Page 1 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Chapter One: Alina

“Do you know why I asked to meet with you today, Ms. Sokolov?”

I’m trying really hard not to tremble with anxiety as I stare across the desk at Diana Crane, one of the managers of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Also known as one of the three Fates, à la classic Greek mythology. She determines whether I rise or fall in this career, and there’s very little I can do about it.

“Um,” is all I manage at first. Then, realizing that now is really not the time to sound like a speechless fool, I force myself to say, “No, I’m not sure.”

In fact, when I received the email asking me to meet with Diana in her office after rehearsal today, I immediately went through every possible reason for the unexpected meeting.

It couldn’t be a promotion, because I am way too young to be named the first chair violinist of the CSO. They wouldn’t put a mere thirty-year-old in a position of leadership like that, regardless of my alleged talent. You have to earn your stripes in a career like this, and even though first chair is my main goal,I know that it’s a long time coming. Plus, I respect Annalise—the current first chair violinist—too much to even think about unseating her at this stage in my career.

It couldn’t be a demotion, either, because that’s not really something that happens without good reason. And the fact of the matter is that I have never done anything wrong in all eight years of my time at the CSO. I don’t disrupt rehearsal with distracting behavior. I’m never late. My instrument is always perfectly tuned.

I don’t rock the boat. I don’t even think I would knowhowto do that.

Unfortunately, because I was so freaked out by what this meeting could possibly be about, I didn’t have a great rehearsal. I earned a few sideways glances from my coworkers in the string section, but none of my mistakes were dire. The conductor didn’t even seem to notice.

“Gerald spoke with me last week about you,” says Diana, entwining her long, graceful fingers and resting them on the desk. She’s a retired harpist, a certified legend not only at the CSO but in the world of classical music in general.

I try not to physically deflate at her words. Gerald Goldberg is the conductor. Which means that, even if he hasn’t yet had a chance to express criticism to Diana regarding my subpar performance today, he’s clearly noticed enough ofsomethingthat it urged him to speak up.

Instinctively, I fold my hands together in my lap as if that will hide the obvious swelling in my fingers. There’s no way Goldberg has that sharp of an eye.

“I’d like to assure you that Gerald had no complaints about your musicality at all,” Diana continues. “Except—”

Here we go.

“—he’s noticed that you’ve been readjusting your posture in recent weeks during rehearsal, and upon describing it to me,it’s clear to both of us, given our combined expertise in string instruments, that you are experiencing some pain while playing. Is that true?”

It takes me a moment to unravel her words. She speaks in layers, clearly doing her best to sound diplomatic and authoritative at the same time.

“Pain? No, I’m fine.”

“I see. So, if I asked you to see our onsite physical therapist, they would confidently report back to me that there is no swelling, tingling, or pain in your hands right now?”

I swallow hard. There’s a very polite threat in her voice. I wouldn’t be surprised if Angelo, the company’s physical therapist, is standing right outside her door right now, waiting to call my bluff.

Either way, it’s probably in my best interest to tell the truth. To lie would be to challenge my superiors, experts who have been playing their instruments for longer than I’ve been alive. Not only would that be incredibly disrespectful, but it would also peg me as an undependable member of the symphony orchestra. It’d put my entire career at risk.

So, really, once I finish descending through that spiral of panic, I know what I have to do.

I sit up a little straighter, refusing to flinch at the persistent throbbing in my wrists. We just endured a three-hour rehearsal. My neck and shoulders are also aching, but I’m wise enough to know that it’s a normal soreness.

The pain in my hands isn’t normal, though. I’ve known that for a while now.

“I have been experiencing some slight discomfort in my wrist joints specifically, yes,” I admit.

Diana nods slowly. There’s no judgment in her gaze. In fact, her expression is almost impossible to read.

“When did you first start to notice this discomfort?”

I swallow hard. “About three months ago.”

“And it has been getting worse recently?”

I can’t bring myself to lie. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Ice and ibuprofen don’t seem to help?”

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