Page 26 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

I roll my eyes. “Layers of smugness, maybe.”

She laughs and takes a sip of her tea. “You can keep telling yourself that, but I think you’re just mad because he’s kind of nice now. It doesn’t fit your narrative.”

Nice?Gabe Sterling? The same man who once locked me out of a practice room during our final exams? The same guy who spread rumors about how the only reason I got a spot in the CSO is because of pure nepotism?

I shake my head and take a sip of coffee, determined not to let Karina get under my skin. Whatever my narrative is, I’m not willing to let it be changed. I know the truth.

“People don’t change that much.”

“Maybe not,” she admits. “But it’s not like you’ve actually tried to talk to him like anyone other than your enemy. School is over, Alina. Also, you don’t even know why he left the orchestra.”

I stiffen. I haven’t told her about everything I learned when Gabe walked in on me in the basement. Actually, I didn’t even tell her that happened in the first place. No matter how muchI dislike him, blabbing about his deceased wife doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. It’s not my tragedy to share.

“I’m not interested in knowing anything about him,” I lie, staring out at the waves.

Karina hums noncommittally, like she doesn’t believe me, but mercifully drops the subject. She stays beside me, sipping her tea as Wren’s giggles are carried toward us on the breeze.

I can’t stop watching the two of them, though. Gabe sets Wren down in the sand and starts digging a shallow trench with her, their heads bent close together. He doesn’t even seem to realize Karina and I are out here, huddled together up on the dunes. For a man who’s supposedly so frosty, he’s annoyingly good at being a total sweetheart.

Annoyingbeing the key word here.

***

Later that day, I find myself in the waiting room of an orthopedic specialist’s office, my hands folded tightly in my lap to keep from fidgeting.

The walls are painted a calming shade of green, and there’s a faint whiff of antiseptic in the air. A couple old magazines sit on the table beside me, but I can’t bring myself to pick one up.

Andy is the one who insisted I come here, and even made the appointment for me. His old school friend, Dr. Hansen, owns the clinic and agreed to squeeze me in sooner than a regular patient might be able to see him. Part of me wanted to snap at Andy for overstepping more than one boundary by going ahead and coordinating this without my consent, but I’m also secretly grateful that someone else went ahead and set it up for me.

It makes skipping this whole thing—and avoiding the potential bad news—a lot harder. Ignoring the favor would be unbearablyimpolite, especially since Andy and Karina have been so accommodating.

I glance around the room. A middle-aged man with a knee brace taps on his phone while, nearby, a teenage boy leans against his mother, his wrist encased in a fluorescent green cast. They look relaxed, like they’re here for something minor and temporary. I wonder if they feel lucky. Or maybe they don’t think about these things the way I do, as if their futures hang in the balance with every doctor’s visit.

“Alina Sokolov?” a nurse calls from the doorway.

I rise, flexing my hands instinctively, and follow her down a short hallway and into the examination room. Every step feels heavier than the last with the weight of uncertainty pressing down on my shoulders.

I’m directed to a padded chair, where the nurse takes my vitals and asks a string of questions about my pain. How long have I been experiencing it? Where exactly does it hurt? On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?

“Six or seven, usually,” I answer. Then, almost as an afterthought, I add, “But sometimes it’s worse.”

The nurse nods, jotting down notes on her clipboard before stepping out. The sound of the door clicking shut echoes softly, and then I’m alone in the small room with nothing but my thoughts. I take a deep breath, my fingers curling into my palms as I try to shake off the growing unease.

Dr. Hansen arrives a few minutes later. He’s a tall, reasonably handsome man in his early thirties with kind eyes and a relaxed demeanor that instantly reminds me of Andy’s easygoing nature. He’s wearing a white coat over business casual attire, and the clipboard in his hand is filled with what I assume to be the final judgment on how doomed I truly am.

“Hi, Alina.” He greets me with a smile that’s probably meant to be reassuring. “I’m Dr. Hansen. Andy’s told me great things about you. I understand you’re a professional violinist?”

“Yes,” I reply, keeping my voice as steady as I can manage. “For the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.”

“Impressive,” he says. “It’s always a pleasure meeting someone with such a deep dedication to their craft.”

I nod, unsure how to respond. My dedication has felt more like a curse lately.

He pulls up a stool and sits across from me, clipboard in hand. “So, tell me about what’s going on with your hands.”

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel. Still, I force myself to answer.

“It started as occasional stiffness a few months ago, mostly after long rehearsals. But now it’s constant aching and throbbing. Sometimes the pain shoots up into my forearms.”

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