Page 48 of Where She Belongs
FOURTEEN
The sofa bedis every bit as uncomfortable as I remembered, the metal bar digging into my spine a persistent reminder of my noble sacrifice. But as I blink awake to sunlight streaming through the suite’s partially open curtains, I find I don’t regret the decision. Andrea needed her rest before today’s festivities, and I needed... distance.
After that dance floor confession, after that kiss, sleeping beside her would have required more self-control than I’m currently capable of mustering.
I reach for my phone on the coffee table, noting the time—7:18 AM. The suite is quiet, but I already know Andrea is gone. Her 6 AM call time in the bridal suite ensures I’ll likely not see her until the ceremony itself. A quick check of the bedroom confirms my suspicion—the bed neatly made, her wedding day essentials missing, a lingering trace of her perfume the only evidence she was here at all.
My phone buzzes in my hand, a series of notifications appearing in rapid succession. I groan, remembering the social media firestorm that erupted yesterday. The Instagram revelation about Valerie feels like it happened a lifetime ago, overshadowed by everything that followed—especially the moment Andrea’s lips met mine on that dance floor, changing everything between us with a single kiss.
But the outside world apparently hasn’t moved on. I scan the notifications warily:
Dad (3 missed calls)Daniel Drexel (2 missed calls)Text from Dad:Call me. Now.
And a string of message previews from colleagues, acquaintances, and what appears to be every Vasquez relative with internet access, all variations on “Have you seen what’s happening online?”
I sigh, sitting up and running a hand through my hair. Whatever fresh hell has erupted, it will have to wait until I’ve had coffee. I stand, stretching the kinks from my back as I move to the kitchenette. The suite’s coffee maker is already set up—Andrea’s doing, no doubt, a small kindness that brings a smile to my face despite the looming digital drama.
As the coffee brews, filling the suite with its rich aroma, my phone buzzes again. Daniel’s name appears on the screen, and this time I answer. As Dax’s father and my business partner, he’s not someone I can easily ignore.
“Morning, Daniel,” I say, trying to sound more awake than I feel.
“Gabe.” His tone is clipped, businesslike. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I just woke up,” I explain, watching the coffee drip slowly into the carafe. “What’s up?”
“Have you been online at all this morning?” he asks, the background noise suggesting he’s in transit somewhere.
“No,” I admit. “But based on the flood of notifications, I’m guessing the Instagram thing is still causing waves.”
Daniel sighs, the sound of a man accustomed to managing public relations crises. “The Instagram ‘thing,’ as you call it, has escalated. Your father’s been calling me, by the way. Seems quite pleased that you’re still—and I quote—‘playing the field.’”
I wince, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Of course he is.”
“More concerning,” Daniel continues, “is that three of our potential donors have emailed asking for clarification about your relationship status. Apparently, they’re concerned about the clinic’s... stability.”
“My relationship status has nothing to do with the clinic,” I protest, though even as I say it, I know it’s not entirely true. In a small community like Taos, personal and professionalboundaries often blur. My reputation affects everything I touch, including the clinic we’ve worked so hard to build.
“In theory, no,” Daniel agrees. “In practice, we’re still waiting on that IRS approval for nonprofit status, and perception matters. These donors were impressed by your apparent settling down with a respected physician like Dr. Martin. The suggestion that you might be... less than committed raises questions.”
“Questions about what?” I demand, frustration building. “My clinical skills? My dedication to patients?”
“About whether you’re serious about building something lasting,” Daniel says bluntly. “Fair or not, people associate personal stability with professional reliability. Especially in a community health setting where trust is everything.”
Two years ago, I had firmly rejected Daniel’s initial proposal to bring in private equity investors after my accident. The collision that had nearly cost me my career had also opened Daniel’s eyes to the potential of what I was building, but he’d thought bigger meant better. I’d spent three exhausting nights explaining why I couldn’t let my practice be “eaten up” by private equity when the investors inevitably wanted to cash in on their returns. Serving the poor communities in and around Taos was my mission, not an optional feature that could be discarded when profit margins tightened. I’d made it clear that if it meant moonlighting as an ER doctor at the reservation on weekends just to keep the lights on, I’d do it rather than compromise my vision. Only then had Daniel agreed to be my sole business partner, keeping privateequity out of the equation entirely. He’d respected my principles then, even when he didn’t fully understand them.
I pour the now-ready coffee into a mug, trying to gather my thoughts. “So what do you suggest?”
“Damage control,” he replies promptly. “A clear statement about your relationship with Dr. Martin. Something that addresses the timeline discrepancy directly and puts it to rest.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. Our fake relationship—created specifically to avoid drama and save face—has now created more complications than we could have anticipated. And just when the pretense was becoming something real, something honest, the outside world demands explanations we’re not ready to give.
“I’ll handle it,” I promise, though I have no idea how. “After the wedding.”
“The sooner the better,” Daniel advises. “And Gabe? You might want to call your father. He’s been blowing up my phone all morning, asking if your ‘midlife crisis dating an older woman’ is finally over.”
My grip tightens on the mug. “I’ll talk to him.”
After disconnecting the call, I take a long sip of coffee, letting the bitter liquid burn away some of the morning fog. My father’s reaction is predictable—he’s never understood my choices, from medical school to opening my own practice to, apparently, mytaste in women. That he would welcome evidence suggesting my relationship with Andrea isn’t serious comes as no surprise.
