Page 4 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Four: Gabe

“ H ow’s my little Wrennie?”

I smirk at the tenderness in my dad’s voice, which is palpable even through the phone.

Whenever he’s referring to his granddaughter, he has a softness in his tone that he never used with me or my brother Michael growing up. Our mom was always the gentle one while he was the master of tough love. But as my parents have aged, I’ve noticed a reversal of roles in that regard. My mom has become stereotypically cranky as she’s aged, and my dad has somehow morphed into a pile of fluff.

To their absolute joy, they have plenty of grandchildren to spoil. Michael and his wife have two kids, and a third on the way. Wren is the eldest, though, so she has a special place in their hearts.

“She’s good, Dad. You know her. She loves the beach.”

“You best be signing her up for swimming classes, Gabe. No matter how fancy that beach town is, there are riptides to worry about and—”

“Dad, it’s fine. Wren is a very strong swimmer for her age, and she’s never down near the water without my supervision anyway.”

For the past couple years during the school year, Wren has been taking weekly swimming lessons, purely because she enjoys it. Her teacher has praised her constantly, and even though it’ll still be a few years until she’s in middle school, she’s already suggested that Wren can compete if she wants to.

Unlike me, my daughter is a jack-of-all-trades. For most of my life, I was only good at one thing. And, in the end, I still failed at it.

In fact, the reminder of that failure is now apparently staying in the apartment next door. Haunting my memories wasn’t good enough. She had to emerge into my present and deliver a cruel reminder of all that I’ve lost.

“Gabe? You still there?”

I snap back to attention, vaguely aware that my dad had been saying something to me, and I was completely failing to pay attention. Suffice to say, I’ve been pretty distracted since yesterday afternoon.

“Yeah, sorry,” I answer. “What did you say?”

“I was asking if you still want us to plan on driving out there for the Fourth. Your mom’s not been feeling well, so I’m not sure if she’ll be up for it.”

“Mom’s not feeling well? What do you mean?”

“She’ll be just fine. We’re aging, bud. It happens.”

I frown to myself, making a mental note to check in with my mom directly. It’s Monday afternoon, which means that she’s at her weekly knitting circle right now. I’ll send her a text later. Despite her apparent aging, she can be quite the chatterbox when you get her going in a text conversation. She used to be a secretary, so I think she’s developed a preference for typing over talking in the many decades prior to her retirement.

“Well, if she’s not feeling like coming out to the Cape, Wren and I will come to you.”

Which is exactly what my dad is hoping I’ll say.

Both him and my mom are perpetual homebodies, and the bulk of their time nowadays is spent, first and foremost, spoiling their grandchildren and, secondly, harmlessly manipulating situations so that Michael and I are always the ones coming to them—rather than them dragging themselves out of the deep woods of New Hampshire. It’s easier for Michael and his family to see our parents, since they live right over the border in Maine, but with me and Wren bouncing between Boston and Los Angeles in recent years, it’s been hard to find the time to return to my hometown.

If I’m being completely honest, I’ve enjoyed having an excuse to avoid that place. After everything I’ve been through since moving to New York City at the age of eighteen, the place where I grew up feels so… small. Too small. And too quiet. Too full of reminders of the dreams I had as a kid, and the reality that none of them came true.

Satisfied with the turn the conversation has taken, my dad chuckles. “Well, that’d be great! We’ll be happy to have you here. I’ll do a barbecue. Mike got me that grill for Christmas and I haven’t had a chance to use it yet…”

What follows is a rambling discussion about the integrity of certain brands of grills, which I really can’t contribute much to, so I end up offering a lot of okay s and alright s until my dad gets tired of my quiet personality and says his goodbyes.

“Tell my Wrennie I say hello, will you?”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

When the call ends, I set my phone down and lean back in the creaky wooden chair that I dragged upstairs from the kitchen to sit in front of my electric piano.

Instantly, my thoughts drift back to the same topic they’ve been stuck on for the past twenty-four hours.

Alina Sokolov.

Ali , as I used to mockingly call her, simply because I could tell that the childish nickname irked her.

I hated her from the moment I met her. Hated her and respected her in equal measure, actually, which only added to my overall frustration. Add to that the fact that Alina is, factually speaking, one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen, and it’s no wonder that I spent my four years at Juilliard trying to avoid her at all costs.

Unfortunately, we were the two best violinists in our year, which meant that we were constantly together. Constantly battling. Constantly bickering.

What is she doing here?

I didn’t get a chance to ask her before she ran away yesterday. At least, not properly. Why aren’t you in Chicago? isn’t exactly the friendliest or most polite way to inquire after a former classmate’s well-being. Not that I care about being friendly to Alina. It’s never been something I’ve bothered to do before.

Obviously, she still hates me just as much as she always has. The years and the distance haven’t cooled that ire. Which is baffling, honestly, considering that she won.

Of course she won. She’s the daughter of a celebrated cellist. I’m just an ordinary guy from the middle of nowhere.

Idly, I play a few notes on the piano. They come out sounding discordant and strange, like the opening tune to a horror film.

Really, Alina should be in Chicago right now. The CSO’s summer season is usually incredible, second only to their holiday season performances.

Pushing away from the piano, I head downstairs. Peering out one of the back windows, I see Wren curled up in a deck chair on the patio, tapping away on her child-locked iPad. I don’t care if the prevailing opinion is that parents should severely limit their kids’ screen time. I challenge everyone to have a daughter as hyperactive as Wren and not be grateful for a device that can get her to sit still for at least a little while.

I’m not sure what to do with myself. I meant to spend the morning working on a composition that came to me out of nowhere—just a simple melody that could have some serious potential.

Unfortunately, my mind is plagued by Alina.

With a resigned sigh, I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the search engine.

Chicago Symphony Orchestra members , I type into the search bar.

I scroll for a moment until I land on Alina’s headshot. She looks vaguely somber in the photograph, with just the barest hint of a Mona Lisa smile. Dignified and snobby and lovely all at once.

Unless the CSO hasn’t updated their website recently, it’s evident that Alina hasn’t been fired. I can’t imagine why they would fire her. The last time I foolishly went searching for the orchestra’s recent performances on YouTube, Alina was playing even better than she did at Juilliard, sitting right there in the string section.

That was this past spring.

I tell myself I’m not keeping tabs on her, though.

I’m just a big fan of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Even now, after everything. Ha.

Annoyed at myself, I slam my phone down on the kitchen counter and start pacing the length of the space. The kitchen is open to the dining room, which overlooks the patio and the sandy beach beyond. I shouldn’t be cooped up inside on another beautiful, sunny day.

And yet, as soon as I make my way toward the back door, once again propped open to tempt in the briny breeze, I hear that horribly familiar voice again.

“—designed to fit around hands, but they’re a little bulky,” Alina is saying to someone outside.

With a jolt, I realize she’s talking to my daughter. Again.

“Why don’t they just make them glove-shaped? Or like mittens! That would be so much easier to wear.”

There’s a soft chuckle, so sweet that it’s difficult to believe it came from Alina.

“That’s a really good idea. Maybe you should invent that one day.”

“Being an inventor would be fun. Like, a mad scientist,” Wren chatters back.

What happened to her being absorbed in her iPad? I swear she was quiet and peacefully distracted just five minutes ago. And I’m pretty sure that, the last time I glanced out the window to check on her, Alina was nowhere to be seen.

“Is that what you like? Science?” Alina asks Wren.

Part of me wants to push open the door, interrupt their conversation, and put an end to this. What business does Alina have hanging out with a seven-year-old? Never mind that I’m positive Wren started it, and that Alina is probably just trying to be kind to a child. But doesn’t she have something better to do?

Can’t she just go away?

Wren sighs loudly. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t like science class . It’s kind of boring and we never get to learn about the things I really think are cool.”

“Yeah, school is sometimes like that.”

“Did you like school?”

I’m definitely lurking now, concealed behind the open door where neither one of them can see me even if they glanced inside my side of the house.

Alina is quiet for a moment. I realize that I don’t know what she’s about to say. I don’t know much about her childhood except that she went to a fancy prep school back in the Pacific Northwest. That, and the fact that she had access to some of the best classical musicians in the industry for private lessons from a very young age.

It would be a lot more satisfying if, despite all her privileges, Alina still wasn’t that talented. But the fact of the matter is that she is brilliant.

It’s infuriating.

“School was fine. It’s important that you do well. Or at least try your best.”

“Yeah, I know.” Wren sighs again. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want help? Those ice packs look heavy.”

Ice packs?

“I’m okay, sweetie.”

“Last year, when I was playing basketball with my friends, I fell and twisted my ankle and I had to put ice on it. But I really hated it because the ice was so cold that it felt like it was burning me. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“I’m used to it.”

Now I’m way too curious to stop myself from sneaking a glance outside. Careful not to disturb the curtains too obviously, I peer through the window by the door.

Wren is still curled up in her chair, and Alina is once again seated at the table on the other side of the patio with a book open in front of her. Except this time, she does, indeed, have ice packs wrapped around her wrists and hands. They’re resting awkwardly on the tabletop, bulky and definitely uncomfortable. I recognize them. Just like she was explaining to Wren, they’re designed to be secured around entire joints like knees, wrists, and elbows.

In high school, when I was preparing for my Juilliard audition, I practiced so hard that I caused some minor and temporary inflammation in my hands. I had to use ice packs just like that. The ailment only lasted a week or so, but ever since then, I was careful not to overdo it. Even when Alina and I were at our most viciously competitive.

“Do you have to ice them every day?” Wren asks Alina.

“Yes. More than once a day.”

“Wow. They must hurt really bad.”

“I’ll be fine.” Even as she says it, Alina’s voice is stiff.

I move away from the door, confusion creasing my brow as I start to put the pieces together.

Alina is not in Chicago right now. She’s not performing. Instead, she’s on vacation, icing her hands multiple times a day. In fact, she’s been doing it so often that she’s used to it .

I may not have touched the violin in years, but I’ve played plenty of other instruments to understand what’s going on.

Alina Sokolov is injured. So injured, in fact, that she’s been forced to take an extended break.

I wander back into the kitchen, feeling a bit numb with shock.

I should feel satisfied by this new development. Alina represents everything that I never achieved. For years, she was the main thing blocking my way. Then after that, her stunning success mocked me from afar. It should feel good to know that she’s finally been knocked down a few pegs.

And yet, despite how I feel about that woman, the idea of being thrilled by someone else’s downfall leaves a sour taste in my mouth.