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 throat.

into my senses more times than I can

Karl standing at the entrance of the kitchen, his posture stiff and

even when they’re trying

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

gravity feels

pulse quickens as our eyes lock. There’s a lingering moment where neither of us

unsaid hangs heavy in the

saw the lights were still on. Thought you might

the kitchen.

here, Karl?” I ask, my voice laced

taking on a defensive stance I wish I didn’t

the mess in the sink,

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

my eyes, the back of them practically sore from how many times

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

thick.

I almost feel

pent-up emotions spilling over like a

this means to me? This competition,

want to make it about you,

not fair. I

did or didn’t mean to do, Karl,” I

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

to talk,” he finally says. “If you don’t want to, I

away from him; his presence is too overwhelming, too filled with a history I’ve

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

felt about my success.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re right. I said some stuff last night that I shouldn’t have,

you, Abby. Way more than you

searching for any sign of insincerity. All I

Karl. You being angry about my

of me, and I don’t have room for that kind of negativity in my life right

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

make it right.”

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

back? Because those are two very different

and I involuntarily hold my