Page 49 of Where She Belongs
What does surprise me is how fiercely protective I feel about what’s developing between us—this fragile, tender thing still taking shape. The last thing I want is for Andrea to face more scrutiny, more judgment, especially from my family.
With a resigned sigh, I scroll through my messages, confirming what Daniel suggested—the social media situation has indeed escalated. Someone has apparently created a side-by-side timeline of my “relationship” with Andrea versus the hot tub incident with Valerie, complete with source links and date stamps. The hashtag #DoctorPlayerGames is trending in certain circles. Worse, Andrea’s clinic has been tagged repeatedly, with commenters questioning her judgment in dating someone with my “history.”
My blood boils seeing her professional reputation dragged into this mess—a mess I created, however unintentionally. Before I can formulate a response strategy, my phone rings again. This time, it’s my father’s face on the screen.
I briefly consider letting it go to voicemail, but that would only delay the inevitable. With a deep breath, I answer.
“Dad.”
“Mijo,” he says, his tone falsely jovial. “Finally. I was beginning to think you’d lost your phone.”
“It’s barely past seven here,” I remind him, moving to the lanai for privacy. “What’s so urgent?”
“This Instagram business,” he says, cutting straight to the point. “Your aunt forwarded me the posts. Quite the scandal you’ve created.”
“It’s not a scandal,” I argue, gazing out at the ocean. In the distance, resort staff are already setting up chairs on the beach for Tristy’s ceremony. “It’s a misunderstanding about timing.”
He makes a dismissive sound. “So you weren’t in a hot tub with some flight attendant while supposedly dating the doctor?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Is it?” His voice takes on that familiar superior tone that never fails to make me feel sixteen again. “Seems simple to me. You’re still living like a bachelor, despite this... performance with Dr. Martin.”
I grip the railing, willing myself to remain calm. “It’s not a performance, Dad.”
“No?” He pauses, then continues more carefully. “Gabriel, you know I only want what’s best for you. And a woman Andrea Martin’s age?—”
“Don’t,” I warn, heat rising in my chest. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
“I’m only being practical,” he continues, undeterred. “She’s over forty, divorced, with a grown daughter. Her childbearing years are behind her. And you’ve always talked about wanting a family someday. Besides, I want a little Vasquez to spoil, too.”
“My relationship with Andrea is my business,” I say firmly. “Not yours, not the internet’s, not anyone’s but ours.”
“So there is a relationship?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I thought perhaps this social media exposure might have been a blessing in disguise—an excuse to end whatever midlife crisis led you to?—”
“Dad,” I interrupt, my patience finally snapping. “I’m going to say this once, so listen carefully. I care about Andie. Deeply. This isn’t a midlife crisis or a phase or a performance. And if you can’t respect that, if you can’t respect her, then we have nothing more to discuss.”
Silence stretches between us, tense and uncomfortable. Finally, he sighs, a sound of resignation rather than understanding.
“Your mother wants to know if you’re bringing her to Christmas,” he says, changing tactics. “She’s already planning the menu.”
The abrupt shift is so typical of my father—deflect, redirect, avoid direct confrontation. “I haven’t discussed holiday plans with Andrea yet,” I say truthfully. “Her daughter’s wedding is today, in case you forgot.”
“Of course, of course,” he says dismissively. “Well, let us know. And Gabriel? Think about what I said. About family. About the future. Some things can’t be compromised on, no matter how... infatuated you might be.”
The call ends before I can form a response, leaving me seething on the lanai, coffee forgotten in my hand. The irony of my father—who maintained two separate families for years—lecturing me about commitment isn’t lost on me. But his words still find their mark, probing at insecurities I’ve barely had time to acknowledge.
What if he’s right about some things? Not about Andrea’s worth or our compatibility, but about the practical questions that come with any relationship. What if she doesn’t want more children? What if I do? What if the age gap that seems so insignificant now becomes more pronounced as years pass?
I shake my head, setting down my mug on the railing. These are concerns for another day. First, we have to decide if what’s growing between us is worth pursuing at all, worth the risk to our friendship, worth the scrutiny we’ll inevitably face.
My phone buzzes again—another call, this time from my oldest sister Marisol. I silence it, in no mood for more family opinions. Instead, I open my texts, scrolling past the many inquiries until I find what I’m looking for—a message from Andrea sent about an hour ago:
Andrea:
Morning. Sorry to leave without saying goodbye, but you looked so peaceful sleeping. Tristy says you should be at the groom’s suite by 10 for photos. Missing you already. x
The simple message—particularly that single “x” at the end—eases some of the tension coiled inside me. Whatever complications our relationship faces, whatever obstacles lie ahead, the core of what’s between us feels solid, real.
