Page 38 of Where She Belongs
Timeline doesn’t add up...
Player’s gonna play
Poor Dr. Martin, always the last to know
Bile rises in my throat as I stare at the evidence of exactly what I’ve been afraid of. Gabe, perpetually unable to commit. Gabe, with his endless stream of women. Gabe, who was apparently hooking up with a flight attendant in a Denver hot tub at the exact time we’ve been claiming our relationship began.
“Nothing to explain,” I say as I pass the phone back to Tyler. “We’ve only been exclusive for about two months. Right, Gabe?”
His eyes widen. “Right,” he agrees after a moment’s hesitation. “We were... still figuring things out three months ago.”
“So you were seeing other people? Both of you?” Tristy presses, looking unconvinced.
“I wasn’t,” I admit, because it’s the truth. I haven’t dated anyone since the divorce became final. “But we hadn’t had the exclusivity talk yet. Gabe was free to see whoever he wanted. And I told him so, explicitly. Let’s say I was giving him a difficult time with a decision.”
It’s a reasonable explanation for our fictional timeline, but the words taste bitter on my tongue. Because even though our relationship is just pretend, the hurt I feel seeing that image is devastatingly real.
“That’s... surprisingly mature of you, Mom,” Tristy says slowly.
“Your mother is an extremely reasonable person,” Gabe says, his voice carrying a note of gratitude that only I can hear. Beneath the table, his hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
The conversation shifts to wedding details, for which I’m profoundly grateful. Gabe’s hand remains wrapped around mine under the table, warm and steady, but my thoughts are in freefall.
Why does it bother me so much? It’s not as if we were actually dating three months ago. It’s not as if his past relationships have any bearing on our friendship. It’s not as if I have any right to feel betrayed by what happened before we began this charade.
And yet.
And yet.
Seeing the evidence of his casual approach to relationships—his apparent inability to go more than a few days without female company—reinforces every fear I’ve been harboring since this morning’s kiss. That I’m just another conquest. That I’m setting myself up for heartbreak. That whatever is happening between us will inevitably end, leaving our friendship in tatters.
“Earth to Andie,” Harlow’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “You still with us?”
I blink, realizing everyone is looking at me expectantly. “Sorry, just thinking about my dress for tomorrow,” I lie. “What were you saying?”
“We were discussing the rehearsal dinner tonight,” Tristy says. “Dad wants to make a toast. I told him it’s fine, but he wants to make sure you’re okay with it.”
Simon. Making a toast. At my daughter’s rehearsal dinner. While I sit there with my fake boyfriend who was apparently hot-tubbing with a flight attendant during a snowstorm at the exact time we’ve told everyone we started dating.
“Of course it’s fine,” I say automatically. “It’s your rehearsal dinner. He’s your stepfather. He should make a toast.”
“Cool,” Tristy says, clearly relieved. “I’ll let him know.”
As conversation flows around us, Gabe leans closer, his voice for my ears only. “We should talk.”
“Later,” I whisper back. “Not here.”
He nods, though I can see the concern in his eyes. He knows me too well not to recognize when I’m retreating behind my walls.
The rest of lunch passes in a blur of wedding details and good-natured teasing. I laugh in all the right places, contribute appropriately to the conversation, play my part as the happy mother of the bride with the attentive, devoted boyfriend. But inside, doubt gnaws at me like a physical pain.
What am I doing? Playing with fire, letting myself believe—even for a moment—that the man beside me could ever want more than friendship or a brief fling. Gabe Vasquez doesn’t do commitment. He doesn’t do long-term. He does weekends in hot tubs with flight attendants, brief passionate affairs that burn out as quickly as they ignite. Sure, he might even continue seeing someone for six months, but he’ll never tell her the three words she wants to hear.
Meanwhile, I’m Andrea Martin, the responsible one, the steady one, the one who plans and builds and commits. We are fundamentally incompatible, no matter how right it felt when he kissed me this morning, no matter how perfectly our bodies fit together in sleep.
This kiss, this charade, this whole weekend—it’s a fantasy, nothing more. And the sooner I remember that, the less it will hurt when reality reasserts itself.
After lunch, I make my excuses and retreat from the group, claiming a headache. I need space to think.
