Page 41 of Where She Belongs
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s from Tristy, and my stomach drops as I read it.
Tristy:
SOS. Internet is going CRAZY. Getting death threats for “supporting a cheater” and people are tagging Mom’s clinic. Need damage control ASAP.
“Fuck,” I mutter, showing Dax the message. “This is turning ugly fast.”
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“Damage control,” I reply, already scanning the room for Tristy. I spot her in a corner, hunched over her phone, Tyler beside her looking concerned. “I’ll be right back.”
I weave through the crowd, nodding and smiling at guests as I pass, maintaining the facade of the happy boyfriend while anxiety churns in my gut. When I reach Tristy, her distress is even more evident up close.
“Look at these,” she says without preamble, scrolling through her notifications. “They’re calling me an ‘enabler of toxic masculinity’ for defending you. Someone’s threatening to contact all of Mom’s clinic donors with ‘evidence of her boyfriend’s infidelity.’ This is insane!”
“Let me see,” I say, taking her phone. The vitriol displayed there makes my blood run cold. What started as gossip has morphed into something much uglier, with keyboard warriors taking righteous stands against perceived injustice without bothering to get the facts.
“I’m so sorry, Tristy,” I say, truly meaning it. “This is the last thing you need before your wedding.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, sounding far more mature than her twenty-six years. “People are just looking for something to be mad about. But we need to get ahead of this before my socials completely melt down.”
“What are you thinking?” Tyler asks, his arm around her shoulders.
Tristy straightens, a determined glint in her eye that reminds me so much of Andrea it’s almost startling. “The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least, a version of it that puts this to bed.”
She takes her phone back, fingers flying over the keyboard. Before I can ask what she’s writing, she holds it up for me to read.
Hey fam! Seeing some CRAZY speculation about Mom & @DrGabeV. Let me clear things up: YES they’ve been friends for a decade. YES they started dating around 3 months ago. And YES they were figuring things out at first like NORMAL PEOPLE DO. They weren’t exclusive right away! Can we please focus on my wedding and not my mom’s love life? She & Gabe are amazing together & that’s all that matters! #BackOffMyMama #WeddingWeekend
“What do you think?” she asks, searching my face.
I read it again, impressed with how she’s redirected the narrative without technically lying. We did start seeing each other—in this pretend capacity—about three months ago. And we certainly weren’t “exclusive” when I was in that hot tub with Valerie, since we weren’t dating at all.
“It’s perfect,” I say, feeling a surge of gratitude for this remarkable young woman who’s defending a relationship that isn’t even real—at least, not in the way she believes. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s your wedding weekend. You shouldn’t have to deal with this drama.”
“Are you kidding?” Tristy says with a surprising grin. “I’ve been an influencer for five years. This kind of thing happens all the time. And besides, no one comes for my mom. No one.”
With that, she hits post, then hands her phone to Tyler. “Hold this and don’t let me check comments for at least an hour. I need a glass of champagne.”
As she moves toward the bar, I can’t help but stare after her, struck by her resilience and loyalty. I’ve known Tristy since she was seventeen, watched her grow from a determined teenager into the confident woman she is today. That she would wade into a social media firestorm to defend Andrea—and by extension, me—makes a lump form in my throat.
“You okay, man?” Tyler asks, giving me a concerned look.
“Yeah,” I manage, clearing my throat. “Your fiancée is pretty incredible.”
He grins. “Don’t I know it. Fair warning though—her post is going to draw even more attention to you and Dr. Martin tonight. The aunties were already speculating before this blew up.”
As if on cue, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find Andrea’s Aunt Linda, cocktail in hand and expression shrewd.
“Dr. Vasquez,” she says, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ve been hearing some interesting things about you and my niece.”
“Have you?” I respond neutrally, bracing for impact.
“Mmhmm.” She takes a deliberate sip of her drink. “Something about hot tubs and flight attendants.”
Tyler mouths “good luck” before slipping away, leaving me to face Aunt Linda alone. I draw a deep breath, reminding myself that I’ve faced down far more intimidating situations than one Filipino-American auntie. Yet somehow, her knowing gaze makes me feel like a teenage boy caught sneaking in after curfew.
“It’s not what it sounds like,” I begin, then realize how pathetically cliché that sounds. “What I mean is?—”
