Page 19 of Where She Belongs
For Andrea?
“And now,” the emcee’s voice breaks through my memories, “we invite our couples to join us for a quick hula lesson!”
“Mom! Gabe!” Tristy calls from the next table. “Get up there!”
“We really don’t—” Andrea starts, but Tyler’s already filming with his phone.
“The mother of the bride and her hot young doctor have to participate!” someone calls out. “It’s tradition!”
Hell, it’s tradition. As made up and inescapable as every other “tradition” that appears the moment someone gets a camera ready and alcohol is flowing freely.
But as other couples make their way to the stage, including Dax and Harlow, I know we have no choice.
“I hope we don’t regret this,” Andrea says as she takes my offered hand.
“Just pretend we’re dancing the bachata,” I whisper as we join the line of guests. Growing up with two sisters who used dance competitively meant spending countless hours as their practice partner. Bachata, salsa, merengue—they’d drilled the steps into me until rhythm became second nature, something Andrea is aware of when it comes to hanging out with me. The hula should be no problem.
As the music starts and the instructor begins to dance, we find enough room beside Dax and Harlow. With other couples filling the dance floor, I position Andrea in front of me, giving her more space to move to the music.
Slowly her initial nervousness begins to melt away as her movements become more fluid, her laughter more genuine. There’s something mesmerizing about the way she moves and standing this close, I notice details I’ve seen countless times but never truly absorbed, like the elegant line of her neck framed by the fragrant lei, the musical quality of her laughter as she attempts the hip movement. The way her dress catches the torchlight.
Even the space where her wedding ring used to be.
The lead performer approaches us with a warm smile. “Would the happy couple join us for a special dance?”
“No!” Andrea exclaims but it’s too late. Their phones are all out again as Tristy and Tyler urge us forward.
I exhale, forcing a grin.
Oh well, if you can’t beat them…
The crowd erupts in cheers as I guide Andrea to the center of the stage.
“You got this, Andie. You’re a natural,” I tell her as the dancers demonstrate the basic steps again, the drums building a hypnotic almost seductive rhythm.
“Yeah, right,” she says but she’s laughing, as if realizing it’s futile to go against the crowd’s demands.
As she follows the dancers’ movements, her skin glows with a warmth I’ve somehow never fully appreciated before. The shadows dance across her face, highlighting angles and curves I’ve seen a thousand times but never truly observed.
Here, away from the sterile lights of her clinic, without her white coat and the weight of responsibility she carries, Andrea transforms. Not just into the mother of the bride, but into a woman who’s allowing herself a rare moment of joy. Her smile reaches her eyes in a way I haven’t seen since before Simon’s betrayal—uninhibited, genuine. When was the last time I’d seen her like this? Had I ever?
The torchlight catches in her hair, highlighting strands of silver among the deep brown that she never bothers to hide. Those silver strands tell stories—of late nights at the clinic, of raising Tristy alone while building her career, of weathering storms that would have broken someone with less resolve.
But why am I noticing these details now, after all these years?
“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Andrea says with a laugh as she executes a perfect hip movement, looking back at me with a spark in her eyes I rarely see—playful, almost flirtatious.
As our eyes lock, something changes in her expression—a flash of something I can’t quite name that sends an unexpected jolt through me. Her smile softens at the edges as her hand finds mine for the turn. Her fingers interlace with mine with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel so right but somehow does.
Have we always fit together this naturally, or is this something new?
I’m acutely aware of the cameras, of Tristy and her friends filming us, but in this moment, the performance feels less like pretense and more like permission—permission to acknowledge something that’s perhaps been there all along, buried beneath layers of friendship and professional respect.
“Everyone’s watching us,” she whispers, a slight nervousness creeping into her voice.
“Let them,” I reply, surprising myself with the possessive edge in my tone. “We make a convincing couple.”
“Do we?” There’s vulnerability in her question that makes my chest tighten.
