Page 37 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

“Is everything okay?” she asks finally, her tone cautious.

I glance down at Wren, then back at Alina. “Yeah. She’s fine. Just a little dehydrated.”

Her shoulders relax, and for a moment, I think I see a flicker of relief cross her face.

“Good,” she says. “That’s good. I’ve heard that happens a lot with kids.”

“Alina!” Wren’s voice is unexpectedly bright as she blinks open her eyes and realizes who’s standing in front of us. It’s an effort not to cringe.

Alina looks startled by how obviously excited my daughter is to see her, but recovers quickly, offering a small smile. “Hi, Wren.”

“You should come over for dinner tomorrow,” Wren announces, her tone so casual it takes me a moment to process what she’s said.

“What?” I sputter, glancing between her and Alina.

Alina blinks, clearly just as caught off guard. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“You should come!” Wren interrupts, her enthusiasm unshaken. “Daddy’s a really good cook. And we can have dessert! I have to have lots of popsicles, but I’ll share with you.”

Alina glances at me, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” I clear my throat, trying to regain control of the situation. Unfortunately, in this moment, Wren could ask me for anything, and I wouldn’t be able to tell her no. “Sure. We’d, um, love to have you… and Karina and Andy, too.”

How I managed to remember the other neighbors’ names in my current state of mind is beyond me.

Alina hesitates for a long moment. I’m certain that she’s trying to come up with an excuse to reject the invitation, but then she looks at Wren and something strangely sad flickers in her eyes.

“Okay. Dinner. That sounds… nice.”

Wren grins, satisfied with this development, and I have no choice but to force a smile as we head to our car.

What the heck just happened?

Chapter Thirteen: Alina

To my utter annoyance, dinner smells amazing.

When Wren invited me for dinner and then proudly proclaimed that her dad is a great cook, I was skeptical. Any seven-year-old is going to believe that their parents are good at everything because they don’t have the life experience to form any other opinion.

Also, I had to consider my personal bias. Even after our weirdly nice chat in the middle of the night when he caught me playing the violin outside, I’m not willing to admit that Gabe is good at anything. I know how immature that is, especially since he was capable of admitting that he’s always believed I’m a good violinist.

But I digress.

The richly seasoned scent of grilled chicken fills the air as I tentatively step into his half of the house on the other side of the hallway. The scent mingles with the sharper, savory notes of garlic and rosemary. I spy scalloped potatoes and heaps of grilled vegetables. I know from my unapologetic spying out ofthe back windows that Gabe has been slaving over the grill on the patio for a couple hours.

Gabe is in the kitchen, and Andy greets him with a big smile and a clap on the shoulder. Although Gabe is slightly taller than him, he buckles slightly under his grip. Andy informed us that he was determined to walk into this dinner without carrying any of the biases he might have gained from learning about my history with him. Karina did not promise the same thing, stubbornly loyal as ever.

Everything happens in a blur. Gabe greets me stiffly, then offers me wine. I accept the glass of pinot grigio and then allow Wren to steer me to the table. Karina fawns over the little girl. Even if she’s not eager to like Gabe, she’s not stubborn enough to dislike a child.

Anyway, Wren is impossible to dislike.

From my seat at the table in the little dining room, I can hear Andy and Gabe talking in the kitchen. Mostly Andy, actually. He’s regaling Gabe with the exciting tale of the last grueling hike he went on in the White Mountains, and I can hear Gabe politely giving all the correct responses. Karina is talking animatedly beside me at the table, her voice bright and cheerful as she talks with Wren about the little girl’s recent adventure to the emergency room, but I’m only half-listening.

My eyes keep flicking toward Gabe, who stands with his back to us, slicing a loaf of crusty bread with practiced precision. His movements are fluid and methodical, the same way he moved whenever he played the violin.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. Domestic.Normal. Maybe I shouldn’t let my mind wander down this road, but I can’t help picturing him in a scene just like this, but with his late wife and baby Wren making all the noise instead of my cousin and her husband. Once upon a time, Gabe had a lively home and a relatively average life.

Now, I think I’m starting to see that he’s just as lost as I feel.

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