Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 80

Karl

The sun is barely hovering above the horizon as I pull up in front of Abby’s apartment building on Friday morning.

I can’t help but smile as I think about the day ahead of us. My black car idles, the hum of its engine drowned out by the pop song playing on the radio—a song I can easily imagine Abby singing along to, although I don’t personally care for that kind of music myself.

With a deep breath, I turn off the engine and grab the to-go cup of her favorite coffee from the cup holder.

She opens the door almost as soon as I knock, as though she was standing there, waiting. There’s a look in her eyes that makes it seem as though she’s still on the fence about going. But the second her eyes meet mine, the tension in her shoulders eases. Just a bit.

“Good morning,” I greet, handing her the coffee. “Figured you could use this.”

She grins, taking a sip immediately. “You read my mind.”

There’s a slight silence for a few moments. My eyes scan the inside of her apartment, where a bag sits on the floor behind her; it’s packed haphazardly, no doubt. She’s never been the neatest traveler.

“Oh, one more thing,” she says before I can say anything. She slips her phone out of her pocket and begins tapping furiously on the screen while her coffee cup balances precariously in the crook of her elbow. “I have to tell Ethan—”

“Ethan will be fine without you,” I say, snatching both the phone and the coffee cup away. “And so will the restaurant. Just enjoy your time off, Abby.”

She glares at me for a moment, that signature stare of hers, but finally relaxes and lets out a deep sigh. “You’re right.”

We hit the road within a few minutes. The morning sun streams through the windows, casting her face in a warm amber glow. I plug in my phone and shuffle through a playlist I know she’ll love.

“So, long drive ahead. Music?”

“Surprise me,” she says, her fingers nervously tapping on the coffee cup.

I hit play, and the first chords of a nostalgic song—one that played at our wedding—fill the car. She laughs, shaking her head. “Seriously?”

“Come on, it’s a classic,” I defend, bobbing my head to the beat.

Abby’s lips twitch upwards into a smile, but it quickly fades. I watch from my peripherals as she averts her gaze to the window, occasionally sipping out of her coffee cup. She thinks I don’t notice, but she’s swaying back and forth to the song, ever so slightly. And that’s enough for me.

We’ve been riding in comfortable silence for about half an hour when Abby suddenly points to a barely visible building off the main road.

“Remember that place?” she asks.

I glance in the direction she’s pointing, spotting the outline of an old, worn-down motel that has seen better days. “Ah, the Woodpecker Inn,” I say, a smile forming on my own face. “We stayed there more than once.”

“Yeah.” She pauses, her voice taking on a more nostalgic tone. “You proposed to me there, didn’t you?”

I smirk, shaking my head. “Your memory is betraying you. I actually proposed at that fancy restaurant in the city. What was it called—La Bella Vita?”

Abby gives me a sideways look. “Karl, you’ve got it all wrong. You proposed at the Woodpecker Inn, right near the fireplace where we used to—”

Her voice trails off momentarily, leaving space where our memories belong. The fireplace at the Woodpecker Inn… I try not to think about it, because if I do, I’ll get too distracted and possibly run the car off the road.

“I know what we used to do near that fireplace, but no, Abby, I proposed at La Bella Vita. I remember because the hostess almost kicked us out for disturbing the peace after you said yes.”

We go back and forth like this, both of us stubbornly clinging to our own versions of the story. The tension is playful, almost electric, a reminder of simpler times. I’m about to pull out my phone and call one of our mutual friends to settle the argument when Abby’s eyes widen, and she bursts into laughter.

“We’re both idiots,” she exclaims.

“What?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“We’re both wrong,” she says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “It was the lighthouse.”

“The lighthouse?”

“You okay?” I ask as we ascend the stairs. Her room—the master bedroom, and I’ve decided to take the guest room—is right at the top of the stairs.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, but her voice quivers, betraying her true emotions.

I unlock the door and swing it open, revealing the room she spent so many years in. It’s been a few years since she’s been gone, but I kept the furnishings the same. In fact, I couldn’t sleep in here for the first two years; not since I thought she cheated on me.

“Wow,” she breathes, stepping inside.

Her eyes move from the familiar furnishings to the photos still sitting on top of her old dresser. One in particular catches her eye, a candid shot of us, laughing like there’s no tomorrow. Truthfully, I never took it down, although I couldn’t bear to look at it for the longest time.

For a moment, I see the Abby I fell in love with all those years ago. Vulnerable, yet strong. Closed off, yet incredibly open.

She wipes a tear away before it can fall, then turns to me with a shaky smile. “It’s just…a lot, you know?”

“I do,” I reply softly, not trusting myself to say more.

She clears her throat, setting her bag down on the bed. “So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day?”

“If you’re up for it, I was thinking dinner later,” I suggest, leaning against the doorframe.

She nods, biting her lip in a way that’s incredibly cute and reminiscent of the old Abby. “That sounds good.”

“Alright,” I say. “I’ll let you get settled, then. And if you need me, I’m in the guest bedroom.”

As I walk away, heading back down the grand staircase, I can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. This visit is a big step for both of us. Where it leads, I can’t say for sure, but for the first time in a long while, I’m hopeful.

And as I get to the bottom of the stairs, I realize something else, too. For the first time in years, the house feels like a home again. And it’s all because Abby is here, even if it’s just for a visit.