Page 73 of Where She Belongs
“Hey,” she says, her smile warming me more effectively than the whiskey in my hand. “You’re still up. How was dinner at Nana’s?”
“Enlightening,” I say with a soft laugh. “Apparently, everyone knew we were meant for each other before we did.”
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but her smile only deepens. “Tristy said the same thing. Apparently, we weren’t as subtle as we thought.”
“Not even close,” I confirm. “How are things there?”
“Good. Just wading through patient files I neglected during my absence. Oh, and my mother called earlier. She’s already planning to host a proper dinner for us when Tita Linda and Tito Joey visit next month.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say truthfully. “Though speaking of visits, there’s something I need to tell you.” I take a breath, then explain about the IRS meeting in DC, watching her face carefully for her reaction.
To my relief, disappointment flickers across her features but is quickly replaced by understanding. “That’s important, Gabe. The community health wing needs that designation.”
“I know,” I say. “But I was hoping to see you sooner rather than later.”
“We’ve managed ten years of friendship with this distance between us,” she reminds me gently. “A few more days won’t kill us.”
“Speak for yourself,” I murmur, earning a laugh that makes my heart trip over itself.
“When do you leave?” she asks.
“Sunday evening. Daniel’s arranged his private jet.” I hesitate, then add, “I should be back by Thursday at the latest.”
She nods, calculating. “I have a light clinic schedule that day.” A pause, then, “You could come straight to Albuquerque from the airport if you wanted. If you’re not too tired.”
The simple suggestion carries more weight than its words might suggest—an invitation, a step forward, a bridge across the distance between us.
“I will,” I promise. “The moment I land.”
We talk for another hour, moving from practical matters of schedules and plans to deeper reflections on the day, on our friends’ reactions, on the strange new territory we’re navigating together. Throughout it all, I’m struck by how natural it feels—this evolution from friendship to something more intimate, more vulnerable, more complete.
When we finally say goodnight, the whiskey long finished and the mountain air turning crisp with approaching midnight, I’m filled with a certainty I’ve rarely felt before. Whatever challenges lie ahead—the distance between our cities, the complications of integrating our professional lives, the adjustments required ofany new relationship—they pale in comparison to the rightness of being with her.
As I head inside, my phone buzzes with one final text from Andrea:I miss you. Like I’ve never missed anyone before.
Counting minutes until I see you again,I reply.Dream of me.
I fall asleep with my phone still in hand, her last message the last thing I see before dreams claim me—dreams of tropical beaches and hospital corridors, of family dinners and quiet evenings, all of them featuring the woman who’s been beside me all along, waiting for me to finally recognize what everyone else already knew.
That sometimes, the love we’re looking for has been right in front of us the whole time.
TWENTY
“Any unusual symptomssince your last visit?” Dr. Reyes asks, reviewing my chart with the practiced efficiency of a clinician who’s known me for fifteen years—as both colleague and patient.
I shift on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath me. “Some irregular cycles. Heavier than usual. And occasional pain here,” I gesture to my lower abdomen, “that doesn’t seem connected to my period.”
She makes a note in my chart. “How long has this been happening?”
“A few months,” I admit, calculating backward. “It started around the time Simon moved out, so I attributed it to stress.”
Dr. Reyes nods, unsurprised. “Divorce can certainly wreak havoc on your system. But given your age and symptoms, I’d like to run some tests to rule out a few things.”
“Of course,” I agree, medical training instantly cataloguing possibilities—most benign, some less so.
“Any chance of pregnancy?” she asks, the standard question.
The memory of Gabe—of our last night together just a few days ago—sends warmth rushing to my cheeks. “No,” I say, perhaps too quickly. “I mean, extremely unlikely.”
