Page 28 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Gabe tilts his head, studying me like he used to study sheet music. It’s unnerving. “You just seem… I don’t know. Never mind.”

“You’re nosier than I remember,” I snap, regretting it instantly. I don’t know why I can’t seem to hold myself back from lashing out at him, but I’m painfully aware of how childish it makes me seem.

Instead of retaliating, he just sighs and rubs his temple. “Look, I know you’re going through a tough time, but you really should try taking it easy. For once. It sounds like pseudoscience, but stress really does hinder the healing process.”

I glare at him. “Right. Thanks for the advice.”

“Anytime,” he says, his tone infuriatingly calm as he blatantly ignores my sarcasm. “Best of luck, Ali.”

Something in his voice, something that could almost be mistaken for timid kindness, makes my throat tighten. I open my mouth to fire back a retort, but find that I have no more words to throw at him.

Gabe gives me a small, pitying smile before turning to leave.

Chapter Ten: Gabe

It starts as a whisper.

Just barely audible over the hum of the ceiling fan overhead in the shadowy bedroom and the distant murmur of waves crashing against the shore far beyond the bay window.

I blink groggily, disoriented and dazed, as the sound winds its way through the cracked open window like a charmed snake, slipping into the dark space with hypnotically malicious intent. My first thought is that I’m most definitely dreaming, but as the fog of sleep clears with each shimmering note, I recognize the sound for what it is.

A lone violin.

I sit up, the sheets tangled around my legs from the restless sleep I’ve grown used to these past few years, and listen more closely. The melody is soft and lilting, the notes curling like smoke in the warm summer air.

There’s no question where it’s coming from. I would recognize Alina’s technique even if I was in a coma. It’s in the precise way her bow kisses the strings, a method so sweet and delicate that it’s utterly at odds with her sharp-edged personality.

What is she doing playing her violin in the middle of the night?

Throwing off the covers, I grab a T-shirt from the back of the chair and pull it over my head as I head downstairs. The house is emptier than usual tonight with Wren spending the night at a new friend’s house across the street. I thought the peace and quiet might be nice for a change, but it feels unsettling, as if something is missing. It’s always like that whenever my daughter isn’t here.

I wind through the dimness that seeps throughout the first floor. Feeling a bit stupid, I reach up and pinch my own arm, just to make sure I’m not trapped in an extremely realistic dream. Everything is strange and eerie, as if the edges of normally sharp objects have become frayed and fuzzy, and it feels less like I’m walking and more like I’m floating.

Running my fingers through my hair, I blink fast and try to get a grip on reality.

The music grows clearer as I step out onto the patio, barefoot and still a little groggy. Alina is sitting on a low wooden bench near the sand, illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon. Her silhouette is striking, her posture as impeccable as ever, and the curve of her violin neck is a graceful arc against the night sky.

She stops the moment I step outside. Even with her back to me, it’s clear that she can sense my presence just as easily as I can detect hers. We got used to it when we were at school together, constantly on alert for each other like we were genuinely at war.

Her bow hovers above the strings as if frozen in time. Even from this distance, I can see the tension ripple through her shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” she calls softly without turning around to look at me. Her voice carries just long enough on the cool night breeze to reach me and then die at my feet.

I cross the flat stones of the patio toward her, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my sweatpants.

Remember that she despises you. Remember who she is. She is beautiful and she is incredible, but she is not the person you should dare be vulnerable around again.

The reminders wrap tightly around my mind, squeezing like a vise.

“I could ask you the same thing. It’s the middle of the night.”

I come around to the other side of her bench. Her jaw tightens, and I brace myself for a trademark Sokolov retort, but instead she merely sighs and lowers the violin.

“Karina and Andy are in Boston for the night. Fancy dinner date or something like that. I couldn’t sleep, and the basement is creepy at this time of night, so I came out here.”

“And the solution to your insomnia is to serenade the entire neighborhood?”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s no real heat in her glare. At least, not from what I can tell in the moonlight. “I was playing quietly. And there’s no one else around to hear it.”

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