Page 64 of Where She Belongs
And beneath it all, a thin current of anxiety—a voice wondering if this transition from friendship to romance, from island fantasy to everyday reality, can really work. If the Gabe who’s been my friend and colleague for a decade can truly become something more without disrupting everything else in my carefully balanced life.
I wince as I reach for my coffee mug, a sharp twinge in my lower abdomen catching me off guard. It’s the third time this week—these random flashes of pain that seem to come from nowhere and disappear just as quickly.
“You okay?” Norma asks, catching my grimace as she places a stack of patient files on my desk.
“Fine,” I say automatically, straightening in my chair. “Just sat too long.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “That’s the second time I’ve seen you do that today. Maybe you should listen to your own medical advice and get it checked out.”
I wave her concern away with practiced dismissal. “It’s nothing. Probably just stress from the trip and catching up on everything here.” And the emotional whirlwind of my evolving relationship with Gabe, though I keep that part to myself.
“If you say so, Dr. Martin.” Her tone makes it clear she disagrees. “But your annual physical is overdue anyway. I took the liberty of scheduling you with Dr. Reyes next week.”
“Norma—”
“Not my orders,” she says firmly, tapping the top file before heading to the door. “Dr. Reyes specifically said to tell you that if you can badger her about her cholesterol levels, she can badger you about skipping your check-ups.”
I sigh, knowing when I’m beaten. “Fine. But make it after clinic hours. I don’t want to disrupt the schedule.”
As she leaves, I press my hand against my abdomen where the pain had been, already cataloging possible causes with clinical detachment—stress, muscle strain from travel, perhaps something dietary. Nothing serious.
The doctor in me knows I should be more concerned, should practice what I preach about preventative care and early intervention. But the woman in me—the one who’s finally found something wonderful and unexpected with Gabe—doesn’t want anything to disrupt this fragile new happiness we’re building.
I push the discomfort from my mind as I open the first patient file. Whatever it is can wait. I have a clinic to run, patients who need me, and for the first time in years, a personal life that makes me eager to finish my workday.
Still, Norma’s right. Maybe it’s time I let someone else be the doctor for once.
But first, Friday…
Friday evening finds me uncharacteristically nervous as I change outfits for the third time. The simple black dress is too formal, the jeans and sweater too casual, the sundress too reminiscent of Hawaii. I finally settle on dark jeans and a silk blouse in deep teal—put-together but not trying too hard, or so I tell myself as I apply lipstick with slightly unsteady hands.
This is ridiculous, I think, studying my reflection critically. It’s just Gabe. We’ve shared hundreds of meals over the years—takeout in my office during grant writing sessions, breakfast at Frontier after long shifts, dinner at conferences and community events. One night in Hawaii doesn’t change the decade of history between us.
Except it does. It changes everything and nothing simultaneously, leaving us in this strange liminal space—more than friends but still defining what that means, still discovering how our established patterns adapt to this new dimension.
The doorbell rings precisely at seven, sending a flutter of butterflies through my stomach that would be appropriate for a teenager on a first date, not a forty-three-year-old physician hosting a longtime colleague for dinner.
When I open the door, Gabe stands on my porch holding a large paper bag that smells deliciously of saffron and grilled meat, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He’s dressed simply in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, his hair still slightly damp from a recent shower, but something about seeing him here, in this context, steals my breath momentarily.
“Hi,” I say, stepping back to let him in, suddenly hyperaware of the domestic intimacy of the moment—Gabe in my home, not as a colleague or friend stopping by to discuss work, but as... what, exactly? Boyfriend seems inadequate for our history, yet presumptuous given the newness of this aspect of our relationship.
“Hi yourself,” he replies, his smile warming as he takes in my appearance. “You look beautiful.”
The compliment, delivered with such straightforward sincerity, brings heat to my cheeks. “Thank you. So do you. I mean, handsome. You look handsome.”
His smile widens at my uncharacteristic awkwardness. “I know what you meant. Where should I put dinner?”
“Kitchen,” I say, grateful for the practical question. “Plates are ready.”
As we move through the familiar routine of unpacking containers, opening wine, and serving food, some of my nervousness dissipates. This is Gabe, after all—the man who’s seen me at my professional best and personal worst, who knows how I take my coffee and which reading glasses I prefer for grant applications, who can distinguish between my “politely listening” face and my “genuinely engaged” one during medical conferences.
“How was the rest of your week?” he asks as we settle at the dining table, wine glasses filled, fragrant dishes of koobideh kebab and fesenjan spread between us.
“Better after the first day,” I admit, serving myself rice. “The clinic gossip died down somewhat, though I still got several questions about ‘that handsome doctor from Taos.’”
He grins, clearly not bothered by this description. “Same in Taos, though I got ‘that brilliant doctor from Albuquerque.’ Seems our professional reputations remain intact despite our personal choices.”
“Were you worried they wouldn’t?” I ask, curious about his perspective.
