Page 63 of Where She Belongs
“A betting pool?” I echo, momentarily distracted from my embarrassment by this revelation. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Just the staff,” she says airily, waving away my concern. “Dr. Ramit won, by the way. She predicted you’d get together during Tristy’s wedding.”
The idea that my colleagues have been speculating about my love life—that they saw something developing between Gabe and me long before I acknowledged it myself—is both mortifying and oddly touching. “I’m not sure how to feel about that,” I admit.
Norma pats my arm sympathetically. “Feel happy, Dr. Martin. That’s all any of us want for you.” Her expression turns slightly mischievous. “Though if you could convince Dr. Vasquez to bring those Chokola chocolates next time he visits, the entire nursing staff would appreciate it.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’ll see what I can do.”
As Norma leaves to prepare for the day’s first patients, I sink into my desk chair, absorbing the reality that my relationship with Gabe is now public knowledge, at least in professional circles. The private bubble we inhabited in Hawaii has well and truly burst, leaving us exposed to scrutiny, speculation, and apparently, staff betting pools.
The day passes in a whirlwind of patient consultations, each appointment bringing some variation of the same awkward moment—a knowing smile, a hesitant question, or in the case of Mrs. Abernathy, my 82-year-old Thursday regular, a direct interrogation.
“So you’ve finally gotten yourself a handsome young doctor,” she says, eyeing me over her reading glasses as I check her blood pressure. “About time. That ex-husband of yours was too full of himself.”
“Mrs. Abernathy,” I say, trying to maintain professional composure, “I don’t think?—”
“Don’t bother denying it,” she interrupts, rolling down her sleeve as I remove the cuff. “My granddaughter showed me theInstagram. You two make a nice couple. He’s younger, but that’s fashionable these days.”
“Thank you,” I say faintly, deciding resistance is futile. “Your blood pressure is looking good. How’s the new medication working?”
She allows the subject change with a knowing smile, but she’s merely the first of many. By lunchtime, I’ve fielded variations of the same conversation from three more patients, two pharmaceutical reps, and a visiting specialist from UNMH.
When I finally close my office door for a brief lunch break, I sink into my chair, oddly exhausted by the constant social navigation. This is the part of relationships I’ve always found draining—the public performance aspect, the explaining and defining and contextualizing for others’ benefit.
With Simon, our relationship had the simplicity of social convention—suitable ages, compatible professions, traditional gender roles. People understood us at a glance, requiring no explanation. With Gabe—younger, more conventionally attractive, with his reputation as Taos’ most eligible bachelor—I find myself constantly aware of the questions our pairing raises, the assumptions it challenges.
Was this the same case for Harlow?
My phone rings—Gabe, his timing uncanny.
“How’s the first day back?” he asks when I answer, his voice instantly soothing something frayed in me.
“Exhausting,” I admit, letting my professional mask slip. “Everyone has an opinion about us, apparently.”
“Positive or negative?”
“Mostly positive,” I say, thinking of Mrs. Abernathy’s approval. “But still... invasive. I’m not used to my personal life being topic of clinic conversation.”
“It’ll die down,” he assures me. “Something more interesting will come along.”
“I hope so,” I sigh, glancing at the stack of patient charts awaiting my attention. “How’s your day?”
“Busy. Though I did get a call from Daniel about the IRS application. They’ve scheduled our meeting in DC next week. Critical final step for the nonprofit status.”
“That’s great news,” I say, genuinely pleased for him. The community health wing of his clinic has been his passion project for years, and the IRS approval would unlock crucial grant funding. “When do you leave?”
“Monday morning. I’ll be gone three days, possibly four if there are complications,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “Which brings me to my call. Dinner on Friday with me?”
I calculate quickly—if he’s leaving Monday, that gives us just the weekend to see each other before he’s gone again. The realization brings a surprising pang of disappointment, stronger than seems warranted for a separation of mere days.
“Of course” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “Though given the public scrutiny regarding our relationship status, is it okay if we order in?”
“I was about to suggest the same thing,” he says. “I’ll order from that Persian place you like. Should arrive at your house around seven, with me as delivery boy.”
I laugh softly, my earlier tension easing. “Perfect.”
After we disconnect, I sit for a moment, processing the complex emotions our brief conversation has stirred. The pleasure of hearing his voice. The comfort of his understanding. The unexpected intensity of my anticipation for Friday.
