Page 19 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Her lips press into a thin line, but then her gaze shifts to Wren, and her expression softens slightly. “Hey, Wren.”

“Hi, Alina!” Wren bounces to her feet. “We went to the arcade! And Daddy tried to help me win a fox from the claw machine, but he lost.”

I hold back a scoff.I’mthe one who lost? She’s the one who was at the controls!

Alina smirks, her eyes flicking to me. “Not surprising.”

Right, because I’m a loser. That’s all I know how to do.

“The machine was rigged,” I mutter.

“Excuses,” she says lightly, stepping past me to unlock the shared front door.

“Alina, do you know how to play the claw machine?” Wren asks, following after her like a little duckling.

“Not really,” Alina admits, glancing over her shoulder. “But I could probably do better than your dad.”

“Oh, you think so?” I say, arching a brow.

“Absolutely.” Her tone is smug, though there’s a flicker of amusement in her honey-colored eyes.

“Well, next time we go to the pier, you’ll have to prove it,” Wren declares.

Alina chuckles softly. “We’ll see.”

She opens the door and steps inside, making her way toward her respective door. Wren darts after her, chattering about the dolphin keychain, and I’m left standing awkwardly in the entryway.

“Thanks for letting us in,” I say finally.

She doesn’t look at me as she jingles the key in the lock and opens the door opposite mine. “Don’t mention it.”

I linger for a moment, feeling the weight of unspoken tension between us as the door slams shut a little too loudly. Wren’s tug on my sleeve pulls me away.

With a resigned sigh, I stoop to lift up the corner of the welcome mat and grab the spare key for the door. I’m going to have to remember to do the same thing outside with the shared door, lest this situation happen again.

I’d do anything to avoid crossing paths with Alina again. Anything, that is, except leave Mermaid Shores. For Wren’s sake really. And because, this time, I refuse to lose to Alina. Iwashere first, after all.

Chapter Seven: Alina

The basement of the cottage is cool and dim, and also blessedly silent except for the faint hum of the dehumidifier in the corner.

It’s not ideal for practice—there’s barely enough space for a chair among the washer, dryer, and storage bins—but it’s the only room where I can be sure Karina won’t barge in. She means well, but her constant hovering is suffocating. I know that if she heard me playing, she’d start asking me a million questions about whether or not I should even be holding a violin right now.

Plus, I don’t want to bother her and Andy with the noise. They’ve been enjoying their vacation, running off on couple-y adventures while I not-so-subtly excuse myself from being their third wheel. I can tell that Andy is concerned about my antisocial behavior, but I’m sure Karina has already told him that this is simply how I am. I’m grateful that she invited me here for the summer, but I still really need my alone time.

I sit stiffly in the folding chair that I dragged down the stairs, my violin resting on my lap. My hands are secured in compression gloves that I picked up at a store in the next townover. The fabric is supposed to help ease the tension in my joints with the light pressure of all-over stability. Right now, however, they feel more like a suffocating, cruel reminder that I’m not supposed to be doing this.

I told Diana that I would rest over the summer. But even though she told me that story about how she took several months off from playing the harp before returning to her beloved instrument, I can’t bring myself to follow her good example. It’s not like I’m addicted to the instrument. I just don’t know what else to do with myself.

Also, I know I’ll hate myself if I let an entire summer pass by without at least trying to maintain my technique.

With a slow and deliberate motion, I raise the violin to my chin and set the bow against the strings. The familiar posture is both a comfort and a torment. My wrist protests almost immediately as I draw the bow across the A string. The note wavers, thin and uneven.

I grit my teeth and try again.

The second attempt is worse. My fingers falter, trembling with a combination of pain and frustration. The throbbing in my hands grows sharper, radiating up my left forearm with a particularly vicious spear of discomfort.

“Just one scale,” I mutter to myself, though the words crack as they leave my mouth. “Just one. Please.”

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