity feels like a

lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither

in the air between

Thought you might be here,” he finally says, taking a

the kitchen.

ask, my voice laced with

a defensive stance I

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

culinary crime scene.

practically sore from how many times

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

thick.

flinches at my tone, and I

I cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a

much this means to me? This competition, this opportunity—it’s

you want to make it about you,

not

do, Karl,” I

me and my career, and if you can’t be happy about

just came to talk,” he finally says.

from him; his presence is too

Really? Because last time

felt about my success.”

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

I believe it?” I retort, gripping the edge of

demeanor changed. You said yourself that the competition would get in the way of

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

I said some stuff last night that I shouldn’t

for you, Abby. Way more than

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

Karl. You

and I don’t have room for that kind

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

make it right.”

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

Because those are two very

closer, closing the gap between us, and I involuntarily hold