Page 18 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Eighteen: Gabe

A lina stands just inside the door to the music room, clutching her violin case as though she’s not entirely convinced she should be here. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, the way they usually are when she’s thinking too many thoughts at once.

I watch her gaze dart around the space, landing on the electric piano, the mess of sheet music, and—lastly—me.

“So,” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “Where do you want me?”

The question lingers in the air longer than it should.

Where do I want her? Inexplicably, I want her closer. I want to reach out and find out if her hair is as soft as it looks. I want to close the distance between us out of curiosity and strange desire, rather than vehemence and frustration. We’ve gotten in each other’s faces before, but it was only ever when we were bickering, battling it out.

The closeness I’m beginning to crave where Alina is concerned is different than that.

It’s not important right now, though. It’s not important at all. There’s no way Alina would ever feel the same way.

I clear my throat, gesturing toward the chair next to the piano stool.

“You can set up there. There’s really no pressure to play, though. If you’d rather just give feedback, that also works. I just think the score could use a violinist’s touch.”

“But you’re a violinist.”

I shrug. “Not anymore. Not compared to you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Alina seems confused, but she shakes the baffled expression off and moves toward the chair.

“I’ll decide once I hear it,” she says.

There’s a faint challenge in her tone, but it’s not hostile. If anything, she seems curious. Maybe even intrigued. She’s used to being told what to do when it comes to music. She doesn’t have decision-making authority at the CSO.

And maybe that’s what I like about this career I’ve built for myself. Maybe this is what I was meant to do all along. Composition always fascinated me. I just never thought that the road to get here, the journey to becoming a professional composer, would involve so much heartbreak.

That’s life, though.

I settle at the piano, the keys cool under my fingers. The melody that I’ve been laboring over for days flows naturally now, and I start playing without preamble. The opening bars emerge softly, filling the room with something simultaneously tentative and bold. It’s like I’m coaxing the music out of hiding, which is exactly how the piece should feel.

Alina sits quietly and folds her arms across her chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell that she’s listening intently, her head tilted slightly to the side.

As I transition into the next section, she shifts. One glance in her direction tells me that the frown on her face is not the kind that comes from dislike, though. It’s the frown of someone dissecting every note, every chord. The frown of a scientist unraveling dense data, of a weaver unknotting a tangle of thread.

When I finish playing, I turn to her.

I feel exposed. Raw. A little too vulnerable for my liking.

“Thoughts?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her arm. Finally, in a clinical tone, she says, “The melody is strong, but the transitions feel unresolved. It’s like you’re building tension but refusing to let it release. You’re keeping the music leashed, to its own detriment.”

It’s a fair critique—and exactly what I’ve been telling myself for days now. I nod, jotting a quick note on the sheet music in front of me.

“Okay. That’s helpful. Anything else?”

Her gaze flicks to the violin case at her feet, then back to me. “Play it again. I want to hear it once more.”

I oblige, starting from the top. This time, I try to smooth the transitions by throwing in some free-styled notes, to find some semblance of resolution. Halfway through, I hear the unmistakable sound of a case opening. I don’t look up, afraid of breaking the moment, but my heart skips as the familiar sound of strings being tuned fills the air.

When I finish, she’s ready. Bow in hand, violin poised against her shoulder, she meets my gaze.

“Let’s try it together.”

I swallow hard. Together . It’s a foreign word to us. When we were younger, playing together was something we did begrudgingly. Something that we insisted was akin to torture. We were like magnets of the same pole, and our instructors were constantly doing their best to force us together.

Choosing to cooperate like this feels like going against that comfortable, familiar grain, and yet I get the sense that it’s what we should have been doing all along.

I almost laugh. Imagine if Alina and I had chosen to be allies rather than enemies. Everything would have been different.

The room falls silent as I begin again, my fingers moving over the keys with practiced ease. Alina joins in after the first few measures, her bow gliding over the strings with effortless precision.

Just like that, the rough edges of my composition smooth out under the weight of her accompaniment. Her violin doesn’t just fill the gaps; it elevates the entire piece, giving it depth and texture that I hadn’t even realized it was missing.

She plays like it’s instinctive, like she’s been practicing this tune for years rather than having just been introduced to it.

It strikes me, as we play, that this is the first time we’ve ever truly played in cooperation with each other. At school, our collaboration was bitter and tense at the best of times. Now, it’s different. The music isn’t just a shared language; it’s a forged connection that we’re finally willing to acknowledge. For the first time, she’s not my rival, and I’m not thinking about her as my enemy.

I’m just thinking about her .

The gentle curve underneath her pouting lower lip as she focuses on the sheet music laid out in a disarray before us. The subtle pinkness in her cheeks as she lets the melody sweep her away into a version of herself that is less reserved, less careful. The flutter of her eyelashes as she goes off script and, perhaps for the first time in a while, plays for the thrill of it, rather than for the purpose of giving a performance.

I wish I could just sit here and watch her. Admire her. I wish I had the words to explain how brilliant she is, and I wish I had the courage to then speak those words aloud to her.

When the music finishes, the final note hangs in the air, and we sit in companionable silence. Alina lowers her violin, her expression unreadable.

“That was… good,” she murmurs.

“Good?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. A disbelieving laugh wheezes out of me. “Is that all? Did you even hear yourself?”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. My gaze gets caught there for longer than it should.

“Fine. It was better than good. But you still need to fix the transitions. The violin can’t just be a Band-Aid that you slap onto it. Prettiness doesn’t negate untidiness.”

I chuckle, leaning back in the stool. “Noted.”

Her smile fades, and she glances at the sheet music. “It’s weird. Playing like this.”

“Like this?”

“Like… for fun. I mean, I love being in the orchestra, and I do prefer performing pieces written by others. I don’t think I’ll ever be interested in writing my own music, but I understand why you gravitated toward it. You’re good at it.”

“Was that a compliment?”

She sighs, letting her violin rest in her lap. Her fingers flex automatically, working out what I’m sure is that persistent ache that landed her on a medical leave in the first place.

“Yes, Gabe. That was a compliment. You’re a fantastic composer. You already know that. You were nominated for a Grammy, after all.”

I can’t help smirking, amused by how weird it is to hear something nice fall from her lips where I’m concerned. “I didn’t win, though.”

“You should have.”

My eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. “Oh?”

Alina purses her lips and glances away. “I may or may not have watched The Bone Whisperer recently.”

“I didn’t know you liked action movies.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. The sound of her laughter is such a rare sound. Part of me wishes I could bottle it up and pour it into a song.

“I don’t. I watched it purely so that I could see for myself if you’re a Hollywood sellout or genuinely talented.”

I snort. “And?”

“And you’re obviously talented, Gabe. You always have been.”

“That means a lot, especially coming from you.”

She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she wants to smile.

The moment stretches on, comfortable in a way that I hadn’t anticipated would ever be possible between us. Alina packs her violin away carefully and leans back in her chair, her gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the faint sound of children’s laughter drifts in, the symphony of Wren and some local kids playing in the front yard.

“You’re a really good father,” Alina says suddenly, quietly.

The comment catches me off guard. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugs, still looking out the window. “Wren adores you. And she’s clearly very happy. Very intelligent, too. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Her words mean more to me than I think she realizes. For whatever reason, Alina’s opinion of me carries a lot of weight.

“Thank you. That’s… kind of you to say.”

Silence settles over us again, but it’s not uncomfortable. I find myself studying her—the way the fading sunlight catches in her hair, the way her hands rest loosely in her lap. She looks different than I remember. Not just because she’s not holding her violin anymore, but because her usual guardedness seems to have slipped away, leaving something softer in its place.

“What?” she asks, catching my stare.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, looking away. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “Nothing important.”

She gives me a skeptical look, but doesn’t press. Instead, she picks up the sheet music, scanning it again. “You’ve got something good here, Gabe. Don’t mess it up. You always liked to do the bold, dramatic maneuvers, but a gentle hand goes just as far.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promise.

I don’t hate Alina Sokolov. Not anymore. I never really did.

The realization isn’t just a small shift; it’s a landslide. All those years of bitterness and competition suddenly seem trivial and childish. I let my hands rest on the keys, playing a soft chord that lingers in the quiet room. Alina doesn’t say anything, running her fingertips over the freshly tuned strings of an acoustic guitar resting against the wall beside her.

My mind drifts back to Juilliard, to the fiery tension between us that once fueled so many of our interactions. Now I see it for what it was: a mask. A way to avoid acknowledging the pull I felt toward her.

There’s no mask anymore, though. It’s just her and me and us and the music.

“Do you remember that time we performed Mazas’s ‘Six Duets’ in the student showcase our second year?” I blurt out before I realize I’m even thinking about that memory.

Alina whips her head around to meet my eyes, one eyebrow quirked upwards inquisitively. “Of course. We nearly ripped each other to shreds during every single rehearsal.”

Despite her words, both of us laugh. It’s strange to think that we can joke about our rivalry now. It was never a laughing matter before.

“I think it was Reggie’s attempt to transform us into a dynamic duo rather than vicious adversaries,” I muse.

Mr. Ramirez, also known as Reggie by his students, was one of our many instructors during the time we spent at Juilliard. He was definitely the most relaxed teacher we ever had, and it was often to his own detriment.

The Jacques Mazas piece is known to be a fairly difficult duet for professionals, let alone two warring students who don’t know how to leave their bitter disdain at the door.

“He probably regretted that decision,” Alina says, eyes glinting with amusement. “We were at each other’s throats even during the performance.”

“It’s probably what made it so good,” I admit. “I mean, it’s a relatively cheerful composition, but I think our rivalry added something more mischievous to it. We worked well together, even when we hated every second of it.”

This time, the smile tugging on her lips wins out. “I think you’re right.”

I swallow hard. I don’t know where to go from here. I guess we’re technically done with the task of fixing my new composition, but I’m not ready to say goodnight to her yet.

And I don’t think she’s ready to go either.

But this is uncharted territory. This desire, this attraction… it’s not brand-new to me. I’ve always thought Alina was beautiful. I’ve always been reluctantly drawn to her. What is unfamiliar, however, is the fact that I’m willing to acknowledge it. To act on it.

Would it be the right thing to do? The right thing for me? For her?

The right thing for Wren?

I realize I’ve been staring at Alina for a heartbeat too long when she bites her lip and looks down at her lap.

“Maybe we could play it together again someday,” she murmurs. “When I’m healed.”

“‘Six Duets’?”

She nods.

I smile.

“I’d love to.”