Page 29 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

“Except me,” I point out.

She huffs, her fingers shifting idly on the violin strings. “If you’re about to tell me to pack it up and stop breaking some ridiculous noise ordinance, go ahead and say it.”

I shake my head. “Actually, I was going to say that you should keep playing.”

Her brow furrows, her suspicion evident. “Why?”

I shrug, though the truth is more complicated than I’m willing to admit. “Because it sounded really nice.”

For a moment, she just stares at me, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind my words. Finally, she relents, lifting the bow back to the strings. “Fine. But only because you asked so sweetly.” Her voice drips with venom.

I wonder how she’s even playing right now, if it’s true that she was too injured to do so when I walked in on her a couple days ago. She’d been crying because it hurt so badly, and yet there is nothing of that pain in her expression right now. Her face is smooth and focused, her gaze turned inward as she reaches for the music within her. She always had a better memory than me, able to memorize sheets of music in a matter of minutes.

Alina resumes the melody, her movements fluid and precise. The notes thread through the night like a delicate string of embroidery. It’s a piece I vaguely recognize—soft and melancholic, with just a hint of yearning. Perhaps Chopin? Debussy? It’s not the kind of thing she would have played back at Juilliard, when our rivalry was a full-contact sport, and every performance was a battlefield. Back then, her playing was sharp and showy—all about proving her superiority.

This is something else entirely.

“New piece?” I ask when she pauses to adjust her grip on the bow.

She nods without looking at me. “Something I was rehearsing with the CSO. They’re performing it this summer. Without me.”

“It sounds lovely,” I find myself admitting before I realize it, feeling like an idiot for not being able to come up with a more biting remark.

She lowers the violin to her lap and gives me a skeptical look. “Did you just refer to my playing aslovely? Who are you, and what have you done with Gabriel Sterling?”

I smirk. “People change, you know. Maybe I’ve mellowed with age.”

She snorts. “Highly doubtful.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, to my surprise, she speaks again.

“I’m only playing because of the meds,” she says, her voice so quiet that I get the feeling I’m witnessing some kind of holyconfession. “The pain is manageable. For now. I wanted to take advantage of it, even though the doctor said I should rest.”

I nod, unsure how to respond. I don’t blame her for ignoring the doctor’s orders. People like us… it’s not easy to stay away from music. It’s a part of who we are, just as natural as breathing and blinking.

I’m just surprised that she actually went to the doctor. When I suggested it, I assumed she would refuse to do it simply because it was something that I advised.

“That’s… good,” I murmur. “That the pain is gone, I mean.”

“Yeah,” she replies, a note of hesitation in her voice. “We’ll see how long it lasts, I guess. Prescription anti-inflammatories can only do so much.”

The vulnerability in her voice catches me off guard. For as long as I’ve known her, Alina has been a veritable fortress of a human being—unshakable, invincible, untouchable. To hear her admit to weakness, even indirectly, feels strange. It’s like seeing a crack in a stone statue—an imperfection in an otherwise flawless piece of art.

“So, you actually set up a doctor’s appointment,” I say carefully, wondering why I’m even saying anything at all. Wondering why I don’t turn around right now and go back inside. “How did it go?”

She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the neck of the violin. She stares out across the beach, gazing at the dark sand and the even darker sea beyond.

“There’s no official diagnosis yet. He wants to run some tests. Do an MRI. Stuff like that. He did say that it doesn’t seem serious enough to require surgery. So, I haven’t torn anything, then.”

“But you’re still worried.”

She doesn’t answer, but the harsh set of her jaw says enough. I can imagine exactly what it must be like for her to have the thingthat defines her—her career and her overall identity—hanging in the balance. I remember what it felt like to walk away from the violin and the orchestra, and even though my reasons were different, the loss was still profound. It’s weird to empathize with her. I always preferred to ignore the things we had in common.

“Can I give you some unsolicited advice?” I blurt.

Her eyes narrow. “Doesn’t asking for permission to do that negate the whole ‘unsolicited’ thing?”

“I guess so,” I mutter. “I just… take it easy on yourself, Alina. Pushing through the pain isn’t going to fix anything. Even now, with your medication getting rid of the pain temporarily, you really shouldn’t be playing.”

---