Page 31 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

I smirk, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. “That’s pretty high praise, coming from you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dare. Goodnight, Alina.”

It takes me a second to realize I’ve failed to call her by that old nickname,Ali.We’re making unexpected, unintentional progress tonight, I guess.

She pauses for so long that I wonder if she’s going to ignore me. Then, without an ounce of vitriol in her tone, she murmurs, “Goodnight, Gabe.”

I step inside, closing the door behind me. For the first time, I feel a strange, tentative truce settling between us. It’s fragile and unspoken, but it’s definitely there. I don’t know what it really means, but it feels good to know that I don’t have to keep pretending with her.

I don’t have to keep trying to convince myself that I hate her. Not when, deep down, I have a horrible feeling that the opposite might have been true once upon a time.

Chapter Eleven: Alina

Despite the doctor’s reassurances, as well as the pills I took a few hours ago, my mind won’t stop spinning with anxiety. My wrists ache as the meds start to wear off slightly, each throb pulling me deeper into the rabbit hole.

It’s not just pain anymore—it’s panic.

I’ve never been like this, so illogically worried about undefinable things I can’t control, and have always preferred to focus on the things that I do have authority over. Yet, here I am, scrolling through yet another ominous article:Autoimmune Disorders & Joint Pain.

The words blur together as my pulse hammers in my ears. A dozen search tabs are already open, filled with descriptions of symptoms that match some of what I’ve been dealing with, as well as others that don’t seem entirely relevant. I don’t care. I read through it all, leaving no stone unturned.

Carpal tunnel. Early onset arthritis. Chronic inflammation. Mysterious, unnameable autoimmune disorders that haven’t yet been studied enough to have a cure, let alone treatment.

And, worst of all, degenerative conditions that whisper warnings of permanent damage.

That word sends a chill down my spine.Degenerative.It goes along with other horrible things—irreversibleandincurableandhopeless.

I flex my fingers experimentally. They ache in response, a dull protest that makes me slam my laptop shut. Deep down, I know that the fact that I haven’t iced them since this morning, and that I’ve been typing and scrolling with my hands at awkward angles as I hunch over my computer on the bed won’t help. I know that I could blame my current pain on those things. However, my mind seems determined to fixate on worst case scenarios.

The room is dark except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp, but the shadows on the walls seem to inch closer as my chest tightens. The second floor of the house is quiet, but I can hear Karina and Andy downstairs laughing. I think they’re playing a ridiculous board game they found at a novelty shop earlier today. They invited me to join them, but I refused because I didn’t want to kill the mood.

What if this pain never goes away? What if this is what the rest of my life will be like? What am I supposed to do with myself? It’s not like I can become a composer like Gabe. For starters, I’m not interested in it. Also, composing music still requires you to be able to play the instruments. For that same reason, I’d have no hope as a music instructor. Or a conductor. Or anything at all.

Basically, if I don’t get better, I am well and truly doomed. I have no other skills. All of my education and experience revolves around my ability to play the violin. I’m a one-trick pony.

I drop my head into my aching hands, content to spend the rest of the evening feeling sorry for myself.

Except the sharp ring of my phone yanks me rudely out of that panicked spiral. My hand fumbles for it on the nightstand.

The caller ID makes my stomach drop:Mom.

It’s only five in the evening in Oregon. They’ll be having dinner soon. With any luck, this is just a quick check-in call that won’t cost me too much emotional energy. I’m already running on nothing but fumes.

My thumb hovers over the screen for a long moment before I force myself to swipe and answer the call. “Hey, Mom.”

“Alina,” she greets me, her tone as cool and precise as ever. “What’s the name of that hotel near your apartment?”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Why? What’s going on?”

She huffs impatiently, as if she’s not in the mood to explain herself. “Well, I was hoping to keep this a surprise, but your father and I booked tickets to Chicago for next weekend. We’ll be attending the Saturday evening performance at the CSO, and then I thought we could go out to dinner at that nice steakhouse we took you to last time.”

My mother is, above all else, a creature of habit. The fact that she even tried to plan a surprise trip is a shock.

It’s a blessing that the surprise has been ruined.

My stomach squirms. The anxiety spikes. For a second, a wave of nausea rolls through me so determinedly that I wonder if I’m actually about to be sick.

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