Page 52 of Where She Belongs
A few awkward chuckles follow the joke, but I feel Gabe stiffen slightly beside me. The comment touches a nerve—the unspoken question of permanence, of belonging, that hovers around us.
“Gabe stays right here,” I say, my voice clear and firm, surprising even myself with its certainty. “Next to me. Where he belongs.”
A moment of silence follows my declaration, followed by Tyler’s mother’s warm “Of course he does, dear.” But I feel the subtle shift in Gabe’s posture, the way his arm tightens around me gratefully, the almost imperceptible exhale of relief.
As Gabe’s arm settles around my shoulders, my own finding his waist, I’m struck by how natural it feels. How right. As if all these years of friendship were merely prologue to this moment.
“Everyone say ‘happy ever after!’” the photographer instructs.
The phrase rings in my ears long after the photos are complete, following me through the next hour of preparations—last-minute adjustments to the ceremony seating, greeting guests, checking on Tristy one final time before she makes her entrance.
Happy ever after.
Is such a thing even possible?
After Simon’s betrayal, after the painful dismantling of what I thought was a stable marriage, I’d convinced myself that contentment was the most I could hope for. That passion,romance, the breathless anticipation I feel whenever Gabe is near—those were for younger women, for first loves, for people who hadn’t yet learned how thoroughly love can devastate.
And yet.
As I take my seat in the front row, as the music begins and the procession starts, I find my thoughts divided—half present for my daughter’s important day, half consumed with questions about what comes next. About whether Gabe and I can build something real from the ashes of our pretense. About whether I’m brave enough to try.
Simon slides into the seat beside me, breaking my reverie. “You look lovely, Andrea,” he says, his tone carefully neutral.
“Thank you,” I reply, equally measured. After yesterday’s confrontation, after his deliberate cruelty about my age, about my ability to give Gabe children, I’m in no mood for pleasantries. But this is Tristy’s day, and I won’t taint it with lingering resentments.
“I meant what I said in my toast last night,” he continues, his voice dropping as the music swells. “About your sacrifices. About your dedication to Tristy.”
I turn to look at him, searching for the hidden barb, the subtle manipulation. But his expression seems genuinely reflective.
“Why now?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Why acknowledge that after all these years?”
He hesitates, his gaze shifting to the ocean beyond the ceremonial arch. “Perhaps seeing Tristy take this step has made me... reconsider certain things. Certain choices.”
Before I can respond, the music changes—the familiar notes of the wedding march signaling Tristy’s imminent arrival. All heads turn toward the aisle, all conversations suspended as we wait for the bride.
But as Simon rises to meet Tristy, to walk her down the aisle, his hand briefly touches my shoulder. “I was wrong about many things, Andrea,” he says quietly. “But I was especially wrong about you and Gabe. I see how he looks at you. It’s not temporary.”
The unexpected concession leaves me momentarily speechless. By the time I recover, Simon is already halfway down the aisle, meeting Tristy at the entrance to the ceremonial area, offering his arm to the daughter who has always been more mine than his.
I blink back unexpected tears as they begin their procession, Tristy radiant in her gown, her face illuminated with joy beneath her veil. This is her moment, her transition from my little girl to someone’s wife, and I will not mar it with my own complicated emotions.
But as the ceremony progresses, as vows are exchanged and rings presented, I find my gaze drifting repeatedly to where Gabe sits on the groom’s side of the assembly. Each time, I find him already watching me, his expression a mixture of pride and something more intimate, more personal.
By the time Tristy and Tyler are pronounced husband and wife, by the time they share their first kiss as a married couple to the applause of gathered guests, I’ve made a decision.
Whatever this is between Gabe and me—this flowering of something more than friendship, this potential for something I’d thought forever beyond my reach—I want to explore it. Fully. Without pretense, without performance, without the safety net of our decade-long friendship to catch us if we fall.
Because maybe, just maybe, there are second chances at happiness after all. Even for practical, cautious Dr. Andrea Martin who has spent her entire adult life putting others first.
Tonight, after the reception, after the toasts and dances and cake cutting, after my duties as mother of the bride are complete... tonight, I’m going to choose myself. Choose this unexpected chance at joy.
Maybe even, choose Gabe.
“May I have this dance?”
Gabe appears at my side, hand extended, his smile warm in the soft lighting of the reception. The formalities are mostly complete—dinner served, toasts delivered, cake cut. Tristy and Tyler have finished their first dance as husband and wife, and now the dance floor fills with guests celebrating their union.
“You may,” I reply, placing my hand in his, allowing him to lead me through the crowd.
