Page 5 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter Five: Alina

“ S o, tell me about this insane rivalry between you and our neighbor,” Andy says with an easy smile on his face. He leans back in the booth across from me and Karina, needing all that space to himself to accommodate his broad shoulders and muscular bulk.

I shoot Karina a sharp glance. “You told him?”

My cousin snorts. “Of course I told him. Not everything. But how could I not mention the crazy coincidence?”

I sink down lower in my seat, flexing my hands under the table. They aren’t aching right now, thanks to some ibuprofen and plenty of ice. Also, as much as it pains me to acknowledge it, the pain has also subsided slightly due to the fact that I haven’t touched my violin in almost four days.

It’s unheard of for me to go that long without playing. For most of my life, I’ve been playing the violin almost every single day. My hands feel more natural when they’re holding the instrument than when they’re empty.

Everything feels wrong and horrible and endlessly frustrating.

Karina and Andy, however, are determined to cheer me up. We’re at a local restaurant called the Siren & Sword. It’s cozy and crowded in here, and the atmosphere is pleasant enough to make me feel at least a little bit less cranky than I have been since running into Gabe Sterling. Even so, I think I’m just determined to feel miserable right now. It’s easier.

“There’s not much to tell,” I say to Andy. “Gabe and I went to Juilliard together. It’s a competitive school, and we played the same instrument. There’s only one spot at the top, and we spent most of those years flipping back and forth as numbers one and two.”

“But you won in the end, though,” Karina prompts me.

Andy cocks his head to the side. “Won what? Like, a prize?”

I shake my head. “No, I won the audition to join the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It was both of our first choices. There was only one spot available that year, which was a miracle on its own. It’s not a common opportunity. It’s just that they happened to be replacing a recent retiree that year.”

“So, he hates you because you were objectively better than him?”

Karina snorts.

“He hates me because he thinks I only got the spot because of who my dad is.”

Andy, who is a lacrosse coach at a private school called Groton, is what musicians like me might refer to as a civilian. As in, even if he can appreciate the beauty of classical music, he’s never going to really understand it. He’s never going to understand the world of classical musicians. The nuances, the structure, the hierarchy. It’s not something that I could ever fully explain to him because it would take me weeks.

Still, Andy understands nepotism.

I am not a nepo baby, though.

Karina jumps in to explain it to her husband. “Remember how I said my uncle is a retired cellist? He’s, like, a really big deal.”

I roll my eyes. It’s true that Vladimir Sokolov has had a very long and successful career. But he’s never even been vaguely involved with the CSO. Before he and my mom immigrated to the United States, he performed with the national symphony orchestra of Poland. Having fled Russia as a teen, he had zero advantages in his favor, and yet still managed to rise to immense fame.

He played with the New York Philharmonic for a few years. Then, when my mom got pregnant with me—much later in life than what’s typical—he decided to take a position teaching at the University of Oregon, which has one of the best orchestra programs on the West Coast.

As soon as they could, they shipped me up to Seattle to a prep school that specialized in the arts. Most people there knew who my dad was, but in the real world, nobody cared. He was just another skilled, talented cellist just like every other skilled, talented cellist in the world.

To suggest that the Chicago Symphony Orchestra wanted me solely because I’m his daughter is ridiculous. It’s childish, actually. Childish and petulant and shameful.

As soon as I heard that Gabe was throwing a temper tantrum about it, I knew that there was no version of reality where our rivalry would fizzle out. We would never stand on common ground. Even our common instruments couldn’t work as olive branches.

“That’s not fair,” Andy remarks. “He was so insecure about losing the audition that he went immediately for the nepotism excuse? Sounds like he couldn’t accept his own failure.”

“Yeah, well…” I trial off as the pretty, red-haired waitress arrives with our food. The woman is glowing as she places our meals in front of us, a sparkling diamond gleaming on her left hand. It’s even bigger than the diamond on Karina’s finger, which is really saying something.

Is everyone happy and in love except for me?

Not that romance is much of a priority for me. It never really has been.

“What happened to him after, though?” Andy asks, clearly still invested in the story even as he digs into his burger. “Aren’t there, like, at least a thousand other symphonies he could join?”

I shrug. “Yeah, he ended up at the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”

“And… what? It’s not as good as the one in Chicago?”

“No, it’s a great orchestra. Some might argue it’s just slightly lower in the nationwide rankings, but it’s just as difficult to get a position with them.” I ignore the weird twinge in my index finger as I stab a roasted potato with my fork, wondering how the painkillers are already wearing off. “I assumed he was with the BSO this entire time, but…”

“He wasn’t,” Karina finishes for me. “He got all angry at Alina for ‘taking’ his spot in Chicago, and then he didn’t even end up staying with an orchestra for that long in the first place. I mean, how lame is that?”

Andy frowns. “Let me google this guy.”

Honestly, I’m not really in the mood to continue discussing Gabe. I’ve already resigned myself to a summer crammed into the same house as him.

His daughter is cute, though. She said her name was Wren, and that she’s turning eight in November. She’s a chatty little thing—the complete opposite of her father—and has already told me all of her hopes and fears about starting second grade this coming fall.

The kid is also the spitting image of her dad. Whoever her mother is, none of her genetics won the fight. Then again, maybe it’s her mom’s personality that makes Wren so bubbly and cute. Goodness knows that Gabe’s dour and dreary nature is an innate part of him. Sure, he had friends at Juilliard, but he’s always been an unpleasant grump.

And yet, not so grumpy that it prevented him from falling in love and making a child with someone.

I know I shouldn’t care, but it’s driving me crazy that I don’t have the slightest clue where Wren’s mom might be. Maybe she’s one of those workaholic types and will be joining the family on vacation later in the summer. Or maybe, thanks to how intolerable Gabe is, she’s already divorced him. There definitely wasn’t a ring on his finger.

“Whoa, this is crazy,” Andy says, cutting through my thoughts. He’s still scrolling on his phone. “He was nominated for a Grammy? And he’s the one who wrote the score for The Bone Whisperer ? Dude, I loved that movie. Isn’t the sequel coming out next year?”

I stare at him blankly. I think Karina kicks him under the table.

“He probably sucks, though,” Andy quickly amends. “Worst neighbor ever.”

I shake my head. I appreciate that my cousin and her husband are eager to defend my honor by righteously hating a man they don’t even know. At the same time, though, I don’t want my issues with Gabe to be the reason that there’s tension under our shared roof for the entirety of this vacation.

“It’s fine,” I insist. “Let’s just change the subject.”

Karina takes the hint and steers the discussion toward wedding venues. Even though they got married in a small private ceremony a few months ago, they’re planning a large formal wedding for next year. The entire reason they decided to vacation here this summer is because she’s trying to book an extremely popular wedding planner—something Montgomery—and also wants to scope out some of the stately old mansions on the cliffs for potential venues. I try to listen, knowing that my role as one of her bridesmaids is to contribute to this kind of conversation.

I’m happy for her. Thrilled for her. And I’ve already agreed to perform a classical rendition of “Endless Love” on the violin for their first dance.

But when I think about that, I start to wonder if I’ll even be able to play at their wedding. What if whatever is causing this pain in my hands is chronic and irreversible? What if I’ll never be able to play the violin again without being in excruciating pain?

And what will Gabe think when he finally realizes what’s going on?

He’ll probably gloat until he’s blue in the face.

After all, he might have left the BSO, and he might also have a failed marriage, but he’s clearly not lacking for success. He’s in the film industry now, composing music for million-dollar blockbusters. And he has a wonderful daughter whom he has clearly raised very well. She’s talkative and nosy like any kid, but she’s also polite and inquisitive and adorably charming. So, as annoying as it is to admit, he’s not failing at fatherhood.

Meanwhile, I’m failing at everything. I was formally asked to leave the CSO for months. I can barely use my hands to eat my dinner, let alone play the violin. I’m not married, and I don’t even have a dramatic ex-boyfriend story to prove that I’ve even been trying to put myself out there. I’m childless, and cat-less, so I’m not even doing the whole perpetually-pathetically-single thing right.

I may have beaten him fair and square at Juilliard, but Gabe has definitely beaten me at life in general.

That’s what they say about gifted kids who peak too young, after all. They burn out fast.

I don’t have much of an appetite, but I force myself to choke down the food as Karina and Andy playfully bicker about things like wedding color schemes and who he should ask to be his best man. Luckily, they seem to be able to tell that I’m not in the mood for chatting, so they let me remain stoic and noncommittal for the entirety of the meal.

But I know that I’m killing the vibe. I’ve not only ruined my life, but I’m also going to ruin their summer.

I’m a ruiner. A failure. A total and complete loser.

And now Gabe Sterling gets to bear witness as I implode.

***

Later that night, I hole myself up in my room on the top floor. I’m painfully aware of the fact that the wall opposite my bed is the one that we share with the Sterlings. He’s too close for comfort.

In fact, he could be a hundred miles away and it would still be too close.

I’m laying on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling. My wrists are throbbing again, sending shooting pains throughout my palms and fingers. I hold them as still as I can and close my eyes, forcing myself to think about anything other than the pain.

It doesn’t help.

With a resigned sigh, I sit up and reach for my phone. Ignoring the pain, I go to YouTube and search for the CSO. It’s easy enough to find an official recording of their first performance of the summer season on their channel.

There’s Goldberg at the front with his conducting wand and dramatic, swooping motions. And there’s Annalise, the first chair violinist. Two seats in from her, sitting in my chair, is my temporary replacement. I don’t know her name, but I can tell that she’s probably twice my age, with gray-streaked hair pulled back into a severe bun.

I pout at the screen, watching the woman like a hawk. She plays well. Of course she does. The CSO doesn’t mess around with mediocrity.

Except, I can’t help making the silent critique that her movements are a little too jerky, too aggressive. It looks like she’s fighting with the instrument, rather than letting it become a part of her.

Despite that, she’s there and I’m here.

Before I can really register what I’m doing, I type into the search bar, Boston Symphony Orchestra 2016 .

I find a forty-five minute recording of a special performance of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons that the BSO did the spring after Gabe and I graduated from Juilliard.

Knowing I shouldn’t, and not really caring, I bite my lip and press play.

The music begins with the easily recognizable melody ruled by the string section—a bright and cheerful expression of spring incarnate.

It’s not hard to find Gabe. I bring the screen close to my face and find him sitting in the third chair—the same spot that I currently hold with the CSO. He’s one of those people that I would know even from across a vast space crowded with strangers. Mostly because I’ve learned to develop that ability as a survival instinct.

He plays beautifully. I hate him for it. Every swooping movement of his bow across the violin strings is graceful and precise, his arms seemingly controlled by the swell of the music itself. Gabe plays like the music lives within him. It’s mesmerizing to watch.

At Juilliard, I hated watching him play. I hated how instinctive every press of his finger and flick of his wrist seemed to be. I hated that, after a life spent trying to hone perfection at the expense of my sanity, Gabe made it look completely effortless.

Why did he leave the orchestra?

I adjust my search to 2017, confirming via a clip of their holiday season performances that Gabe was still with them for another year.

But then, when I comb through videos from about six years ago, he’s not there anymore. There’s a different man sitting in his chair. And it’s not a temporary absence, either, because the obsession boiling in my bloodstream urges me to confirm that he doesn’t appear in any other performances leading up to the current year.

Gabe was only with the BSO for a couple years. Then… nothing.

What happened? Where did he go? Did he actively choose to become a sellout and work for Hollywood instead? Or is there a deeper story here that I can’t even begin to fathom?

And, more to the point, why do I even care?