Page 91 of Where She Belongs
“I bought this place last year,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward town. “Decided it was time to move out of the bachelor pad and get something more... substantial. The bookshelves just seemedlike a good idea at the time. They’ll come in handy for your medical journals.”
The implication hangs between us—that even before we admitted our feelings, he was preparing for a different kind of life. A settled life. The kind that includes built-in furniture to accommodate someone’s collection of medical journals.
“I’d love to see them,” I tell him softly.
As we prepare to leave, Harlow pulls me aside while Gabe helps the twins set up an elaborate superhero scenario.
“I’m glad you worked things out,” she says quietly. “He’s been miserable the past few days. We all have been, watching him hurt.”
“I know,” I say, guilt washing over me again. “I handled everything badly.”
“You handled it like someone who’s been hurt before and was scared of being hurt again,” she corrects gently. “That’s human, Andie. What matters is that you found your way back to each other.”
“He forgave me so easily,” I murmur, watching Gabe demonstrate the proper superhero stance for Anipea. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
“You got lucky because you both stopped fighting what’s been obvious to everyone else for years,” Harlow says with a smile. “You love each other. Finally admitting it was just the first step.”
As we say our goodbyes—complicated by the twins’ reluctance to let their new toys out of their sight—I feel a profound sense of contentment. This is what I want, I realize. This easy integration into Gabe’s world, these friendships that welcome me not just as his girlfriend but as family.
“Happy?” Gabe asks as we drive toward town, his hand resting casually on my thigh.
“Incredibly,” I reply, meaning it completely. “Your friends are wonderful.”
“Our friends,” he corrects gently. “They love you, you know. Have for years. You being with me just makes it official.”
The possessive pronoun sends warmth spreading through my chest. Our friends. Our life. Our future.
“So,” I say as the familiar adobe buildings of Taos come into view, “about those built-in bookshelves...”
His grin is sheepish. “Too presumptuous?”
I consider this seriously. The practical part of me knows we have logistics to work out—my clinic in Albuquerque, his practice here, the three-hour distance between our lives. But for the firsttime, I find myself thinking beyond the immediate challenges. Someday, maybe years from now, when Salud Integrada is stable enough under new leadership, when I’ve mentored the next generation of community health advocates... someday, those bookshelves might hold more than just weekend reading.
“Optimistic,” I correct gently. “Beautifully optimistic.”
And it is. All of it—the friends who love us, the man beside me, the future we’re building together one weekend at a time. After so many years of careful planning and cautious choices, of protecting myself from disappointment and pain, I’m finally ready to embrace the beautiful uncertainty of love.
I’m finally ready to trust that some things—some people—are worth the risk.
As Gabe pulls into his driveway, I catch sight of his house for the first time—a charming adobe structure with a garden full of herbs and vegetables, a covered portal perfect for morning coffee, and yes, large windows that would showcase those built-in bookshelves beautifully.
It doesn’t look like my home—not yet, maybe not for years. But it looks like possibility. It looks like a future I’m finally brave enough to want.
It looks like exactly where I might belong.
TWENTY-FIVE
Spring in Taosalways reminds me of new beginnings.
Today, watching Andrea in our garden, teaching our friends’ children about medicinal herbs while waiting for a call from her clinic, I’m struck by how perfectly she fits here—not just in my home, but in my life.
“And this one,” she’s saying, pointing to a plant, “is called Yerba Mansa. Your Tio Gabe’s grandmother used it for?—”
“For everything,” Anipea, DJ, and ‘Little’ Tyler (an addition we’ve had to assign to Sawyer and Alma’s son to differentiate between Tristy’s Tyler) chorus excitedly. Turns out, growing up in sustainable homes where their parents can grow herbs and vegetables all year round taught them to appreciate the healing power of plants.
Andrea’s laugh carries across the garden to where I’m grilling lunch, a sound that’s become as familiar as the mountain viewsfrom our back porch. Six months of splitting time between Taos and Albuquerque have taught us the value of these moments—lazy Sunday afternoons when we can just be together, no clinics or emergencies demanding our attention.
The ring burns a hole in my medical bag where I’ve been carrying it for weeks, waiting for the right moment. I know Andrea’s stance on marriage right now—something about her Filipino mother’s superstition about having more than one wedding in the family per year, plus her own hesitation so soon after her divorce was finalized.
