Page 24 of Where She Belongs
“New context,” Tita Joy repeats skeptically. “You’ve known each other for a long time. Ten years.”
Dad clears his throat. “What Joy means is that it’s sudden. After everything with Simon...”
I feel myself tensing, fingers pressing too hard into the delicate pastry. “Simon has nothing to do with this.”
“Precisely,” Gabe says, his hand covering mine on the table, stilling my nervous destruction of the croissant. The gesture is presumably for show, but the gentle way his thumb traces my knuckles feels surprisingly soothing. “When the timing is right, it’s right.”
His hand is warm against mine, callused in places I never noticed before—probably from his weekend projects around the house he just bought a year ago. It’s strange to think how many times our hands have touched over the years—passing patient charts, exchanging coffee cups, high-fiving over grant approvals—yet this deliberate contact feels utterly different.
“And how exactly did this happen?” Tita Linda persists, gesturing between us with her coffee spoon.
I open my mouth to deliver our rehearsed story, but Gabe beats me to it.
“I’ve always admired Andie,” he says, his voice taking on a softness that catches me off guard. “Her dedication to her patients, her brilliance, her resilience.” His eyes meet mine, and something in his expression makes my chest tighten unexpectedly. “After the divorce, I realized I didn’t want to be just her friend anymore.”
The sincerity in his voice is so convincing that for a moment, I almost believe him myself. It’s easy to forget what a good actor Gabe can be when he needs to charm someone.
“What about you, anak?” Mom asks, her eyes searching mine. “What changed for you?”
This is my line, the part of our charade we haven’t fully scripted. I take a careful sip of water, buying time.
“I think I just finally saw what was right in front of me. Someone who shows up, who listens, who makes me laugh even on my worst days.” I look at Gabe, finding it easier to speak to him directly than to my scrutinizing family. “Someone who never makes me feel like I’m too much… or not enough.”
“Ay! That’s so beautiful,” Tita Joy sighs as Gabe’s hand tightens around mine. “Oh, to be young and in love again.”
I’m rescued from further interrogation by a server arriving with our coffees, giving me a moment to collect myself. This is just pretend, I remind myself. These truths about our friendship aren’t the same as romantic feelings. I’m just being a convincing actress.
As the conversation shifts to the wedding and the ever-present camera people documenting the event, Gabe’s arm settles across the back of my chair. It’s a casual gesture, one he’s done countless times before when we’ve shared booths at Frontier or during gatherings with friends and colleagues. Yet now, with the weight of our pretense between us, I find myself hyperaware ofthe light pressure of his forearm against my shoulders, the subtle scent of his cologne mingling with the coffee aroma.
“Andrea,” Mom says, drawing my attention back to the table. “Honey, your aunts were asking about your dress for the wedding.”
“Sorry,” I say, realizing I’ve completely lost track of the conversation. “What about it?”
Tita Linda’s knowing smile makes my cheeks warm. “Distracted by your young man?”
Before I can respond, a familiar laugh cuts through the pavilion’s pleasant buzz. Simon and Kitty have entered, making their way toward a table near the windows. As if sensing us watching, Simon turns, his eyes finding our table immediately. The smile he offers is all teeth as he steers Kitty in our direction.
“Good morning, Maribel, Eduardo,” Simon greets my parents with practiced warmth. “Joy, Linda—what a pleasure to see you both again.”
My mother’s smile tightens. “Simon. Katherine.”
“Kitty, please,” she corrects, her hand possessively curled around Simon’s arm. “Only my students call me Katherine.”
The awkward silence that follows is excruciating. Simon’s gaze slides to Gabe’s arm across my chair, to our coffee cups positioned intimately close together.
“Sleep well?” he asks, his innocuous question somehow loaded with innuendo.
“Very,” Gabe answers before I can, his voice dropping to that lower register that always seems to make women lean closer. His arm slides from my chair to my shoulders, drawing me subtly against his side. “The ocean sounds are... soothing.”
Simon’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. “I wouldn’t know. Our suite faces the gardens.”
“Such a shame,” Gabe replies, his expression all false sympathy. “The sunset from our balcony was spectacular.”
The protective way Gabe holds me, the deliberate emphasis on “our”—it’s all for show, a calculated response to Simon’s needling. I know this. Yet I can’t deny the flutter in my stomach at the way Gabe’s fingers trace absent patterns against my bare shoulder, the way he makes me feel sheltered without making me feel small.
Is this what all his girlfriends experience? This sense of being the sole focus of his attention, of being both protected and desired? No wonder they fall so quickly, so completely.
“We should let you enjoy your breakfast,” Kitty says, tugging Simon’s arm. “We have that call with your producer in twenty minutes, honeybuns.”
