Page 51 of Where She Belongs
I glance in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman reflected back. The professional stylists have transformed me—my hair swept up in an elegant updo, my makeup subtle yet enhancing, the champagne-colored dress flattering in ways my usual professional attire never attempts to be.
“You look beautiful, Mom,” Tristy says, her own reflection appearing beside mine in the mirror. She’s still in her silk robe,her wedding gown hanging nearby, but even without it, she radiates bridal radiance. “Gabe won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
At the mention of his name, my stomach flutters with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. After last night’s confessions on the dance floor, after that kiss, everything between us has changed. The pretense has become something real, something terrifying in its potential.
“This is your day,” I remind her, turning to take her hands in mine. “No one will be looking at anyone but you.”
She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Want to bet? I saw how he looked at you last night when you were dancing.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Tristy?—”
“It’s okay, Mom,” she interrupts, squeezing my hands. “I’ve been watching you two dance around each other for years. I’m just glad you finally figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“That you’re perfect for each other,” she says simply. “That sometimes the right person has been there all along.”
The wedding planner bustles over before I can respond, clipboard in hand. “Mother of the bride? We need you for pre-ceremony photos with the groom’s family. And the father of the bride is asking when?—“
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her, turning back to Tristy. “Are you okay if I go? Do you need anything before?—”
“Go,” she says, making a shooing motion. “I’ve got an army of stylists here. They’re about to start on my makeup anyway.”
I press a kiss to her forehead, careful not to smudge either of our carefully applied cosmetics. “I’m so proud of you, Tristy. So proud of the woman you’ve become.”
Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “Mom, don’t make me cry before they’ve even done my mascara.”
With a quiet laugh, I follow the wedding planner from the bridal suite, my mind a whirl of emotions. Pride in my daughter. Joy for her happiness. Anticipation about seeing Gabe. And underlying it all, a persistent anxiety about what happens next—after the wedding, after this weekend, when we return to our real lives and have to decide what, if anything, this new development between us means.
The resort corridors are busy with wedding guests and staff, and I find myself nodding greetings to distant relatives and Tyler’s extended family as I make my way toward the beachfront ceremony location. Tita Linda catches my eye from across the lobby, giving me an exaggerated wink that tells me she hasn’t forgotten catching Gabe and me in that intimate moment during last night’s dance.
Outside, the Hawaii sunshine is brilliant, highlighting the elaborate ceremony setup. White chairs arranged in neat rows, facing an arch adorned with tropical flowers. The ocean beyond provides a perfect backdrop, waves gently lapping at the shore.
“Andrea!” Tyler’s mother waves me over to where a small group has gathered near the ceremonial arch. “There you are. We’re just waiting on a few more for family photos.”
I exchange pleasantries with Tyler’s parents, with his siblings, with the photographer who’s arranging us in various groupings. But my attention continually drifts, scanning the growing crowd of guests for one particular face.
And then I see him.
Gabe approaches from the resort, his tailored suit perfectly complementing his athletic frame, his normally tousled hair styled with careful precision. Even from this distance, I can see the moment he spots me—his stride faltering briefly, his expression shifting from polite interest to something more intense, more focused.
Something wraps around my heart, squeezing tight. This isn’t pretend anymore. The way he looks at me isn’t for show, isn’t for Simon’s benefit or anyone else’s. It’s real, and all the more terrifying for it.
“Dr. Vasquez,” the wedding planner calls, gesturing him over. “Perfect timing. We need you for the pre-ceremony familygroupings. The mother of the bride specifically requested you be included.”
Had I? I don’t recall explicitly asking for Gabe to be in the photos, but it feels right. Natural. As if his place beside me was never in question.
“Hi,” I say as he reaches my side, our fingers brushing briefly, sending a jolt of awareness through me.
“Hi yourself,” he replies, his voice low enough that only I can hear the intimate note. “You look incredible.”
I feel myself blush, suddenly self-conscious under his appreciative gaze. “So do you,” I manage. “Very handsome.”
“Less talking, more smiling,” the photographer calls, positioning his camera. “Mother of the bride, stand closer to your... partner.”
Partner. The word hangs between us, neither of us correcting it, neither of us quite ready to define what we are to each other now.
“Maybe Dr. Vasquez should stand at the edge,” Tyler’s uncle suggests with a good-natured wink. “Just in case he needs to be cropped out later. You never know how these new relationships will go.”
