Page 50 of Where She Belongs
I type out a quick reply:
Gabe:
Morning. Hope the bridal preparations are going well. Tell Tristy I’ll be there at 10 sharp, camera-ready. Missing you too. x
I hesitate before adding my own “x,” but it feels right. A small acknowledgment of the shift between us, a promise of more to come.
As I head inside to shower and prepare for the day ahead, I try to push aside the concerns my father raised, the social media drama, the donor questions. Today isn’t about any of that. Today is about Tristy and Tyler, about celebrating their love, about supporting Andrea as she watches her daughter embark on this new journey.
But a part of me can’t help looking forward to the moment I’ll see Andrea again—to that first glimpse of her in her mother-of-the-bride finery, to the quiet moments we might steal betweenceremonies and receptions, to the dance I intend to claim once the formal festivities are underway.
And beneath all of that anticipation runs a current of something deeper, something that feels remarkably like hope. Hope that what began as pretense has transformed into something worth fighting for, worth risking everything for.
Even if that means facing down social media scandals, disapproving fathers, concerned business partners, and all the practical questions that come with loving someone for real.
The groom’s suite bustles with activity when I arrive at precisely 10 AM. Tyler and his groomsmen are in various states of preparation—some still in basketball shorts and t-shirts, others partially dressed in formal pants and undershirts. The room smells of cologne and hair product, the atmosphere charged with nervous excitement.
“Gabe!” Tyler spots me from where he’s having his bow tie adjusted by what appears to be a professional stylist. “Just in time. They want some shots of the bride’s ‘family’ with the groom before the ceremony.”
The casual inclusion—being considered part of the bride’s family—sends an unexpected warmth through me. I’ve known Tristy for nearly a decade, watched her grow from a determined teenager into the confident young woman she is today. That they would consider me “family” means more than I can express.
“Happy to help,” I say, shaking his hand. “Nervous?”
Tyler grins, the expression transforming his usually serious face. “Not even a little. I’ve been waiting to marry Tristy since our third date.”
“When she beat you at your own video game tournament?” I recall the story Tristy had shared at dinner months ago.
“Exactly.” He laughs. “I knew then she was the one.”
Such certainty, such confidence in his choice. I envy him that clarity, that unwavering knowledge that he’s found his person. Is that what I feel for Andrea? That bone-deep certainty that no one else could ever compare?
Before I can pursue that thought, the suite door opens to admit a harried-looking wedding planner and a photographer carrying enough equipment to document a small war.
“Dr. Vasquez,” the planner says, consulting her tablet. “Perfect timing. We need you for the pre-ceremony family groupings. The mother of the bride specifically requested you be included.”
Andrea asked for me. The knowledge settles something restless inside me.
“Of course,” I say, adjusting my tie. “Lead the way.”
As we exit the suite, I catch a glimpse of movement at the end of the hallway—a flash of champagne-colored silk disappearing around a corner. Andrea. So close, yet still out of reach. The anticipation of seeing her properly, of standing beside her as we watch Tristy marry, makes my heart beat faster.
“Dr. Vasquez?” The planner’s voice pulls me back to the present. “This way, please.”
I follow her through the resort’s winding corridors, past guests already gathering for the beachfront ceremony. The next few hours will be a whirlwind of photographs, vows, congratulations. There will be little time for private conversations, for addressing the shift that occurred between Andrea and me last night.
But tonight, after the reception, when the festivities wind down and we’re alone again...
Tonight, we’ll talk. Really talk. About what we are to each other, what we could be. About all the practical concerns my father raised, about the social media drama, about everything standing between us and whatever future we might build together.
For now, though, I focus on the day ahead—on being present for Tristy, for Andrea, for this celebration of love and commitment that suddenly feels more personal than I ever expected.
FIFTEEN
“Hold still,Mom, just one more bobby pin.”
I obey my daughter’s command, remaining motionless as she secures an errant strand of hair. The bridal suite buzzes with activity—makeup artists, photographers, Tyler’s mother and sisters all in various states of preparation. But here in this quiet corner, it’s just Tristy and me, sharing one last mother-daughter moment before she becomes someone’s wife.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “Perfect.”
