Page 34 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

I nod, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t loosen. My phone rests on the duvet, mocking me with its silence. I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents decided to give me the silent treatment until I return to the CSO.

And then there’s the reality that I can’t bring myself to ignore: somewhere on the other side of the wall, Gabe Sterling and all that he represents continues to haunt this place.

He’s seen me like this, broken and aimless. Truly, I can’t decide what’s worse—my parents’ disappointment or his impending smug satisfaction.

Chapter Twelve: Gabe

The day that unravels before me is a postcard-worthy summer afternoon where the sky stretches endlessly in unbroken blue, and the ocean glitters like a swath of shimmering fabric unspooling beneath it.

Wren is running ahead of me on the beach, her laughter rising above the sound of the waves in girlish shrieks.

“Daddy, look!” she shouts, stopping to examine a cluster of shells near the water.

I smile, watching her from a short distance. It’s moments like these that make everything seem worthwhile—the endless hours of work and the stress of balancing deadlines with being a single parent. How can I complain about all those stupid little things when Wren has such a bright smile on her face? Seeing her happy, carefree, and soaking up the summer sun… that’s all I’ll ever need.

Truly, nothing else matters. Not my grief, not the things I’ve lost. Not the regrets I have or the mistakes I’ve made.

As dark as it feels to admit it to myself, I don’t think I’d still be alive if it wasn’t for Wren. I don’t think I would have been able to find a reason to keep going after losing everything.

She holds up a piece of driftwood like it’s a rare treasure. “Isn’t this cool?”

“Super cool,” I call back, giving her a thumbs-up.

She grins and takes off running again, her curls bouncing as she chases the waves.

I follow at a leisurely pace, letting her enjoy the freedom while keeping her in sight. Mermaid Shores is safe and idyllic, but I still can’t shake my need to watch her every move. Wren is fearless, curious, and sometimes a little too independent for her own good. I’m constantly worried that bravery is going to get her in trouble. In that sense, she reminds me a lot of my older brother, her Uncle Mike. While I was busy being an outcast nerd for loving the violin, he was climbing trees and racing around town, unchained and untamable. Never mind the bumps and bruises and broken bones; nothing ever stopped Michael from seeking out a new adventure.

Which is why it’s so funny that, nowadays, he’s settled down into a perfectly regular life as a CPA. That wild spirit must have somehow found a way to be absorbed into Wren.

A seagull swoops down, catching her attention. She screams with laughter, darting after it as it hops along the sand. She’s talking to it, making a strange voice that must be like what seagulls sound like in her imagination.

Except, something about her movements gives me pause.

Her steps are oddly unsteady, almost sluggish. It looks like she’s wading through mud instead of walking on firm, damp sand.

“Wren?” I call, my voice tinged with concern.

She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders slump as she falls quiet, losing interest as the seagull takes off back into the sky. With anunnatural lurch, she stumbles slightly as she bends to pick up another shell.

Alarm bells go off in my head. I quicken my pace, the soles of my shoes kicking up sand as I close the distance between us.

“Wren!”

She turns to face me, and my heart stops. Her cheeks are pale, her lips noticeably dry. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of mischief, look glassy and unfocused.

“I feel weird,” she mumbles, swaying on her feet.

Panic grips me like a vice. This can’t be happening. She was laughing less than a minute ago.

I rush to her side, kneeling in the sand. “Hey, kiddo, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Tell me what’s wrong.”

She shakes her head weakly, her movements uncoordinated. “No. Just… spinning… feels… dizzy.”

Her voice is faint, her breathing shallow. I press a hand to her forehead. It’s clammy and cool, but there’s no fever. My mind races as I scan her face for answers, but all I see is how small and fragile she suddenly looks. Is it heatstroke? Did she develop a new allergy?

Or is it my biggest fear coming to life? One of my reoccurring nightmares making itself known in the light of day?

“I don’t feel good,” she whispers. A moment later, her knees buckle.

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