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 throat.

more times than I can

at the entrance of the kitchen,

a space even when

things toward

that gravity feels

as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither

in the air

were still on. Thought you might

the kitchen.

ask, my voice laced with more bitterness than I

taking on a defensive stance I wish

to the discarded apron, the mess in the sink, and the ingredients sca

culinary crime scene. “I

back of them practically sore from how many times I’ve done that in

murmur, the words coated with a layer of irony I

thick.

tone, and I almost feel bad. Almost. “Abby,

you listen,” I cut him off, my pent-up emotions spilling over like a pot left

to me?

make it about you, about some

that’s not fair.

what you did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I snap,

and my career, and if you can’t be happy about that, then I

to talk,” he finally says. “If

away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled

“You came to talk? Really? Because last time we talked, you

felt about my success.”

stung by my accusation. “I am happy for you, Abby. I

retort, gripping the edge of the counter to keep my

changed. You said yourself that the competition

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

that I shouldn’t have, because

for you, Abby. Way more than you

of insincerity.

doesn’t just erase things, Karl. You being angry about

room for that kind

intense and unwavering. “I want to be supportive, Abby. I messed up.

make it right.”

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

me back? Because those are two very

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