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

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

more times than I

entrance of the kitchen,

fill a space even

has, pulling things toward

that gravity feels like

our eyes lock. There’s a

heavy in the air between

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

the kitchen.

I ask, my voice laced with more bitterness than I

a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

the mess

a culinary crime scene. “I came to talk about

practically sore from how many times I’ve done that in the

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

thick.

I almost

my pent-up emotions

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

make it about you, about some

that’s not fair. I

care what you did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap, stepping closer to him. “Right

and if you can’t be happy

he finally says.

his presence is too overwhelming,

Really? Because last time we

felt about my success.”

am happy for you, Abby. I wish you

retort, gripping the edge of the

You said yourself that the competition would

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

mouth. “You’re right. I said some stuff last night that I shouldn’t have, because I was angry. But

you, Abby. Way more than you realize. And I’m

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

Karl.

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

want

make it right.”

keep the skepticism

back? Because those are two very

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