Page 15 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Fifteen: Alina

A s we continue our walk down the beach, Gabe is quiet. I steal glances at him out of the corner of my eye, still trying to figure out why he asked me to go on a walk with him in the first place. Still trying to figure out why I agreed to it, too.

His gaze is fixed on some distant point ahead of us, his hands shoved into the pockets of his linen trousers. He dresses like the sort of person who might be in the mood to step out onto his yacht for the afternoon at any moment, yet he behaves like a surly academic who spends most of his time sequestered in forgotten corners of dusty libraries.

Then again, maybe that’s only because that’s the version of Gabe that I know. Maybe everyone else in this world knows a different version. Maybe everyone else gets to see him smile and hear him laugh, and I’m the odd one out because I pinned him as my enemy over a decade ago.

Or perhaps all of those thoughts are childish and useless. Where Gabe is concerned, I’m stuck in the past, and I really need to be focused on what lies ahead instead.

I follow a step behind him, the faint warmth of the few sips of the cocktail I forced down lingering in my chest and fluttering throughout my bloodstream. It’s not enough to make me brave, but it’s apparently enough to make me nonsensical to the point where I’ve agreed to be alone with him.

It’s not so bad, though. Especially when he’s not talking.

He’s terribly, mesmerizingly handsome, after all. Every time he turns his face up to the stars and his profile is backlit by the moonlight, I watch his thick eyelashes flutter… and then I can’t help it when my gaze drops down to the shadow of his strong jawline and, lower, to his broad shoulders.

I should say something.

I should keep my mouth shut.

I should ask him where we’re going.

I should endure this silence as we continue to tread in the general direction of our duplex.

And then I should grumble out a simple goodnight, go upstairs, and empty my head of all thoughts of him, and never think about this bizarre night ever again.

I don’t like the feelings that are bubbling up inside me.

I don’t like that, in this weirdly comfortable quiet, I can recognize where I went wrong in the past. Where I might have taken confusing emotions or unwanted attraction and allowed them to warp into cold obsession, flippant disdain, and vicious dismissal.

There’s a chance that I made Gabe into my enemy because I was terrified of what he might have become otherwise.

Not that it matters.

The sky is an endless expanse of stars, each one glimmering faintly against the inky blackness that drapes over the town like a silken blanket. It’s the kind of night that feels alive, like the universe is holding its breath. The sound of the waves whispers in the silence between us as we walk, our footsteps muffled by the soft dunes.

“You don’t talk about her often, do you?” I ask, and immediately have to hold back an outward cringe. My voice is too sudden, too jarring. It disturbs the tranquility of the scene, slicing through the murmuring of the beach grass.

I don’t know what I expect him to say. Maybe he’ll brush it off, act like he doesn’t know what I mean, give me one of those nonchalant shrugs of his, and change the subject. But something in the stillness of the night and the way he holds himself right now makes me feel like he might actually answer.

He slows his pace slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “What?”

“Your wife,” I clarify, taking a small step closer to match his pace. “You don’t talk about her.”

It’s more of an observation—an assumption I’ve made based on how closely I’ve been watching him this past week or so—but there’s a dozen questions written underneath it.

His shoulders stiffen. For a moment, I think I’ve made a mistake. It’s really none of my business, anyway. It’s just that I was thinking about Wren, and then that led me to thoughts of Wren’s mother… and how challenging it must be for that sweet girl to navigate this world without a mom.

Not your business , I repeat to myself. You should take it back. Say,“Never mind.”

But then he lets out a slow breath and stops walking.

“What do you want to know?” His tone is light and careful.

I hesitate. The moonlight catches the angles of his face again. I feel a weird desire to trace the furrow in his brow, and then I note the way his jaw tightens as he waits for me to answer.

“What happened to her?” I find the courage to ask.

He looks away, his gaze sweeping across the horizon. The waves crash softly against the shore, and the quiet stretches for so long that I start to regret asking.

“She had a fatal arrhythmia,” he says at last, his voice quiet but steady. “Her heart just… stopped beating. It was a pre-existing condition that she didn’t even know about.”

I don’t say anything, chilled by the words as they slip past me with oily slickness.

“It was so sudden. I didn’t understand what was happening. We were in public and she collapsed out of nowhere. She’d seemed totally fine one minute and then… but I don’t know. She was always good at hiding it when she was in pain. She made childbirth look like a walk in the park. So, maybe she was feeling ill, but she didn’t understand it, so she didn’t say anything. And anyway, who expects to just drop dead without warning?”

His voice falters, just slightly, and I notice the way his hands clench into fists in his pockets.

“I didn’t handle it well,” he admits, his gaze fixed on the water. “I thought if I could just keep things moving, if I could keep working and keep providing, I could somehow fix it. But it doesn’t work that way. I know I’m messing up with Wren. I know I should be trying to find her a stepmom. She deserves that. I just—I don’t know.”

I swallow hard. I know better than most people that it’s rare for Gabe to say so much all at once. Like me, he’s not much of a conversationalist. Our preferred medium for communication is music, not speech.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, the words feeling woefully inadequate.

He glances at me, his expression shifting into a familiar sardonic expression, even as I catch a glint of humor in his gaze. “She probably would’ve liked you, you know.”

I snort. “What?”

“My wife,” he clarifies unnecessarily. “She had this way of seeing through people’s walls. She would’ve thought you were brilliant and, just like me, she would’ve seen right through that icy exterior of yours.

The compliment is bittersweet, and I don’t know how to respond to it. He’s called me worse than icy before, but this time he said it with an odd note of affection in his voice.

Or maybe it’s late and I’m getting tired.

We start walking again, wordlessly agreeing to head back home via the beach.

“She made me better,” he murmurs. “And when she died, it felt like the world flipped upside down. I gave up so much to build a family with her. Not because she asked me to, but because I wanted to. I quit the BSO because I wasn’t making enough to afford a baby. I made my choices, and maybe I regret some of them a little bit, but the point is that I thought I was on the right path at the time, and then all of a sudden, she was gone. I didn’t know how to keep going.”

“But you did,” I say softly.

“For Wren. She needed me. And for a long time, that was enough.”

The quiet returns for a prolonged stretch of time. I can see the lights glowing from our duplex in the distance, glittering among the other warmly-lit homes along the beachfront.

“I’m sorry,” I say for a third time.

Why can’t I think of anything else to say? A small part of me wishes I had my violin with me. Despite the fact that I’m supposed to be resting, I know that I could play him a song that would say a lot more than a pathetic I’m sorry .

“I know,” he replies quietly.

Our steps are unhurried. The night feels heavy yet not suffocating, the kind of weight that makes you feel grounded instead of trapped.

“You know, Ali…”

I let out a loud sigh at the return of the nickname.

He chuckles softly. I realize I like the sound. And then I realize that it might be the first time I’ve ever made Gabe laugh. A real laugh, that is. Not a snicker or sarcastic snort.

“Habit,” he murmurs. “You know everything is going to be okay, right, Alina? With your hands? I know it feels easier to let yourself be consumed by the anxiety, but I know from experience that being level-headed will get you much further.”

My throat tightens. I’m really not used to him being nice to me.

I haven’t missed the very obvious change in conversation, though. He doesn’t want to talk about his wife, or his grief, anymore. It’s my turn to reveal bits of my soul.

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I don’t know who I am without the violin. You say it’s easy to give in to the panic, but it’s also the more logical option, if I really think about it. If this is more than the symptoms of reckless overuse—if it’s something so permanent and debilitating that I have to quit—I’m not just going to lose my career. The violin is my whole life. If I can’t play, I might not be anyone at all.”

Gabe’s throws a sideways glance at me, a flicker of something like annoyance and disbelief crossing his face.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says bluntly.

I purse my lips. This instant argument from him is familiar, at least. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not nobody,” he responds, his tone firm. “You’re more than your talent. You’re more than what you can do when there’s a violin in your hands. You’re an entire person outside of all that, Alina. You might not be used to thinking of yourself that way, but I can promise that your life is not going to end if you find yourself in the worst-case scenario.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off before I can get a word out.

“Look—I get it. Losing something you love feels like losing a part of yourself. But it’s not the end of the world. You adapt. You figure out what’s next. There’s always another path to take. There’s always a new version of yourself to discover.”

“It’s not that simple. Plus, you sound like a corny motivational speaker.”

“No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Trust me. You might not want to hear it, but I’m right. And maybe the fact of the matter is that you’re not willing to consider you might be someone outside of being a violinist because you’re afraid. You’re comfortable being this person.”

The words sting, but they also anchor me in a way I wasn’t expecting. There’s no pity in his voice, no sugarcoating—just a challenge. He’s practically demanding that I dig a little deeper.

And maybe I am afraid. Maybe that’s the problem. The fear of what might happen if I don’t get better is suffocating me before I’ve even had the chance to confront it head-on.

Before I can respond to Gabe, however, a figure appears on the horizon, walking toward us along the shoreline.

I let out a soft gasp.

It’s the old woman I saw the other morning. The one who gave me the tiger’s eye. Except I don’t really know how she gave it to me, because I swear she didn’t get close enough to drop something in my pocket.

She moves toward us with an easy grace, her flowing clothes billowing softly in the breeze. Her face is turned toward the sea, like she’s looking for a friend out there. I notice that her gait is easy and casual, like she came out here to convene with the waves themselves.

She nods at the two of us as she passes, her gaze lingering on me with a knowing smile.

She doesn’t say a single thing to us, and yet I feel like she’s delivered another odd prophecy unto me in the silence that shrouded her.

Your heart is heavy… it’s calling out in pain…

I know that she’s probably just a wacky old woman, but there’s no denying the wisdom that she carries with her like a cape flung over her shoulders.

As the silver-haired woman carries on toward town, I look to Gabe, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

“Who was that?” I murmur, watching as she disappears into the distance.

“Miss Maisie,” he says. “She’s a local legend. The wise woman of the beach. People say she’s… highly intuitive.”

I pull the tiger’s eye from my pocket, turning it over in my fingers.

“Do you believe that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just a bunch of rumors and stories. I’ve seen her a few times in the past when I’ve come here for the summer, but I’ve never actually interacted with her. Apparently, though, she’s never been wrong before.”

“Wrong about what?”

Gabe shrugs. “I don’t know. She gives advice. Makes predictions. Last summer, Wren was obsessed with trying to seek her out because she was convinced the woman was a fairy.”

I’m still staring after Miss Maisie, even though she’s become little more than a dark speck among the shadows in the distance.

“Hm,” is all I say.

“Come on,” he says with a soft laugh. “We’re almost home.”