Page 42 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

This is why I don’t do social events. This is why I don’t date, why I latched onto the first woman who liked me enough and then proposed at a recklessly young age. When it comes to navigating interpersonal connections, I’m a fumbling fool.

Still, it’s too late to run away. I force myself to slide onto the stool beside her.

Alina startles slightly, as if she didn’t even hear my ridiculous greeting, looking up with wide eyes. Then recognition dawns, and her expression softens. Then hardens. Then softens just a little bit. Then hardens again.

I get it. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about her, too.

“Gabe,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “Didn’t peg you for the bar type.”

“I’m not,” I admit, taking a sip of my beer. “Andy convinced me to come out. Karina is watching Wren.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “So, you’re a cool dad, huh?”

“A cool dad?”

“Leaving your kid with a stranger so you can come out and party?”

I roll my eyes. We both know she’s baiting me, which means she’s definitely in a sour mood right now.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t have left my kid with your cousin?”

Alina purses her lips. Then, as if it pains her, she grumbles, “No, it’s fine. Karina is amazing with kids. She can’t wait to be a mom.”

“Well, Wren will be good practice. She’s a handful.”

Honestly, all I want to do is run back to the house and tuck my daughter into bed, read her a story, and shut myself into my music room for the rest of the night. I don’t love the idea of letting Wren run free under the authority of others, but it’s become a necessity in recent years to rely on nannies while I’m traveling to Los Angeles so often.

We lapse into awkward silence, the noise of the bar filling the space between us.

“What are you drinking?” I ask, nodding toward her glass.

“Something fruity and overpriced,” she replies with a shrug. “I didn’t catch the name.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s decent.”

Another pause.

“Are you… okay?” I venture, keeping my voice low.

She exhales slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I got my MRI results this morning. They sent it in an email, like it was no big deal.”

My chest tightens. “And?”

Not that it’s any of my business. Again,not like I care.

She lets out a bitter laugh. “Inconclusive. Which means they found absolutely nothing wrong with me. Everything’s perfectly normal. One could argue that it’s all just a figment of my imagination.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she quickly takes a sip of her drink as if she’s trying to drown the emotion threatening to spill over.

“But you’re still in pain,” I say quietly.

She nods, her gaze dropping to her lap. “Every day. And no one can tell me why. Which means that nobody can offer me real treatment, either.”

I don’t know what to say. The Alina I remember—the fierce, confident prodigy who always seemed so sure of herself—looks lost.

“I’m sorry, Alina.” I mean it.

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