Page 8 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Keeping my hand firmly locked around the doorknob and my back pressed against the door, I square off against Gabe withall the ferocity of a soldier ready to step onto a battlefield. He mirrors my stance, towering over me.

“I was here first,” I repeat. “This room is mine for the next hour. You’re more than welcome to wait your turn, Gabriel.”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “I have Composition in thirty minutes.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Let me use the room, Ali.”

“There are plenty of other available rooms.”

Technically, I’m probably telling the truth. Juilliard’s campus is full of private alcoves designed to function as private practice rooms for students who need solitude and decent acoustics. It’s the only way to ensure that a school for musicians isn’t a constant cacophony of discordant noise.

The thing is, though, this building has the best rooms with the best sound quality. And the best views of Central Park. Green spaces help me think more clearly. They calm me. Having grown up in the suburbs of Seattle, I don’t feel right unless I’m close to the trees.

Which is exactly why this specific practice room is unofficially mine at this specific time on this specific day. The rest of the string players in our year respect that. Why can’t Gabe?

“I’m not moving,” I tell him.

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. Just give me, like, fifteen minutes. Like I said, I have class soon anyway.”

“No.”

Why should I compromise for his needs when I know for certain that he’d never do the same for me?

Gabe glares at me. “You’re insufferable.”

“Feel free to go away, then. Nobody’s forcing you to ‘suffer’ my presence.”

Instead of leaving, however, Gabe takes a step toward me. For a brief, horribly embarrassing moment, I’m captured by the verdant hue of his gaze.

“Move out of the way,” he commands.

I bristle. “What are you going to do if I don’t? Forcibly remove me from this doorway? Go on, Gabriel. Give me a reason to make a formal complaint against you. Lay one finger on me and you’ll be expelled by the end of the day.”

His eyes narrow. “Oh, yeah? Nice threat, Sokolov, but it’s not as scary when I know that you’d have to call your famous daddy in order to make that happen.”

“You underestimate my father’s willingness to destroy my competition.”

I fear I’m telling the truth, as embarrassing as it is. My parents have done, and will continue to do, just about anything to ensure that I attain remarkable levels of success.

Gabe is unbothered by my admittedly pathetic threat, though. He simply takes a step back and holds up one hand in surrender, the other hand still clenched around the handle of his violin case.

“Hey, at least you truly consider me your competition, Ali. I’m ever so grateful and honored.”

Then, with a mocking bow, Gabe curses under his breath and stalks away.

Even after he’s gone, I remain frozen to the spot. It takes me a minute to relax. Every altercation with him is like this. Two years of battling it out, and we refuse to find a reason to get along. None of the other violinists butt heads like we do.

But, then again, none of the other violinists are as good as we are.

With a huff of satisfaction, I finally open the door to the practice room and march inside the small, sunny space. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach.I may have won this battle, but there’s no way to know if I’m going to win the war. With Gabe Sterling as my opponent, nothing is certain.

***

Just like in the memory that overtook me the moment I locked eyes with Gabe Sterling for the first time in eight years, I am running as fast as I can.

I barge through the back door of Karina and Andy’s side of the duplex. The happy couple is totally oblivious to the potential murder scene that was brewing outside, sprawled out on the carpet of the living room and playfully bickering about how to put a kite together.

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