Page 10 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Ten: Gabe

I t starts as a whisper.

Just barely audible over the hum of the ceiling fan overhead in the shadowy bedroom and the distant murmur of waves crashing against the shore far beyond the bay window.

I blink groggily, disoriented and dazed, as the sound winds its way through the cracked open window like a charmed snake, slipping into the dark space with hypnotically malicious intent. My first thought is that I’m most definitely dreaming, but as the fog of sleep clears with each shimmering note, I recognize the sound for what it is.

A lone violin.

I sit up, the sheets tangled around my legs from the restless sleep I’ve grown used to these past few years, and listen more closely. The melody is soft and lilting, the notes curling like smoke in the warm summer air.

There’s no question where it’s coming from. I would recognize Alina’s technique even if I was in a coma. It’s in the precise way her bow kisses the strings, a method so sweet and delicate that it’s utterly at odds with her sharp-edged personality.

What is she doing playing her violin in the middle of the night?

Throwing off the covers, I grab a T-shirt from the back of the chair and pull it over my head as I head downstairs. The house is emptier than usual tonight with Wren spending the night at a new friend’s house across the street. I thought the peace and quiet might be nice for a change, but it feels unsettling, as if something is missing. It’s always like that whenever my daughter isn’t here.

I wind through the dimness that seeps throughout the first floor. Feeling a bit stupid, I reach up and pinch my own arm, just to make sure I’m not trapped in an extremely realistic dream. Everything is strange and eerie, as if the edges of normally sharp objects have become frayed and fuzzy, and it feels less like I’m walking and more like I’m floating.

Running my fingers through my hair, I blink fast and try to get a grip on reality.

The music grows clearer as I step out onto the patio, barefoot and still a little groggy. Alina is sitting on a low wooden bench near the sand, illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon. Her silhouette is striking, her posture as impeccable as ever, and the curve of her violin neck is a graceful arc against the night sky.

She stops the moment I step outside. Even with her back to me, it’s clear that she can sense my presence just as easily as I can detect hers. We got used to it when we were at school together, constantly on alert for each other like we were genuinely at war.

Her bow hovers above the strings as if frozen in time. Even from this distance, I can see the tension ripple through her shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” she calls softly without turning around to look at me. Her voice carries just long enough on the cool night breeze to reach me and then die at my feet.

I cross the flat stones of the patio toward her, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my sweatpants.

Remember that she despises you. Remember who she is. She is beautiful and she is incredible, but she is not the person you should dare be vulnerable around again.

The reminders wrap tightly around my mind, squeezing like a vise.

“I could ask you the same thing. It’s the middle of the night.”

I come around to the other side of her bench. Her jaw tightens, and I brace myself for a trademark Sokolov retort, but instead she merely sighs and lowers the violin.

“Karina and Andy are in Boston for the night. Fancy dinner date or something like that. I couldn’t sleep, and the basement is creepy at this time of night, so I came out here.”

“And the solution to your insomnia is to serenade the entire neighborhood?”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s no real heat in her glare. At least, not from what I can tell in the moonlight. “I was playing quietly. And there’s no one else around to hear it.”

“Except me,” I point out.

She huffs, her fingers shifting idly on the violin strings. “If you’re about to tell me to pack it up and stop breaking some ridiculous noise ordinance, go ahead and say it.”

I shake my head. “Actually, I was going to say that you should keep playing.”

Her brow furrows, her suspicion evident. “Why?”

I shrug, though the truth is more complicated than I’m willing to admit. “Because it sounded really nice.”

For a moment, she just stares at me, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind my words. Finally, she relents, lifting the bow back to the strings. “Fine. But only because you asked so sweetly.” Her voice drips with venom.

I wonder how she’s even playing right now, if it’s true that she was too injured to do so when I walked in on her a couple days ago. She’d been crying because it hurt so badly, and yet there is nothing of that pain in her expression right now. Her face is smooth and focused, her gaze turned inward as she reaches for the music within her. She always had a better memory than me, able to memorize sheets of music in a matter of minutes.

Alina resumes the melody, her movements fluid and precise. The notes thread through the night like a delicate string of embroidery. It’s a piece I vaguely recognize—soft and melancholic, with just a hint of yearning. Perhaps Chopin? Debussy? It’s not the kind of thing she would have played back at Juilliard, when our rivalry was a full-contact sport, and every performance was a battlefield. Back then, her playing was sharp and showy—all about proving her superiority.

This is something else entirely.

“New piece?” I ask when she pauses to adjust her grip on the bow.

She nods without looking at me. “Something I was rehearsing with the CSO. They’re performing it this summer. Without me.”

“It sounds lovely,” I find myself admitting before I realize it, feeling like an idiot for not being able to come up with a more biting remark.

She lowers the violin to her lap and gives me a skeptical look. “Did you just refer to my playing as lovely ? Who are you, and what have you done with Gabriel Sterling?”

I smirk. “People change, you know. Maybe I’ve mellowed with age.”

She snorts. “Highly doubtful.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, to my surprise, she speaks again.

“I’m only playing because of the meds,” she says, her voice so quiet that I get the feeling I’m witnessing some kind of holy confession. “The pain is manageable. For now. I wanted to take advantage of it, even though the doctor said I should rest.”

I nod, unsure how to respond. I don’t blame her for ignoring the doctor’s orders. People like us… it’s not easy to stay away from music. It’s a part of who we are, just as natural as breathing and blinking.

I’m just surprised that she actually went to the doctor. When I suggested it, I assumed she would refuse to do it simply because it was something that I advised.

“That’s… good,” I murmur. “That the pain is gone, I mean.”

“Yeah,” she replies, a note of hesitation in her voice. “We’ll see how long it lasts, I guess. Prescription anti-inflammatories can only do so much.”

The vulnerability in her voice catches me off guard. For as long as I’ve known her, Alina has been a veritable fortress of a human being—unshakable, invincible, untouchable. To hear her admit to weakness, even indirectly, feels strange. It’s like seeing a crack in a stone statue—an imperfection in an otherwise flawless piece of art.

“So, you actually set up a doctor’s appointment,” I say carefully, wondering why I’m even saying anything at all. Wondering why I don’t turn around right now and go back inside. “How did it go?”

She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the neck of the violin. She stares out across the beach, gazing at the dark sand and the even darker sea beyond.

“There’s no official diagnosis yet. He wants to run some tests. Do an MRI. Stuff like that. He did say that it doesn’t seem serious enough to require surgery. So, I haven’t torn anything, then.”

“But you’re still worried.”

She doesn’t answer, but the harsh set of her jaw says enough. I can imagine exactly what it must be like for her to have the thing that defines her—her career and her overall identity—hanging in the balance. I remember what it felt like to walk away from the violin and the orchestra, and even though my reasons were different, the loss was still profound. It’s weird to empathize with her. I always preferred to ignore the things we had in common.

“Can I give you some unsolicited advice?” I blurt.

Her eyes narrow. “Doesn’t asking for permission to do that negate the whole ‘unsolicited’ thing?”

“I guess so,” I mutter. “I just… take it easy on yourself, Alina. Pushing through the pain isn’t going to fix anything. Even now, with your medication getting rid of the pain temporarily, you really shouldn’t be playing.”

She snorts, though there’s no real humor in it. “You think I don’t know that? It’s all I’ve been hearing for weeks. Rest, ice, more rest.”

“Maybe they’re right,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t respond, but the look she gives me is heavy with unspoken frustration. I don’t push her. I know better than to think I can change her mind about anything. Stubbornness has always been one of her defining traits, for better or worse.

The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by the soft whisper of the waves. This is the part where I’m supposed to grumble a half-hearted goodnight and go back inside. The part where I’m meant to remember that I had resolved to avoid Alina Sokolov at all costs for the rest of the summer, rather than walk boldly out into the night to confront her.

This is the part where I’m supposed to remember exactly how it felt to hate her for years.

The problem is, I don’t think I ever really hated her. It wasn’t true hate. It was spitefulness, jealousy, and annoyance tinged with reluctant admiration. If anything, the hatred came from within. I hated myself because, no matter what, I never truly measured up to her. Even during the rare moments when I won a position higher than hers in one of our classes, it was fleeting.

And I hated myself for what I suggested after I lost the spot at the CSO. I was angry and embarrassed, so I took it out on her. I knew it wasn’t true, but I made one comment about how Alina only aced the CSO audition because of who her father was. I knew it was a stupid remark. I knew that Vladimir Sokolov had nothing to do with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and that even though he was a big name in the industry, Alina wholeheartedly earned her place there.

I said it to one person in a moment of utter shame and defeat, and then the rumor spread from there. Within a couple weeks, by the time graduation came around, everyone knew that I thought Alina was nothing more than a beneficiary of nepotism. Including Alina.

A lot of people agreed with me. That was the worst part.

And instead of correcting my mistake—instead of telling people off for spreading the sentiment and apologizing directly to Alina for suggesting it in the first place—I let the wound fester and then simply walked away.

I guess it’s never too late to resolve old errors, though.

“You always were better than me,” I murmur. My voice is so quiet that, for a heartbeat, I’m worried I’m going to have to repeat myself.

But her head snaps toward me, her eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” I grumble, kicking at the sand. “You were better than me. At Juilliard. At the audition. And you’re definitely still better than me, of course.”

She stares at me, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I think she’s going to argue, or attempt to deny it out of some misplaced sense of modesty. But then she just nods, an almost imperceptible movement of her head.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice soft.

“I wanted to make sure you know that,” I add. “And that the things I said in the past weren’t true in the slightest. I was angry and immature.”

Alina purses her lips. “It’s been years, Sterling. You don’t have to apologize for calling me a nepo baby, even if most of our classmates agreed with you.”

“Well, even if I don’t have to, I wanted to. So, it’s done. You were better than me and I’m sorry I argued otherwise.”

She quirks an eyebrow at me, looking as though she’s trying to figure out if I’m playing some kind of prank on her right now.

After a moment, she turns away from me and lets out a sigh, loosening her grip on the violin.

“Alright, then. Thank you.”

I nod even though she’s not looking at me.

Good. That’s done. Conscience cleared.

I turn to head back inside before this moment gets any weirder. As I reach the door, however, her voice stops me in my tracks.

“Hey, Gabe?”

Not Sterling. Not Gabriel . Just Gabe.

I glance over my shoulder.

She hesitates for a handful of seconds, taking her time setting her violin down gently on the bench beside her.

“You were pretty good, too. Actually, if I’m being completely honest, part of me was grateful to have such a skilled rival. You kept me on my toes. You challenged me. I think— ugh , I hate to even say this, but… I think you made me a better musician.”

I smirk, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. “That’s pretty high praise, coming from you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dare. Goodnight, Alina.”

It takes me a second to realize I’ve failed to call her by that old nickname, Ali. We’re making unexpected, unintentional progress tonight, I guess.

She pauses for so long that I wonder if she’s going to ignore me. Then, without an ounce of vitriol in her tone, she murmurs, “Goodnight, Gabe.”

I step inside, closing the door behind me. For the first time, I feel a strange, tentative truce settling between us. It’s fragile and unspoken, but it’s definitely there. I don’t know what it really means, but it feels good to know that I don’t have to keep pretending with her.

I don’t have to keep trying to convince myself that I hate her. Not when, deep down, I have a horrible feeling that the opposite might have been true once upon a time.