Page 16 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Sixteen: Gabe

A few days after my bizarrely pleasant evening walk with Alina, I feel like I’m losing my mind with restlessness. I haven’t run into her again, but that’s mostly because I’ve shut myself away in my music room.

Not that anything productive has actually come out of that.

At least my daughter is having a better time than me in Mermaid Shores. After just a couple weeks, she’s made a dozen friends and has a packed social schedule thanks to it. She definitely gets her natural charm and extroversion from her mother.

On the rare day that I actually get Wren all to myself, I decide to take her to a local music shop that I used to stop by when I came here as a teenager.

Wren had announced at breakfast, “Daddy, I really want to play the drums.”

She was stabbing her pancake with unnecessary vigor, syrup dripping off her fork like she was trying to reenact a scene from a horror flick.

I had to hold back a sigh. “Drums?”

Suffice to say, percussion is loud. And while I wouldn’t change a single thing about my kid, part of me does wish she’d be more interested in slightly quieter instruments. The harp, maybe. Or the clarinet.

“Drums are cool,” she had argued, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I like loud stuff.”

“You don’t say,” I muttered. For a kid who’d spent the last two weeks carrying around one of my tambourines like it had become another appendage, this felt like a natural escalation of that.

Really, it’s my fault for buying her that child-sized drum kit. I had wanted to encourage musical exploration and self-expression—all that stuff you should be nurturing in young minds. I’d also given her a child-friendly guitar and a plastic flute, but it was the instrument that required a lot of smacking and banging that tugged on her attention with the most fervor.

So, now, here we are… walking into The Siren Song. It’s a surprisingly sleek and modern shop, tucked between a sports gear rental place and a café near the far end of Main Street. Wren practically bounces through the door, her sneakers squeaking against the polished wood floor.

“Hi there!” chirps a young woman behind the counter, who seems to be in the middle of tuning an electric guitar the color of toxic waste. Her dyed pink hair is pulled back into a bun, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that says, Grrrls to the front!

For some reason, I find myself grinning at the stranger. I’ve always liked when people are so blatant and unapologetic about how they present themselves to the world. It’s taken me about two seconds to deduce that this girl probably loves Bikini Kill and likely has some very strong opinions about pop punk.

What you see is what you get. More people should be like that. Including myself, honestly.

“Hello,” I answer, but Wren is already darting toward the back of the store where a gleaming red drum kit is displayed.

“Someone’s excited,” the woman chuckles.

“Yeah, that’s putting it lightly.”

I follow after Wren. She’s running her fingers over the shiny red finish of the bass drum, eyes wide with wonder.

“Can I try it?” she asks, looking up at me with a hopeful grin.

The staff member overhears, and is already making her way over to us with the neon guitar slung casually across her back. “Of course! Let me grab some sticks for you, kiddo.”

“Yay!” Wren pumps her little fists in the air.

I laugh to myself and take a step back, giving her space to approach the drums without too much fatherly hovering. This isn’t about me, after all. Even if I’d rather she fall in love with literally anything other than percussion, it’s what she wants that matters.

I remember when I chose the violin, after all. It had felt more like the opposite—like the violin had chosen me.

I was barely younger than Wren, and my parents had taken me and my brother to a yard sale down the street. Mr. Weiss, the high school music teacher, had just retired and was clearing some so-called “junk” out of his basement. That junk had included three vintage electric pianos, a saxophone, a trombone, thirteen harmonicas, four acoustic guitars… and a violin.

When my mom saw that I was fascinated by it, she tried to discourage me in that gentle, kindhearted way that adults tend to do when they think a child might be walking head-first into a situation that’s too complicated for them. But then Mr. Weiss came over and showed me how to hold it between my shoulder and chin, and how to angle the bow over the strings to get a pure, crystal-clear sound.

He ended up letting it go for ten dollars.

My parents thought I might be fascinated by the thing for a few weeks, then move on to something else. That’s how my brother operated, after all. He was on a mission to become a jack-of-all-trades, but I only wanted to be the master of one thing.

In time, it was my dad who bought me used books on how to read music and the basics of string instruments. Then, after some diligent searching, my mom tracked down one of the few violin teachers near our tiny rural town. It was clear that I wasn’t going to give up the violin anytime soon, and instead of trying to convince me otherwise again, they gave up and let me follow my heart.

I want to make sure I do the same thing for Wren.

While Wren is eagerly banging out what can only be described as rhythmic chaos in the back of the shop, much to the utter delight of the punk-rock employee, my attention drifts. This place hasn’t changed a bit in the years since I’ve last been here. I recognize the rows of gleaming instruments, the shelves packed with sheet music, and the faint smell of polished wood and resin.

As if drawn by a magnet, my gaze lands on a row of violins hanging on the far wall. They’re arranged by size and finish, ranging from beginner models to professional-grade instruments. I wonder how many people coming through Mermaid Shores actually frequent this shop, and I figure it must be more than enough to keep the store in business. After all, notable musicians are undoubtedly among the high-profile individuals who flock to this hidden gem of a town every tourist season.

Still, I’m sure there’s only one professional violinist in town right now.

Or rather, two. One former, one current.

My chest tightens. It’s been so long since I’ve played the violin. I’ve purposefully avoided it, knowing that reaching for it would open up a can of worms that I’m not ready to deal with it.

And yet, before I can fully process what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the room. My hand hovers over one of the violins, the dark varnish gleaming under the light.

“Do you play?” the pink-haired staff member asks.

I jump slightly, not having realized that she had wandered away from my tornado of a daughter. Wren is still contentedly banging away with no rhyme or reason, a bright smile on her face.

“I used to,” I admit. “Not for a long time, though.”

“Want to give it a go? We’ve got bows over here.” She gestures toward a stand nearby.

My first instinct is to decline, to brush off the idea with a polite excuse. But something about the way my fingers are itching to hold the instrument again, even if it’s just for a few seconds, makes me nod in reply.

She smiles, handing me a bow and pointing me toward a stool nearby.

I sit, resting the violin against my shoulder. It feels foreign and familiar all at once, like I’m stepping back in time to a version of myself that I’ve forgotten how to be. The weight of it, the gentle curve of the neck, and the slight roughness of the strings under my callused fingertips—it reminds me so much of Alina that a soft exhale wheezes out of me as a deluge of memories pours over my mind. I’m grateful that the staff member has already wandered away again.

I tighten the bow, swipe it across the rosin, and set it against the strings.

The first note is shaky. The pitch wavers, and my technique is a little clumsy. It’s exactly what I expected to happen, and yet I can’t help feeling overwhelmed by shame at the fact that I’ve let myself forget such a crucial part of who I once was.

Yet, as I continue playing, muscle memory kicks in. I fall into the opening notes of that old, cursed audition piece—the same one I played years ago for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. I still know it by heart, at least.

The chords float throughout the shop, crooning and curving and soaring, tangled up in the dust motes and buzzing fluorescents and steady hum of the pedestrians outside. This melody is intense and combative, bold and aggressive. Emblematic of the kind of musician I was back then. The kind of artist that Alina pushed me to become.

Vaguely, I’m aware that Wren has stopped drumming.

And when I let the last note of the piece shimmer on the air for a moment before cutting it short with the palm of my hand, I watch her scurry over with awe on her face.

“Daddy,” she whispers. “You’re really good.”

I smile, but it’s tinged with pain.

Wren has never heard me play the violin before. By the time she came into this world, I had already closed that chapter of my life.

“Thanks, kiddo.” I place the violin in my lap and reach out to ruffle her hair.

From nearby, the staff member claps lightly.

“That was really beautiful, sir. You’ve got a great touch.”

I nod in thanks at her, my smile tightening.

With a quiet, resigned sigh, I return the violin to the display shelf and hand the bow back to her. Brushing off the ghostly touch of my long-dead dreams, I pat my daughter’s shoulder.

“So, what do you think? Are the drums loud enough for you?”

Wren giggles. “Oh, definitely.”

After having the freedom to be as loud as she wants for another twenty minutes, Wren is in a great mood as we leave the shop.

She bounces up and down as we maneuver through the crowd of tourists back to where I parked the car.

“Did you see how fast I was going at the end, Daddy? I think I’m a natural!”

“Definitely a natural,” I reply. “You’ll be rocking out in no time.”

“Can I start taking drum lessons?”

“Absolutely, kid. I’ll find a teacher as soon as we’re back in Boston.”

She’s so full of excitement that it’s contagious, and I find myself grinning as we make our way back home.

Still, in the back of my mind, the memory of holding that violin sticks to me like sea-salted sweat. The feel of the strings beneath my fingers, the way the music seemed to pour out of me despite my rustiness… it’s awakening something inside me. I just wish I could figure out if it’s good or bad.

***

Later that evening, I’m sitting at my electric piano in the music room. The sheet music scattered across the top of it is a mess of half-finished ideas and abandoned projects.

But tonight, something clicks.

The melody I played earlier at the shop is still stuck in my mind, weaving itself into something new. Something less ferocious. Something more tender. More experimental.

I scribble down notes, play them back, tweak them, then play again. The hours slip by, the mix of cacophonous and harmonious sounds resonating in my headphones so that I don’t wake up Wren.

I’ve been desperate to come up with something fresh lately. I got a call from my agent last month, and she mentioned that another Noah Clark movie was in pre-production. A thriller—something new for the popular young actor. It’s set to start filming in the fall, and my name is already on the list of potential producers for the soundtrack.

I told my agent not to get her hopes up, though. I wasn’t feeling very inspired at the time of the phone call, and I hadn’t been too hopeful about inspiration returning to me in Mermaid Shores.

Little did I know that Alina Sokolov would waltz back into my life. Equal parts frustrating and fascinating, she’s about as inspiring as any person can get. Not that I could ever admit that to myself during my Juilliard days.

Not that I’ll ever tell my agent—or anyone, for that matter—that this piece is born out of the confusing knot of emotions I feel for an old school rival who happens to be the most beautiful and intimidating person I’ve ever known.

Yet, as I play the drafted melody again, frustration gnaws at me. Something is missing. A counterpoint, maybe. A contrasting voice to balance the piece.

I lean back in the rickety wooden chair, running a hand through my hair. I can feel the way it’s sticking up at odd angles, making me feel like a mad scientist locked away in his lab.

The answer is right there, just out of reach.

And then, like a riptide, it yanks me under.

I need Alina. This song needs her . Not just her violin, but her perspective. Her instinct, which had always been the thing that made me feel the most jealous. This piece needs her ability to take a melody and transform it into something utterly transcendent.

She’s the better musician. I can admit that now.

But, at the same time, I’m the better composer. If I am the canvas, then she is the paint, and together we could form the brushstrokes that would make something that nobody has ever heard before.

The thought makes me groan aloud, though.

Alina is my old nemesis, the one person who has had the power to bring out the worst in me. The idea of asking her for help feels absurd. Humiliating, even.

But as I stare down at the sheets of scribbled music in front of me, I know there’s no getting around it. If I want this piece to become what it’s meant to be, I need her.

Not only that, but I want her to be a part of this.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I want her in a more general sense, too. However, that thought can stay safely locked away in the furthest corners of my mind.