Page 83 of Where She Belongs
There’s a click, then Gabe’s voice—professional, guarded. “Andie, I didn’t expect to hear from you today.”
The formality stings, though I deserve it. “Gabe, I’m in Taos. I need to see you. To explain... everything.”
A pause. “I’m about to head to Gareth’s ranch. He needs a travel vaccination before he flies to Australia next week.” Another pause. “You could meet me at the clinic. I leave in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be there in ten,” I promise, already turning toward the plaza where his practice is located.
The familiar adobe building comes into view, and I park haphazardly, nearly running to the entrance. Inside, the receptionist—Marta, I think her name is—looks up in surprise.
“Dr. Martin! He’s in his office.”
The walk down the hallway feels like the longest of my life. When I reach his door, I hesitate, then knock softly.
“Come in,” he calls, and I push the door open to find him packing his medical bag, his expression carefully neutral when he sees me—so different from the warmth I’m accustomed to.
“Gabe.” My voice cracks on the single syllable. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He pauses in his preparations but doesn’t approach, maintaining a careful distance as he leans against the edge of his desk. “Your call said you needed to explain something.”
“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze directly. “I received some test results Monday night that suggested I might have... fertility issues. The portal used phrases like ‘compromised reproductive function’ and ‘primary ovarian insufficiency.’”
His expression shifts slightly—the doctor in him engaging with the medical terminology even as the man remains guarded. “And from this preliminary information, you concluded...?”
“That I couldn’t have children,” I admit, the shame of my hasty interpretation burning anew. “That you deserved someone who could give you that option. That eventually you’d resent being with someone who’d taken that choice from you.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “And it didn’t occur to you to discuss this with me? To ask whether having biological children was even something I wanted?”
“I panicked,” I say simply. “I saw those results late at night, tried to call you but couldn’t reach you because you were in DC for those crucial meetings. And then my mind just... spiraled. Every insecurity about our age difference, about what I could offer you, about whether I was enough—it all crystallized around this medical diagnosis that I catastrophized based on incomplete information.”
“But you’re a doctor,” he says, a hint of incredulity breaking through his careful neutrality. “You know preliminary results often change. You know medical terminology can sound more dire than the actual prognosis.”
“I do know that,” I acknowledge. “As a physician. But as a patient—as a woman confronting the reality of her aging body, of closing doors and narrowing options—I forgot everything I know professionally. I just... reacted from fear.”
He pushes away from the desk, moving to the window to look out at the plaza. His back to me, shoulders tense under his white coat. “What did the follow-up appointment reveal?”
“That I overreacted completely,” I admit, watching him carefully for any sign that my words are reaching him. “I have mild adenomyosis—treatable with relatively simple procedures. My hormone levels suggest early perimenopause, which isn’tparticularly surprising. Neither condition prohibits pregnancy, though they might make it more challenging.”
He turns back to face me, his expression softening slightly. “So there’s no actual medical crisis.”
“No,” I confirm. “Just my overactive imagination and deep-seated insecurities.”
A hint of the Gabe I know—the compassionate healer, the empathetic friend—breaks through his reserved facade. “Were you really so convinced I’d leave you over this? That children would be more important to me than you?”
The vulnerability in the question undoes me. “Not rationally,” I say, my voice barely steady. “But fear isn’t rational, Gabe. I… I convinced myself it was better to end things cleanly, before we were both more invested, than to watch love slowly curdle into resentment.”
“But that’s just it, Andie,” he says, and now there’s a hint of frustration breaking through. “We were already invested. Ten years of friendship, of professional collaboration, of trust—that’s an investment deeper than many marriages. Did you think none of that mattered? That I’d just walk away the moment things got complicated?”
“No,” I whisper, tears finally threatening despite my determination to remain composed. “I thought I was protecting you from having to make an impossible choice later. I thought I was being selfless.”
“It wasn’t selfless,” he says quietly. “It was you making decisions for both of us, without giving me any voice in the matter.”
The observation lands with precision, exposing a pattern I’ve never fully acknowledged. How many times have I decided what’s best for others—for Tristy, for Simon, for patients, for Gabe—without actually consulting them? How often have I confused control for care?
“You’re right,” I admit, the realization painful but necessary. “I’ve spent my whole life thinking I know what’s best for everyone around me. That if I just make the right decisions, control all the variables, I can protect people from pain.” I meet his gaze directly. “But I can’t, can I? And trying to has only caused more hurt.”
Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a relaxing of the tight line of his mouth. “No, you can’t,” he agrees. “Pain is part of living, Andie. Part of loving. You can’t protect me from it, and I wouldn’t want you to try.”
Before he can say more, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at it, then answers with a professional, “Dr. Vasquez.”
