Page 22 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Gabe doesn’t say anything, but the weight of his gaze is heavy.

“I’ve been trying to push through it, hoping it would get better, but it’s not. It’s getting worse. What if I can never play again? You may have put down your violin, but I can’t—that’s not—I just can’t do that.”

The tears I’ve been fighting spill over again, but I quickly swipe them away with clumsy movements tinged with humiliation.

Gabe shifts on his feet. “Have you seen a doctor?”

I shake my head. “I’m afraid to. What if they tell me it’s chronic?”

“You can’t think like that,” he says, his tone somehow gentle and harsh at the same time.Grow up and be practical,he must want to snap at me. “Whatever it is, there’s a good chance it can be treated. You won’t know unless you face it, though.”

His words are maddeningly reasonable. For a moment, I hate him all over again for being so calm and logical. When did he get this way? Is this what parenthood does to a person?

“What do you care, anyway?” I grumble. “You’ve already moved on from the orchestral path, and look at you now. You’re successful, happy—”

“I’m not happy,” he interrupts, his voice sharp.

I blink, startled.

“Do you think I wanted to give it up?” he says, his gaze piercing. “I didn’t have a choice, and I miss it every day. That’s what you don’t understand, clearly. Sometimes, life deals us cards that we can’t ignore. I had a pregnant wife and a position in the symphony that wasn’t paying me enough. I did what needed to be done, and it wasn’t even worth it in the end when she… when I lost her.”

His confession hangs between us.

“I never wanted to see you like this,” he adds, his voice softer now. I’m not even sure I’m hearing him correctly. I might be hallucinating. “You’re one of the most talented musicians I’ve ever known. I know how much you’ve sacrificed to get to where you are because I was there to watch it happen, remember? I don’t want to see you lose that, even if there is a small, wicked part of me that might find it satisfying to know that I’m not the only loser between us.”

His words slice through me. For years, I’ve clung to the idea that Gabe Sterling was my enemy—the one person who wantedto see me fail. I’m not sure I know what to do with the reality that I might have been wrong about that.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I ask suddenly, my voice cracking.

He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’ve grown up.”

The absurdity of the statement almost makes me laugh, but the sound comes out as a choked sob instead.

For a moment, we float in the awkward silence, the weight of our shared pain bridging the gap between us.

Then, Gabe slowly reaches out to pick up the laundry basket. The old Gabe, the one I knew at Juilliard, would be annoying enough to start a load right now and officially destroy the acoustics of my temporary practice space. This new Gabe, the one that I’m struggling to make sense of, seems to have no problem coming back later.

Or maybe he’s just eager to get as far away from me as possible right now.

“Get some rest, Sokolov,” he says, his tone bizarrely sincere. “And maybe think about calling that doctor.”

All I can do is nod as I watch him go, his footsteps fading up the stairs. When the door closes behind him, I let out a shaky breath and rest my forehead against the cool surface of the violin.

For the first time in months, I feel the smallest flicker of something like hope. Or maybe nothope, but a sense of comfort in the reality that I’m not alone.

Which is weird, really. I shouldn’t be comforted by the fact that Gabe and I are both, apparently, deeply unhappy. I shouldn’t want to share any sense of camaraderie with him.

Things change, though. Like he said before, maybe we’ve grown up. Maybe we’re too old to stay enemies.

Chapter Eight: Gabe

The weight of the conversation I just had with Alina lingers in the air as I return to my side of the duplex, laundry in hand. I’ll go back downstairs later. Right now, doing basic household chores is the last thing on my mind.

Wren is upstairs, banging on the child-size practice drums I bought her. We’re going to have to work on her sense of rhythm, but the chaotic noise is, weirdly enough, a welcome distraction at this moment.

The moment the words left my mouth down there—widowed at the age of twenty-three—I knew I’d gone too far. The look on Alina’s face wasn’t the sharp, cutting expression I’m so used to. It was wide-eyed shock, followed by something that looked too much like regret. Or something like that. As if she was genuinely sorry for me.

The last thing I want is for Alina to pity me. It’s too pathetic.

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