Page 27 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)
FIFTEEN
“Hold still, Mom, just one more bobby pin.”
I obey my daughter’s command, remaining motionless as she secures an errant strand of hair.
The bridal suite buzzes with activity—makeup artists, photographers, Tyler’s mother and sisters all in various states of preparation.
But here in this quiet corner, it’s just Tristy and me, sharing one last mother-daughter moment before she becomes someone’s wife.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “Perfect.”
I glance in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman reflected back. The professional stylists have transformed me—my hair swept up in an elegant updo, my makeup subtle yet enhancing, the champagne-colored dress flattering in ways my usual professional attire never attempts to be.
“You look beautiful, Mom,” Tristy says, her own reflection appearing beside mine in the mirror. She’s still in her silk robe, her wedding gown hanging nearby, but even without it, she radiates bridal radiance. “Gabe won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
At the mention of his name, my stomach flutters with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. After last night’s confessions on the dance floor, after that kiss, everything between us has changed. The pretense has become something real, something terrifying in its potential.
“This is your day,” I remind her, turning to take her hands in mine. “No one will be looking at anyone but you.”
She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Want to bet? I saw how he looked at you last night when you were dancing.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Tristy?—”
“It’s okay, Mom,” she interrupts, squeezing my hands. “I’ve been watching you two dance around each other for years. I’m just glad you finally figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“That you’re perfect for each other,” she says simply. “That sometimes the right person has been there all along.”
The wedding planner bustles over before I can respond, clipboard in hand. “Mother of the bride? We need you for pre- ceremony photos with the groom’s family. And the father of the bride is asking when?—“
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her, turning back to Tristy. “Are you okay if I go? Do you need anything before?—”
“Go,” she says, making a shooing motion. “I’ve got an army of stylists here. They’re about to start on my makeup anyway.”
I press a kiss to her forehead, careful not to smudge either of our carefully applied cosmetics. “I’m so proud of you, Tristy. So proud of the woman you’ve become.”
Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “Mom, don’t make me cry before they’ve even done my mascara.”
With a quiet laugh, I follow the wedding planner from the bridal suite, my mind a whirl of emotions.
Pride in my daughter. Joy for her happiness.
Anticipation about seeing Gabe. And underlying it all, a persistent anxiety about what happens next—after the wedding, after this weekend, when we return to our real lives and have to decide what, if anything, this new development between us means.
The resort corridors are busy with wedding guests and staff, and I find myself nodding greetings to distant relatives and Tyler’s extended family as I make my way toward the beachfront ceremony location.
Tita Linda catches my eye from across the lobby, giving me an exaggerated wink that tells me she hasn’t forgotten catching Gabe and me in that intimate moment during last night’s dance.
Outside, the Hawaii sunshine is brilliant, highlighting the elaborate ceremony setup. White chairs arranged in neat rows, facing an arch adorned with tropical flowers. The ocean beyond provides a perfect backdrop, waves gently lapping at the shore.
“Andrea!” Tyler’s mother waves me over to where a small group has gathered near the ceremonial arch. “There you are. We’re just waiting on a few more for family photos.”
I exchange pleasantries with Tyler’s parents, with his siblings, with the photographer who’s arranging us in various groupings. But my attention continually drifts, scanning the growing crowd of guests for one particular face.
And then I see him.
Gabe approaches from the resort, his tailored suit perfectly complementing his athletic frame, his normally tousled hair styled with careful precision.
Even from this distance, I can see the moment he spots me—his stride faltering briefly, his expression shifting from polite interest to something more intense, more focused.
Something wraps around my heart, squeezing tight. This isn’t pretend anymore. The way he looks at me isn’t for show, isn’t for Simon’s benefit or anyone else’s. It’s real, and all the more terrifying for it.
“Dr. Vasquez,” the wedding planner calls, gesturing him over. “Perfect timing. We need you for the pre-ceremony family groupings. The mother of the bride specifically requested you be included.”
Had I? I don’t recall explicitly asking for Gabe to be in the photos, but it feels right. Natural. As if his place beside me was never in question.
“Hi,” I say as he reaches my side, our fingers brushing briefly, sending a jolt of awareness through me.
“Hi yourself,” he replies, his voice low enough that only I can hear the intimate note. “You look incredible.”
I feel myself blush, suddenly self-conscious under his appreciative gaze. “So do you,” I manage. “Very handsome.”
“Less talking, more smiling,” the photographer calls, positioning his camera. “Mother of the bride, stand closer to your... partner.”
Partner. The word hangs between us, neither of us correcting it, neither of us quite ready to define what we are to each other now.
“Maybe Dr. Vasquez should stand at the edge,” Tyler’s uncle suggests with a good-natured wink. “Just in case he needs to be cropped out later. You never know how these new relationships will go.”
A few awkward chuckles follow the joke, but I feel Gabe stiffen slightly beside me. The comment touches a nerve—the unspoken question of permanence, of belonging, that hovers around us.
“Gabe stays right here,” I say, my voice clear and firm, surprising even myself with its certainty. “Next to me. Where he belongs.”
A moment of silence follows my declaration, followed by Tyler’s mother’s warm “Of course he does, dear.” But I feel the subtle shift in Gabe’s posture, the way his arm tightens around me gratefully, the almost imperceptible exhale of relief.
As Gabe’s arm settles around my shoulders, my own finding his waist, I’m struck by how natural it feels. How right. As if all these years of friendship were merely prologue to this moment.
“Everyone say ‘happy ever after!’” the photographer instructs.
The phrase rings in my ears long after the photos are complete, following me through the next hour of preparations—last-minute adjustments to the ceremony seating, greeting guests, checking on Tristy one final time before she makes her entrance.
Happy ever after.
Is such a thing even possible?
After Simon’s betrayal, after the painful dismantling of what I thought was a stable marriage, I’d convinced myself that contentment was the most I could hope for.
That passion, romance, the breathless anticipation I feel whenever Gabe is near—those were for younger women, for first loves, for people who hadn’t yet learned how thoroughly love can devastate.
And yet.
As I take my seat in the front row, as the music begins and the procession starts, I find my thoughts divided—half present for my daughter’s important day, half consumed with questions about what comes next.
About whether Gabe and I can build something real from the ashes of our pretense. About whether I’m brave enough to try.
Simon slides into the seat beside me, breaking my reverie. “You look lovely, Andrea,” he says, his tone carefully neutral.
“Thank you,” I reply, equally measured. After yesterday’s confrontation, after his deliberate cruelty about my age, about my ability to give Gabe children, I’m in no mood for pleasantries. But this is Tristy’s day, and I won’t taint it with lingering resentments.
“I meant what I said in my toast last night,” he continues, his voice dropping as the music swells. “About your sacrifices. About your dedication to Tristy.”
I turn to look at him, searching for the hidden barb, the subtle manipulation. But his expression seems genuinely reflective.
“Why now?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Why acknowledge that after all these years?”
He hesitates, his gaze shifting to the ocean beyond the ceremonial arch. “Perhaps seeing Tristy take this step has made me... reconsider certain things. Certain choices.”
Before I can respond, the music changes—the familiar notes of the wedding march signaling Tristy’s imminent arrival. All heads turn toward the aisle, all conversations suspended as we wait for the bride.
But as Simon rises to meet Tristy, to walk her down the aisle, his hand briefly touches my shoulder. “I was wrong about many things, Andrea,” he says quietly. “But I was especially wrong about you and Gabe. I see how he looks at you. It’s not temporary.”
The unexpected concession leaves me momentarily speechless. By the time I recover, Simon is already halfway down the aisle, meeting Tristy at the entrance to the ceremonial area, offering his arm to the daughter who has always been more mine than his.
I blink back unexpected tears as they begin their procession, Tristy radiant in her gown, her face illuminated with joy beneath her veil. This is her moment, her transition from my little girl to someone’s wife, and I will not mar it with my own complicated emotions.
But as the ceremony progresses, as vows are exchanged and rings presented, I find my gaze drifting repeatedly to where Gabe sits on the groom’s side of the assembly. Each time, I find him already watching me, his expression a mixture of pride and something more intimate, more personal.