Page 16 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

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’sFour Seasonsthat 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?

Chapter Six: Gabe

Milkshakes and arcade games on a sunny afternoon. It’s simple, wholesome, and exactly the kind of outing that Wren absolutely loves. I’m more of a homebody, but for her, I can choke down my natural introversion and handle the chaos of the pier for a little while. The glare of the flashing lights, the buzz of laughter and conversation, and the salty breeze mixed with the scent of fried dough is overstimulating, to say the least, but worth it to see her smile.

“Daddy, look!” Wren tugs at my arm, pointing to a claw machine inside the arcade. “They have a fox!”

Sure enough, through the grimy glass coated with fingerprints, an orange plush toy is wedged tightly between a neon green alien and a lopsided stuffed banana. I sigh, already knowing where this is going.

Wren is going through a fox obsession at the moment. This morning over breakfast, she delivered all kinds of fun facts about them through mouthfuls of cereal, like that they make forty different kinds of noises. She’s also asked me about a dozen times if she can dye her hair orange. I’m all for supporting achild’s natural curiosity, but there’s no way I’m letting her get within a mile of a bottle of bleach until she’s at least sixteen.

“You know those machines are rigged, right?” I ask her. “If you want a fox plushie, I can buy you one.”

She scoffs. “Rigged or not, I can totally win it,” she declares with the kind of confidence only a seven-year-old can have, and I guess it’s a good thing that she’s more interested in earning her toys than letting me simply order them for her from Amazon or whatever.

I dig into my pocket for a handful of quarters. “Here, then. Prove me wrong.”

Wren takes the coins with a grin and marches to the machine. She lines up the claw with laser-sharp focus, her little tongue poking out as she moves the joystick. I watch, arms crossed, as the claw slowly descends… and misses the fox completely, grazing the alien’s side instead. It closes on nothing and rises again.

She groans, stepping back from the machine. “Ugh. It’s broken.”

“Told you,” I tease.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Let me try again. I just needed to warm up.”

I laugh and hand her another quarter. She tries two more times, missing the fox during both attempts, but each try only makes her more determined. A determination that reminds me of her mother. It’s a familiar stubbornness that I wish I didn’t recognize so well, even after all these years. Though I’d never be spiteful about it, my daughter is a walking reminder of something I’ve lost, simply because she’s so much like her mother.

“Alright,” I cut in after her fourth failed attempt. “How about we go win at something that’s not designed to make you lose?”

She sighs dramatically, throwing up her skinny arms in exasperation. “Fine. Let’s play Skee-Ball!”

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