Page 12 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Twelve: Gabe

T he day that unravels before me is a postcard-worthy summer afternoon where the sky stretches endlessly in unbroken blue, and the ocean glitters like a swath of shimmering fabric unspooling beneath it.

Wren is running ahead of me on the beach, her laughter rising above the sound of the waves in girlish shrieks.

“Daddy, look!” she shouts, stopping to examine a cluster of shells near the water.

I smile, watching her from a short distance. It’s moments like these that make everything seem worthwhile—the endless hours of work and the stress of balancing deadlines with being a single parent. How can I complain about all those stupid little things when Wren has such a bright smile on her face? Seeing her happy, carefree, and soaking up the summer sun… that’s all I’ll ever need.

Truly, nothing else matters. Not my grief, not the things I’ve lost. Not the regrets I have or the mistakes I’ve made.

As dark as it feels to admit it to myself, I don’t think I’d still be alive if it wasn’t for Wren. I don’t think I would have been able to find a reason to keep going after losing everything.

She holds up a piece of driftwood like it’s a rare treasure. “Isn’t this cool?”

“Super cool,” I call back, giving her a thumbs-up.

She grins and takes off running again, her curls bouncing as she chases the waves.

I follow at a leisurely pace, letting her enjoy the freedom while keeping her in sight. Mermaid Shores is safe and idyllic, but I still can’t shake my need to watch her every move. Wren is fearless, curious, and sometimes a little too independent for her own good. I’m constantly worried that bravery is going to get her in trouble. In that sense, she reminds me a lot of my older brother, her Uncle Mike. While I was busy being an outcast nerd for loving the violin, he was climbing trees and racing around town, unchained and untamable. Never mind the bumps and bruises and broken bones; nothing ever stopped Michael from seeking out a new adventure.

Which is why it’s so funny that, nowadays, he’s settled down into a perfectly regular life as a CPA. That wild spirit must have somehow found a way to be absorbed into Wren.

A seagull swoops down, catching her attention. She screams with laughter, darting after it as it hops along the sand. She’s talking to it, making a strange voice that must be like what seagulls sound like in her imagination.

Except, something about her movements gives me pause.

Her steps are oddly unsteady, almost sluggish. It looks like she’s wading through mud instead of walking on firm, damp sand.

“Wren?” I call, my voice tinged with concern.

She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders slump as she falls quiet, losing interest as the seagull takes off back into the sky. With an unnatural lurch, she stumbles slightly as she bends to pick up another shell.

Alarm bells go off in my head. I quicken my pace, the soles of my shoes kicking up sand as I close the distance between us.

“Wren!”

She turns to face me, and my heart stops. Her cheeks are pale, her lips noticeably dry. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of mischief, look glassy and unfocused.

“I feel weird,” she mumbles, swaying on her feet.

Panic grips me like a vice. This can’t be happening. She was laughing less than a minute ago.

I rush to her side, kneeling in the sand. “Hey, kiddo, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Tell me what’s wrong.”

She shakes her head weakly, her movements uncoordinated. “No. Just… spinning… feels… dizzy.”

Her voice is faint, her breathing shallow. I press a hand to her forehead. It’s clammy and cool, but there’s no fever. My mind races as I scan her face for answers, but all I see is how small and fragile she suddenly looks. Is it heatstroke? Did she develop a new allergy?

Or is it my biggest fear coming to life? One of my reoccurring nightmares making itself known in the light of day?

“I don’t feel good,” she whispers. A moment later, her knees buckle.

I catch her before she hits the ground, lifting her into my arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Her head lolls against my shoulder, her tiny frame feeling too light, too limp. My pulse thunders in my ears as I march up the beach. We’ve wandered far from the pathway that leads up to the duplex, but I close the distance in no time at all, fueled by pure adrenaline.

Darting around the side of the house, I head for the car. Every worst-case scenario flashes through my mind.

This has happened to me before. Out of nowhere, on a perfectly beautiful and ordinary day.

I can see it now as if I’ve traveled through time and dived right back into the memories. The sterile halls of a hospital. The beeping of monitors in other rooms that mock me in comparison to the one very quiet monitor before me. The quiet, detached voice of a doctor delivering news that no amount of preparation could soften.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Sterling. There’s nothing we could do.”

Not again.

I tighten my grip on Wren, holding her close as I stoop over the backseat of the car and try my best to secure her in the car seat. She’s limp, barely lucid, and yet her lower lip trembles as if she’s doing her best to hold back tears.

“Hang in there, kiddo,” I murmur, my voice trembling as I shut the door and fumble with the keys. “We’re going to the hospital. Everything’s going to be fine.”

I don’t know who I’m trying to convince—her or myself.

The drive to the nearest hospital is a blur. All I manage to do is shout a garbled “emergency room” command to Siri, and then I’m navigating blindly according to her robotic instructions. I keep glancing in the rearview mirror, checking to make sure Wren is still breathing, still awake. Her eyes flutter open and closed, her lips moving faintly, but I can’t make out the words.

“Try to stay awake, honey,” I say to her.

If she hears me, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

My heart is throbbing, my stomach squirming.

By the time I pull into the hospital parking lot, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely shift into park. I scoop her up again, ignoring the curious glances from passersby as I rush through the automatic doors. I think the security guard says something to me, but I plow right through the metal detectors and exhale in relief when I see there’s no line at reception.

“She’s not feeling well,” I blurt out to the woman at the reception desk. “She was running around on the beach, and then she just—she wasn’t okay. It happened very suddenly, and I don’t know how. I didn’t even take my eyes off her. Please, you have to help her.”

The receptionist nods calmly, typing something into her computer before waving over a nurse. They ask me more questions that feel stupid and useless. Her name. Her date of birth. Her symptoms, clearly and eloquently itemized.

“You don’t understand,” I snap. “Her mother passed away from a sudden cardiac arrhythmia. This is—she might be—”

That does the trick. The nurse nods and jumps into action, signaling for another nurse on the other side of the waiting room.

Within seconds, Wren is whisked away on a gurney, and I’m left standing there, empty-handed and breathing hard as if I’ve just run a marathon.

“Sir, we’ll need you to fill out some paperwork,” the receptionist says gently, handing me a clipboard.

“But I need to go with my daughter.”

“Just give the nurse a few minutes to stabilize her so that we—”

“I can’t leave her alone.”

The receptionist swallows hard, leaning forward to pat my hand, which is balled into a fist on top of the desk. “She’s in good hands. I only need some basic documentation that is absolutely crucial for her to receive proper treatment.”

Clearly, she’s experienced enough to know exactly how to communicate with panicked parents. Her words manage to crack through my anxious armor, and I know that she’s right. I accept the clipboard and step aside, even though there’s nobody else waiting behind me, then blink through the haziness to read what’s on the page in front of me.

My hands tremble as I scrawl Wren’s name and details onto the forms. The questions blur together— Previous medical history? Allergies? Current medications? —and I answer them on autopilot, my mind consumed by the thought of my little girl lying on a hospital bed, scared and sick and not knowing where I am right now.

When I hand the clipboard back to the receptionist, she murmurs something about how one of the nurses will come fetch me in just a moment.

But the minutes feel like hours as I pace the length of the waiting room, every muscle in my body taut with worry. I feel like I might be sick. Like I might collapse and never be able to get up again.

The day my wife dropped to the floor, so suddenly in the middle of an otherwise pleasantly normal day, was the worst day of my life. One minute, she was laughing at the stupid voice I was using for Wren, who was strapped to my chest in a baby carrier, still so tiny and frail. The next minute, my wife was unresponsive and Wren was screaming at the top of her little lungs.

Wren’s mother was already gone from this world by the time the ambulance got her to the hospital.

She just… died. Just like that. No warning. No reason to even suspect that she might not be long for this world. She’d thought she was perfectly healthy, and so I’d believed it to. She’d had no idea there was a minuscule hole in her heart that was waiting to claim her life.

And I knew that I needed to have Wren checked for the same condition, but the last time I brought her to the pediatrician, I was told that she’s still too small for them to be able to tell if something could be truly wrong. I was warned that it might develop later in life, perhaps when she’s a teenager, if she’s cursed to inherit the ailment in the first place.

I wanted to seek a second opinion, but then work got in the way. And Wren seemed fine. Better than fine. She was energetic and lively and loud.

Then again, her mother had been that way, too.

Just when I’m sure that I’m about to break down into tears, a nurse finally approaches me. Her expression is kind and devoid of panic, which could be indicative of good news or nothing more than a perfect poker face.

“Mr. Sterling?”

I rush to her, my heart in my throat. “How is she? Is she okay?”

“She’s going to be fine,” the nurse says, her smile automatic and softly reassuring. “The doctor says she was very dehydrated—that’s all. We’ve given her fluids, and she’s already perking up.”

I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through me. “Dehydrated? But I swear she was drinking plenty…”

“It happens more often than you’d think,” she says. “Kids get so caught up in playing that they forget to drink water, and it’s especially common when we have these warm, sunny days. Make sure she stays hydrated, and she’ll be good as new. We’ll send you home with some more thorough instructions and recommendations, too.”

I nod, barely registering her words as she leads me down a hallway. I resist the urge to start running, knowing that it’s more efficient to follow the nurse than it is to start bursting into every room I pass by in hopes of seeing my daughter.

At last, I’m brought to the room they’re holding her in.

“Daddy,” Wren says softly, her voice a little stronger now.

I move to sit beside her bed, brushing her curls back from her face. “Hey, kiddo. You scared me back there.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs, looking sheepish. “They said I didn’t drink enough water.”

“It’s okay,” I say, my voice thick. “It’s my fault, honey. I should have been paying better attention.”

She shrugs, as if she doesn’t think it’s necessary to place blame. So wise, even at her age.

I stay by her side until she’s cleared for discharge. It’s an effort not to hate myself for this, for being so careless that I wasn’t thinking about whether Wren was hydrating adequately while she was running around under the hot sun. I’d thought of everything else. Sunscreen and appropriate footwear. A balanced breakfast.

I guess it’s just another thing that I’ve failed at.

Wren is drowsy but alert as I carry her back to the car, her arms wrapped around my neck. The sun is beginning to set as we cross the parking lot, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Wren is excited to know that one of the ways she’s been instructed to rehydrate is via popsicles and ginger ale. The ensuing sugar rush is going to take all my strength to handle.

And then, as if the universe isn’t done placing roadblocks in my path, that’s when I see her.

Alina.

She’s leaning against a car a few spaces away, looking down at her phone. Hearing my footsteps in the fairly deserted lot, she glances up. Her expression is colored with confusion as her gaze flickers between me and Wren.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Her eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t have a snappy response.

“MRI,” she answers simply.

“For your hands?”

She nods, shoving her phone in her pocket.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions.

“Is everything okay?” she asks finally, her tone cautious.

I glance down at Wren, then back at Alina. “Yeah. She’s fine. Just a little dehydrated.”

Her shoulders relax, and for a moment, I think I see a flicker of relief cross her face.

“Good,” she says. “That’s good. I’ve heard that happens a lot with kids.”

“Alina!” Wren’s voice is unexpectedly bright as she blinks open her eyes and realizes who’s standing in front of us. It’s an effort not to cringe.

Alina looks startled by how obviously excited my daughter is to see her, but recovers quickly, offering a small smile. “Hi, Wren.”

“You should come over for dinner tomorrow,” Wren announces, her tone so casual it takes me a moment to process what she’s said.

“What?” I sputter, glancing between her and Alina.

Alina blinks, clearly just as caught off guard. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“You should come!” Wren interrupts, her enthusiasm unshaken. “Daddy’s a really good cook. And we can have dessert! I have to have lots of popsicles, but I’ll share with you.”

Alina glances at me, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” I clear my throat, trying to regain control of the situation. Unfortunately, in this moment, Wren could ask me for anything, and I wouldn’t be able to tell her no. “Sure. We’d, um, love to have you… and Karina and Andy, too.”

How I managed to remember the other neighbors’ names in my current state of mind is beyond me.

Alina hesitates for a long moment. I’m certain that she’s trying to come up with an excuse to reject the invitation, but then she looks at Wren and something strangely sad flickers in her eyes.

“Okay. Dinner. That sounds… nice.”

Wren grins, satisfied with this development, and I have no choice but to force a smile as we head to our car.

What the heck just happened?