Page 17 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Seventeen: Alina

T he waiting room of the orthopedic clinic smells faintly of antiseptic, industrial carpet, and the watery coffee spitting out of the Keurig in the corner.

It’s been about two weeks since my MRI results came in. We’re well into the summer now, and July is beating down hot and heavy on the coast of Cape Cod. There’s been no sign of Gabe and Wren since Fourth of July weekend, which has been both a relief and a conundrum.

A relief, because I haven’t been worrying about running into him and having to think too hard about our friendly walk down the beach together that one starlit evening. A conundrum because I’ve found myself wondering where he is, when he’ll be back, and what I’ll say to him when he returns.

Basically, all of my waking thoughts have been consumed by Gabe, and I’m embarrassed to admit that he’s also featured in many of my dreams.

At least it’s been a decent distraction from the main source of stress in my life.

Right now, however, that familiar anxiety is impossible to avoid.

I’m sitting on the edge of a stiff chair, tapping my foot impatiently even though I know it comes across as rude. My fingers twitch against my thigh, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake. Across from me, a mother entertains her fidgety toddler with a set of colorful stacking cups, her soothing voice a contradictory backdrop to the roiling storm cloud in my mind. My thoughts churn with worst-case scenarios, even though I’ve tried to keep them at bay for days.

I already know that the MRI results were inconclusive. I already know that it’s technically good news. I know that I don’t need surgery, and that nothing is torn. The ligaments and muscles are strained and inflamed, but not in need of immediate medical attention.

And I know that this appointment isn’t going to bring unexpected doom upon me. It’s just a check-in, and all I can really expect to receive at this point are final recommendations for treatment at home.

So, basically, it’s not the end of the world.

I just wish someone would tell that to my frayed nerves.

When the nurse calls out my name, I follow her down a brightly lit hallway to the examination room. My heart pounds as I settle into the chair, hands resting awkwardly in my lap. Dr. Hansen enters moments later, his kind smile doing little to ease my anxiety.

He glances down at the clipboard in his hands and then tosses it aside, coming to sit across from me on the wheeled stool like we’re old friends. “How are you feeling today, Alina?”

“Nervous,” I admit. “I’m having a difficult time convincing myself that you’re not about to give me the worst possible news.”

He nods, a warm smile on his face. “Understandable. I can definitely promise you that you don’t have anything to worry about, though. But let’s take another look at your hands and wrists first, okay?”

As he gently presses and manipulates my wrists and fingers, I’m hyperaware of every tiny twinge and ache. It’s hard to separate actual pain from the paranoia in my head, and even though I think I might be recovering slightly, I’m also worried that I’m just getting used to it.

Dr. Hansen hums thoughtfully, then pushes his stool away again and rests his hands on his knees.

“Well, the good news is that I can confidently say that there’s nothing structurally wrong with your hands. No joint deterioration, no ligament damage. What you’re dealing with is inflammation caused by overuse—classic tendinitis. That’s my official diagnosis, Alina.”

Relief floods through me, though it’s tempered by stubborn worry.

“So… I’ll be able to play again without any pain?”

“Yes, absolutely. But, like your manager suggested, you need to give your hands time to heal. I’d recommend resting completely for at least another month, then gradually easing back into practice with proper warm-ups and plenty of breaks. If you follow a strict recovery plan, you should be ready to rejoin the orchestra in the fall.”

I exhale, the tension in my chest loosening.

I’m okay. Everything will be okay. I’m going to be fine.

“Thank you.” Even though I mean it, my voice comes out all shaky.

Dr. Hansen frowns slightly. “You’re welcome, Alina. But I was also wondering…”

When he trails off, my anxiety spikes again. “What?”

“Well, I’m just an orthopedic specialist, not a psychiatrist, but I’m wondering if you’d consider seeking treatment for your stress levels?”

I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “I can only imagine that your job is extremely stressful, and I don’t mean to offend when I say this, but I can tell that you’re experiencing quite a lot of anxiety right now. Stress can be detrimental to our health in a myriad of ways. It’s not just a mental thing. When we’re stressed out, our body can go into survival mode, which causes it to neglect other aspects of its normal maintenance duties. Basically, when you’re stressed, your body suffers almost as much as your mind.”

Swallowing hard, I do my best to process his words without reacting defensively.

Mental health isn’t something that Sokolovs acknowledge. If you’re not tough enough to battle your mind demons, then you should be ashamed. That’s what I grew up believing, because that’s what I was told.

As an adult, of course, I’ve begun to see things differently. I know that anxiety is real. Depression is real. Fear and grief and exhaustion aren’t just signs of weakness, but clues that there are facets of ourselves that we need to stop and pay more attention to.

And yet, there’s a little girl inside me that balks at Dr. Hansen’s words. That insists I’m strong enough to handle it.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like, get a therapist? Get on meds?”

He shrugs again. “Perhaps. I would recommend starting with some basic talk therapy, and then if you and your therapist decide together that you need more assistance than that to handle your stress, there are many options other than taking pills. It’s up to you, Alina, but I would ask you to seriously consider it.”

I’m fine, I want to snap at him. I’m tougher than I look. I’m tougher than all of you. I’m unstoppable. Unbreakable. I can do anything, I swear.

Deep down, though, I know that’s not true. I am human, just like everyone else.

It’s just that admitting weakness is easier said than done.

I force myself to give him a polite smile.

“Right. Okay. I’ll look into it.” I’m pretty sure I mean it, too.

He hands me a detailed recovery guide, complete with stretches and exercises.

“Remember, rest is the most important part of this process. My professional opinion is that you should refrain from playing for at least another two to three weeks.”

I flinch.

“However,” he continues. “I also understand that this is your career, and that you’ve been playing the violin for most of your life. So, my more reasonable professional recommendation is that you at least try to keep your daily practice time to only thirty minutes or so per day. And take it easy when you do.”

I nod, clutching the papers like a lifeline. “I think I can handle that.”

Dr. Hansen grins. “Good. Best of luck, Alina.”

My steps feel lighter as I leave the clinic, even though the realization that I still have to endure weeks of rest dampens the full extent of my relief.

But it’s okay , I remind myself. I’m going to be okay .

My career isn’t over. My life isn’t over. I no longer have to contend with the possibility that I’ll have to forge a new path for myself. I can keep making my way down the same path that I’ve been cultivating my entire life.

And yet, something about that path feels different to me. I know that it’s not entirely healthy. I know that there are metaphorical brambles and protruding roots. I know I need to follow Dr. Hansen’s advice about tending to my mental health alongside my physical health.

Making my way back out to the reception area, something nudges at the edges of my thoughts.

For some inexplicable reason, the first person I want to tell this good news to isn’t Karina or Andy or Diana Crane.

It’s Gabe.

However, before I can investigate that desire much further as I step out of the clinic, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I glance at the screen and groan inwardly. My mother is calling.

It’s the first time she’s bothered to reach out since our tense conversation a couple weeks ago. I had started to wonder if my parents might stop talking to me entirely.

For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I know that will only make things more difficult. Bracing myself, I swipe to answer and bring the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“Alina,” she says, her tone sharp. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Why haven’t you called me?”

I resist the urge to scoff in disbelief as I march across the parking lot. Of course it’s my fault that we haven’t spoken. I’m the one who should be able to read her mind and know exactly how to handle this conflict.

“I’ve been busy,” I reply simply, keeping my voice steady. “I just got out of a doctor’s appointment.”

“Doctor? Are you sick?”

“No, Mom. I already told you this. It’s my hands. I’ve been having some issues with inflammation in my wrists.”

She clicks her tongue. “Yes, well, you need to take better care of yourself, Alina. You can’t afford to let anything jeopardize your career. The CSO isn’t going to wait around forever for you to get over this. Being a Juilliard graduate isn’t worth as much as it used to be.”

The anxiety spikes so dramatically that I have to pause to lean against Karina’s car for a moment before answering. I think Dr. Hansen might be right about stress, but it doesn’t just come from my job.

“I know,” I answer. “I’m taking care of it. You don’t need to lecture me.”

She makes a frustrated sound on the other end of the line. “Do you realize what kind of impression that leaves, Alina? It’s so unprofessional.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “Mom, I didn’t have a choice. The conductor and management recommended it. My doctor is also recommending it. I need to heal if I’m going to perform at my best. I’m not a robot. I’m not superhuman.”

She sighs heavily. “You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. You can’t let anyone think you’re not dedicated.”

“I am dedicated,” I snap, slamming the door a little too hard after flinging myself into the driver’s seat. “But I’m also human. I can’t play if I’m in pain. It’s not smart. It’s not practical.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. I brace myself for the worst of her wrath, wondering if she even has any idea how much power she holds over my emotions.

It’s embarrassing, really, how much my parents can affect me with just one errant comment. I’m grown. I should be able to brush it off.

But when my mother speaks again, her voice is softer. “I just worry about you, Alina.”

Her words catch me off guard. “You do?”

“Your father and I… we’ve always pushed you so hard because we wanted the best for you. It was never easy for your father—especially not in Russia or Poland—and we came here because we wanted any children of ours to have an easier time. But I hope you know our love isn’t conditional. But you know I’m not good with this emotional nonsense.”

I almost laugh. I think that’s about as close to an apology as I’ll ever get from her.

Or maybe, in time, and with the help of that therapist Dr. Hansen suggested I get, I can find a way to work on this dynamic between me and my parents. Maybe it won’t always have to be like this.

It begins with telling the truth, I think.

“Mom, if I’m being honest, you’ve often made me feel like if I wasn’t successful, I wouldn’t be enough for you.”

“That is not true. You are—you’re enough.” She sighs loudly. “Oh, Alina. We will have this talk another time, okay? It’s not a priority. Just do what your doctor tells you and we will come to see you in Chicago later this year.”

Again, I think that’s about as good as it’s going to get in terms of an amicable response. Hoping for more from her right now would be pushing my luck. My parents are tough, rigid people who are pathologically set in their ways. The likelihood of them changing their minds is slim, but it’s not hopeless.

“That sounds good,” I respond. “I love you, Mom.”

Another sigh. “Yes, yes. Ice your hands and do what you are told.”

I know that’s her way of saying I love you, too , so I shrug off all the unspoken, unresolved conflict that we might need many more years to work through and say my goodbyes. Rome wasn’t built in a day, I guess.

***

Back at the duplex, the sun is beginning to set, casting the sky in hazy hues of pink and orange. The salty breeze carries the faint sound of distant waves to me as I hop out of the car. I can hear Karina and Andy through the open kitchen window, laughing to the backdrop of clinking plates as they prepare dinner.

My attention is snagged away from their domestic bliss when I notice Gabe sitting on the porch steps, his elbows resting on his knees. He’s staring out at the horizon, his expression pensive.

“Hey,” I say as I approach. “Everything okay?”

He looks up, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I was actually waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me? Haven’t you been gone for days now?”

I regret the words almost instantly. But if Gabe is wickedly amused by the fact that I’ve been tracking his absence, he doesn’t show it.

He simply says, “I need to ask you something.”

I frown. “What is it? Is Wren okay?”

His brow furrows, as if in confusion. “Yes, she’s—Wren is fine. It’s about a project I’ve been working on. A composition for a film score. I, uh… I could use your help.”

I gape at him. Gabe Sterling, asking for my help ? With a film score ?

The idea is so absurd that I almost laugh, but the seriousness in his eyes stops me.

“My help?” I echo.

“Yeah,” he says, rising to his feet. His hair is all mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it. He used to do that all the time in school when he was overwhelmed. “I’ve got this melody I’m working with, but something is missing. I think your perspective could make it… better.”

I cross my arms, studying him. “Why me? I don’t know anything about music composition.”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “But you’re a natural musician. And I can’t get it right on my own, so I think that maybe the solution might be found in the two of us combining forces—for once.”

“I can’t play, though.” I cringe as I say it. Even if I intend to follow the doctor’s orders, it’s going to be difficult. “No more than thirty minutes a day, really, but I shouldn’t play at all.”

“You don’t have to play,” he says quickly. “Just listen. Give me your thoughts. Please.”

Please . When has he ever used that word with me?

I’m tempted to say no, purely out of habit. Being difficult and contrarian with him is second nature, even after all this time.

But I think I want things to be different now.

“Okay,” I say. “I can try to help.”

He deflates with relief. “Thank you.”

As we step inside, my stomach flips with anticipation. I may be determined to stay on the same path I’ve been walking since childhood, but I can’t help thinking that the earth beneath me is shifting and churning anew, blossoming with something strange and wonderful.