Page 60 of Where She Belongs
Heat rises to my cheeks at her perceptiveness. “We haven’t discussed it yet. It’s still... new.”
My father snorts softly. “New? Anak, that man has been looking at you the same way for years. The only thing new is that you’ve finally noticed.”
“Anyway, I should probably head back,” I say after glancing at my watch. “Gabe needs help with some paperwork for his clinic.”
My mother’s smile turns knowing. “Of course he does. Tell him we expect to see him before he leaves.”
I promise to relay the invitation, though a part of me wonders if we’ll make it to dinner at all. The way Gabe looked at me this morning, the heat in his eyes when I mentioned how few days we have left together...
The walk back to the suite feels both too long and too short—too long because I’m eager to see him again, too short because I’m still processing everything that’s happened between us. What am I walking back to? My best friend? My lover? Something in between that doesn’t yet have a label?
When I open the suite door, the sight that greets me is so familiarly Gabe that it makes my heart twist with affection. He’s completely absorbed in work, papers spread across the dining table, his forehead creased in concentration as he makes notes. It’s an expression I’ve seen countless times during case reviews, grant applications, medical conferences—but now, knowing what that focused attention feels like when turned toward me, toward my pleasure, it affects me in an entirely new way.
“That looks serious,” I say, closing the door behind me.
He looks up, startled, then breaks into a smile that transforms his entire face. “It is,” he admits, running a hand through his hair in that characteristic gesture I’ve always found endearing. “The community benefit section is a mess. We’ve used the wrong census tract coding system, and now all our service area data is misaligned with federal definitions.”
I set my bag down, moving toward the table with what I hope is professional interest rather than the magnetic attraction I actually feel. “May I?” I ask, reaching for the primary application form.
“Please,” he says, relief evident in his voice. “I was just thinking how you’d know exactly what to do with this.”
I smile briefly, already scanning the document. This is familiar territory—the complex paperwork of nonprofit applications, the bureaucratic language that can make or break a clinic’s financial future. “I had similar issues with Salud Integrada’s application,” I explain, pulling out a chair beside him. “The census tractclassifications changed in 2019, but many of the IRS forms still reference the old system.”
As I flip through the pages, making mental notes of issues and potential solutions, I’m aware of Gabe watching me. Not with the professional interest of a colleague, but with something more intimate, more appreciative.
“I thought you’d be with your parents longer,” he says, his voice soft.
I glance up, unable to suppress a small smile. “We had breakfast, they shared their news—they’re moving to Cebu permanently in August—and then I told them I needed to help you with something important.”
His expression shifts to concern. “Andie, you didn’t have to cut your breakfast short. This could have waited.”
“No, it can’t,” I say firmly, tapping the deadline date on the application. “And besides, I’m staying a few extra days after you leave, remember? I’ll have plenty of time with them then.” I pause, suddenly uncertain. “Unless... you’d rather handle this yourself?”
“God, no,” he says quickly, and the relief in his voice makes me smile. “I just don’t want to impose on your family time.”
“You’re not imposing. I want to help,” I tell him. Then, more quietly, I add, “This is what we do, isn’t it? Show up for each other when it matters.”
“Yes,” he agrees, grinning, “it is.”
I nod, returning my attention to the forms. “Now, let’s fix this community benefit section. I think I see the problem...”
For the next two hours, we work together with the easy rhythm we’ve developed over years of professional collaboration. I explain each correction as we go, taking him through the nuances of nonprofit classifications and federal definitions that might affect his application.
But there’s a new dimension to our interaction now—the casual touches as our hands brush reaching for the same document, the way his knee presses against mine under the table, the shared smiles when we solve a particularly complex issue. Each small contact carries an awareness, an intention that was never present in our previous work sessions.
By the time we complete the revisions, I’m both professionally satisfied with our progress and personally conflicted about Gabe’s impending departure. Tomorrow he’ll fly back to New Mexico while I remain in Hawaii with my family—a necessary separation, but one that already aches like a physical wound.
“This should be sufficient,” I say, stacking the corrected documents neatly. “Though I’d recommend having your lawyer review the final submission before you send it in.”
“I will,” he promises, reaching for my hand across the table. His fingers curl around mine, warm and steady. “Thank you, Andie. You just saved us months of delays and potentially thousands in consultancy fees.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with his gratitude for something that feels so natural. “That’s what friends do.”
The word hangs between us, suddenly insufficient for what we’ve become to each other.
“Is that what we are now?” he asks carefully. “Just friends?”
The question forces me to confront what I’ve been circling all morning—the need to define this new relationship, to understand what we’re building together. “We’re more than that,” I admit, meeting his gaze directly. “But I’m not sure what to call it yet.”
