Page 78 of Where She Belongs
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “Promise me you’ll call Gabe afterward? No matter what the results say?” She pauses. “I won’t tell him about what you said but I will tell him we talked and that you’ll call him.”
“I promise,” I say, meaning it. Whatever Dr. Reyes tells me, whatever the future holds, Gabe deserves the truth—even if that truth is that I panicked and pushed him away based on incomplete information and my own fears.
Harlow stays another hour, making me eat something, talking about the twins, about work, about anything but my diagnosis or Gabe. Her presence is a balm, reminding me that even in my worst moments, I’m not alone.
After she leaves, I pick up my phone for the first time in hours. The notification counter shows seventeen missed calls and twenty-three text messages, most from Gabe, some from Tristy, a few from concerned colleagues who’ve sensed something is wrong.
I don’t read them—not yet. I can’t bear to see the pain I’ve caused, the confusion I’ve created. But I do send one message to Gabe, the shortest, most honest communication I can manage:
Andrea:
I’m okay. I’m sorry for the silence. I’ll explain everything after my doctor’s appointment. Please don’t come to ABQ.
His response is almost immediate, as if he’s been holding his phone, waiting:
Gabe:
Thank you for letting me know you’re safe. I’ll wait. Whatever this is, whatever you’re going through, I’m here when you’re ready.
The simple message—so understanding, so patient, so quintessentially Gabe—brings fresh tears to my eyes. What have I done to deserve such grace? And what if I’ve thrown it away over a diagnosis that may not even be accurate?
I set the phone aside, curl back into the couch, and for the first time since seeing those test results, allow myself to truly cry—for what I might lose, for what I might have already lost, and for the hope that somehow, it’s not too late to make things right.
TWENTY-ONE
The Georgetown hotelroom feels like a prison cell, its tasteful neutrality and perfectly pressed linens a stark contrast to the chaos in my head. I check my phone again, reading Andrea’s message from yesterday:
Andrea:
I need some time to process medical news I received. We’ll talk when you get back to Albuquerque. I’m sorry for the cryptic message, but I need space right now.
The brevity of it, the careful distance in her tone, keeps me awake at night. What medical news could be so significant that she needs this space, this silence? My doctor’s mind cycles through possibilities, each more concerning than the last.
Cancer? Some patients retreat when first diagnosed, needing to process before involving loved ones.
Something affecting her fertility? At forty-three, that wouldn’t be unusual, though why she’d think I’d care about that...
Whatever it is, I know with bone-deep certainty that it doesn’t change how I feel about her. Nothing could. Ten years of friendship, of seeing each other through every professional and personal crisis, has built something too solid to be shaken by medical diagnoses.
But does she know that? Or is she making assumptions about what I can handle, what matters to me?
I toss my phone onto the bed and return to pacing the limited floor space, my thoughts a jumbled mess of worry and frustration. The IRS meeting I’ve spent months preparing for is in less than an hour, the culmination of a year’s work to secure nonprofit status for my clinic’s community health wing. I should be reviewing notes, preparing responses, focusing entirely on this critical professional moment.
Instead, I’m here, mentally in Albuquerque with Andrea, trying to understand what could be so serious that she needs this distance.
My phone rings—Daniel, no doubt checking that I’m prepared for the meeting. I almost ignore it, but professional responsibility eventually wins out.
“Gabe,” Daniel says without preamble, “where are we on the community benefit documentation? Did Andrea’s suggestions from Hawaii solve the census tract coding issue?”
The mention of her name is like touching a bruise. “Yes,” I manage, forcing my mind back to business. “The revised documentation is ready. I’ll bring it to the meeting.”
“Good.” He pauses, apparently sensing something in my tone. “Everything alright? You sound... off.”
For a moment, I consider deflecting—maintaining the professional veneer I’ve perfected over the years. But this is Daniel, who’s seen me through residency, through the clinic’s struggles, through every professional challenge. If anyone might understand the turmoil I’m feeling, it’s him.
“Not really,” I admit, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Andrea’s received some medical news that she won’t discuss with me. Says we’ll talk when I get back, but... the waiting is killing me.”
The silence on the other end stretches long enough that I wonder if the connection has dropped. Then Daniel sighs, a sound heavy with understanding.
