Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 127

Abby

The warm afternoon sunlight casts dappled patterns on the ground as we walk through the park, holding cardboard coffee cups in our hands. The warmth seeps through the cup, mingling with the crisp air. It’s a nice moment, bordering on something that feels almost normal.

And then we stop in front of it—the old oak tree.

Its massive trunk and sprawling branches are as iconic as they come. It’s always been a sort of landmark in this small town, here long before the town was ever built. But to me, it’s more than just a tree. It’s a bitter reminder of another life, of another version of us.

We took our wedding photos under this tree.

“Do you remember?” Karl asks, his eyes meeting mine as if he’s searching for something—recognition, perhaps.

“Of course I remember,” I snap, maybe a little too quickly. “How could I forget?”

He looks taken aback, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Then, as though sensing he’s wandered into a minefield, he falls silent.

We stand there for another minute, neither of us able to speak. Then I can’t hold back any longer.

“Did you ever tell the staff the truth?” I ask, my voice edged with more tension than I’d intended. “That I never actually cheated on you with the gardener? That it was a terrible mistake?"”

Karl goes silent, the creases on his forehead deepening. I wait for what feels like an eternity, my patience waning with each passing second.

“Karl?”

He sighs. “No, Abby, I didn’t make an official announcement.”

Anger and hurt surge within me, mingling with a heavy dose of disbelief. And yet, somehow, I expected this. It’s just like Karl, isn’t it? “That must be why Gerald was giving me dirty looks from the window earlier.”

“Gerald did what?” Karl’s eyes flash, a ripple of anger surfacing before he reins it in.

I blanch, regretting that I let that slip. “It’s nothing, really. I just caught him giving me an odd look. And he seemed... perturbed when I arrived.”

For a moment, I consider naming one of the countless restaurants we used to frequent, each carrying its own set of memories. But then a different idea pops into my head.

“I’m tired, actually,” I say. “I’d rather just stay in.”

He nods, the tension still lingering between us, but easing somewhat. “Alright, I can order from anywhere you want. Just say the word.”

I hesitate, but then the thought solidifies as a soft smile works its way across my lips. “You know what? I want to cook. In my old kitchen.”

…

I slice through an onion, its layers falling apart under my knife. The pot simmers on the stove, filling the air with the aroma of garlic and herbs.

It’s soothing, grounding, to be cooking in my old kitchen. The sleek stainless steel countertops are juxtaposed against the warm amber glow from the overhead light, reminding me of old days. I add a pinch of salt to the pot, watching the crystals dissolve into the bubbling sauce. Then, footsteps echo from the hallway.