Page 76 of Where She Belongs
Gabe:
Andrea, please pick up.
Gabe:
What medical news? Are you okay?
Gabe:
Whatever it is, we can handle it together.
Gabe:
Please don’t do this. Not like this.
Each message lands like a physical blow, but I force myself to ignore them. This is cleaner, kinder in the long run. A swift, decisive break rather than a long, painful unraveling.
When the phone finally falls silent, I curl into myself on the couch, wrapping arms around knees as if physically holding myself together. This is the right decision, I tell myself. The mature choice. The selfless option.
So why does it feel like I’m dying?
The insistent knocking at my front door starts just after 9 PM. I ignore it at first, curled on the couch with a glass of wine I haven’t touched, case files spread across the coffee table in a pretense of work I can’t focus on. But whoever’s there is persistent, the knocking evolving into a rhythmic pounding that matches the throbbing in my temples.
“Andie! I know you’re in there. Your car is in the driveway.”
Harlow’s voice, worried and determined in equal measure. Of course Gabe would call her. Or Dax. He and Gabe having been practically raised together in Taos.
“I have a key, and I’m not above using it,” she warns, rattling the doorknob. “Doctor-patient confidentiality doesn’t apply to friendship emergencies.”
I sigh, unfolding myself from the couch and moving toward the door. Harlow James-Drexel is not a woman who makes idle threats, and the last thing I need is her bursting in while I’m pretending not to be home.
“I’m not in the mood for company,” I say as I open the door, wincing at the harsh porch light that intensifies my migraine.
Harlow stands on my doorstep, arms crossed, expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. She’s still in her hospital scrubs, her hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail, clearly having come straight from work. “Well, that’s too bad, because I’m not in the mood to have my best friend ghosting one of the best men I know without explanation.”
“I thought you’re covering Gabe’s clinic,” I say as she pushes past me into the living room, taking in the scene—the untouched wine, the scattered case files, my phone face-down on the cushions.
“Daniel has two planes. And it was an emergency,” she mutters under her breath, as if it’s a secret that her father-in-law—and Gabe’s business partner—is among the top hedge fund managers in the country. “You look terrible, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, closing the door. “That’s what every woman wants to hear.”
Harlow’s expression softens slightly. “Gabe called Dax in a panic. Said you sent him some cryptic email breaking things off, mentioning medical news, and now won’t answer his calls or texts.” She pauses, studying me. “He’s worried sick, Andie. We all are.”
Something in her tone—genuine concern rather than accusation—makes my carefully constructed walls begin to crumble. I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted beyond words.
“What’s going on?” Harlow asks, her voice gentler now as she sits beside me. “What medical news?”
I stare at my hands, twisting in my lap. “I got some test results back. Preliminary findings suggesting…”I take a deep breath. “Premature ovarian failure.”
“POF?” Harlow’s medical training kicks in immediately, her eyes widening. “But you’re only in your early forties. That’s?—”
“Rare but not unheard of,” I finish for her. “The bloodwork shows elevated FSH and decreased estradiol consistent with menopausal transition. In other words, I’m officially done. No more eggs, no more chances.” The clinical terminology feels safer somehow, a shield against the rawness beneath.
Harlow is quiet for a moment, processing. “And you broke up with Gabe because of this?”
The directness of her question makes me flinch. “He’s thirty-four, Harlow. He should be with someone who can give him children if he wants them. Little mini-Vasquez kids running around.”
“Did he tell you he wants children?” she asks.
