Page 46 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

I haven’t missed the very obvious change in conversation, though. He doesn’t want to talk about his wife, or his grief, anymore. It’s my turn to reveal bits of my soul.

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I don’t know who I am without the violin. You say it’s easy to give in to the panic, but it’s also the more logical option, if I really think about it. If this is more than the symptoms of reckless overuse—if it’s something so permanent and debilitating that I have to quit—I’m not just going to lose my career. The violin is my whole life. If I can’t play, I might not be anyone at all.”

Gabe’s throws a sideways glance at me, a flicker of something like annoyance and disbelief crossing his face.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says bluntly.

I purse my lips. This instant argument from him is familiar, at least. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not nobody,” he responds, his tone firm. “You’re more than your talent. You’re more than what you can do when there’s a violin in your hands. You’re an entire person outside of all that, Alina. You might not be used to thinking of yourself that way, but I can promise that your life is not going to end if you find yourself in the worst-case scenario.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off before I can get a word out.

“Look—I get it. Losing something you love feels like losing a part of yourself. But it’s not the end of the world. You adapt. You figure out what’s next. There’s always another path to take. There’s always a new version of yourself to discover.”

“It’s not that simple. Plus, you sound like a corny motivational speaker.”

“No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Trust me. You might not want to hear it, but I’m right. And maybe the fact of the matter is that you’re not willing to consider you might be someone outside of being a violinist because you’re afraid. You’re comfortable being this person.”

The words sting, but they also anchor me in a way I wasn’t expecting. There’s no pity in his voice, no sugarcoating—just a challenge. He’s practically demanding that I dig a little deeper.

And maybe I am afraid. Maybe that’s the problem. The fear of what might happen if I don’t get better is suffocating me before I’ve even had the chance to confront it head-on.

Before I can respond to Gabe, however, a figure appears on the horizon, walking toward us along the shoreline.

I let out a soft gasp.

It’s the old woman I saw the other morning. The one who gave me the tiger’s eye. Except I don’t really knowhowshe gave it to me, because I swear she didn’t get close enough to drop something in my pocket.

She moves toward us with an easy grace, her flowing clothes billowing softly in the breeze. Her face is turned toward the sea, like she’s looking for a friend out there. I notice that her gait is easy and casual, like she came out here to convene with the waves themselves.

She nods at the two of us as she passes, her gaze lingering on me with a knowing smile.

She doesn’t say a single thing to us, and yet I feel like she’s delivered another odd prophecy unto me in the silence that shrouded her.

Your heart is heavy… it’s calling out in pain…

I know that she’s probably just a wacky old woman, but there’s no denying the wisdom that she carries with her like a cape flung over her shoulders.

As the silver-haired woman carries on toward town, I look to Gabe, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

“Who was that?” I murmur, watching as she disappears into the distance.

“Miss Maisie,” he says. “She’s a local legend. The wise woman of the beach. People say she’s… highly intuitive.”

I pull the tiger’s eye from my pocket, turning it over in my fingers.

“Do you believe that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just a bunch of rumors and stories. I’ve seen her a few times in the past when I’ve come here for the summer, but I’ve never actually interacted with her. Apparently, though, she’s never been wrong before.”

“Wrong about what?”

Gabe shrugs. “I don’t know. She gives advice. Makes predictions. Last summer, Wren was obsessed with trying to seek her out because she was convinced the woman was a fairy.”

I’m still staring after Miss Maisie, even though she’s become little more than a dark speck among the shadows in the distance.

“Hm,” is all I say.

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