Page 33 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)
EIGHTEEN
The Albuquerque airport feels jarringly ordinary after four days in Hawaii. Gone are the lei-draped greeters and tropical breezes, replaced by fluorescent lighting and the familiar dry heat of the New Mexico desert.
As I wheel my suitcase toward the parking garage, phone already buzzing with clinic messages, reality settles around me like a well-worn coat—comfortable but suddenly heavier than I remember.
It’s been three days since Gabe left the island, three days of family time with my parents and extended family, three days of processing the seismic shift that’s occurred between us.
Three days of texts and late-night calls that feel simultaneously natural and strange—the easy friendship we’ve always shared now layered with something new, something still taking shape.
Gabe:
Landed safely?
His message appears as I’m loading my suitcase into the trunk, and I can’t help smiling at the timing. As if some invisible thread still connects us across the miles.
Andrea:
Just got to my car. Back to reality.
Gabe:
Reality has its perks. For one, I’m in it.
I laugh out loud at his response, startling a passing traveler. This playful flirtation is new territory for us—one of many boundaries we’re redefining in the aftermath of Hawaii.
Andrea:
True. Though reality also includes a full clinic schedule tomorrow and 143 unread emails.
Gabe:
Want company tonight? I could drive down, help you unpack. Or just provide moral support for the email assault.
The offer is tempting—so tempting that I’m momentarily taken aback by the intensity of my desire to say yes.
To see him, touch him, pick up where we left off in that suite overlooking the Pacific.
But the practical voice in my head—the one that’s guided me through medical school and residency, through single motherhood and clinic establishment, through marriage and divorce—urges caution.
Andrea:
Rain check? I’m exhausted and need to regroup before tomorrow. But this weekend?
His response takes a moment longer than usual, and I wonder if I’ve disappointed him.
Gabe:
This weekend it is. I’ll bring dinner Friday. Rest up, Dr. Martin. Your adoring patients await.
The relief I feel at his understanding is tempered by a nagging sense of familiarity—how many times have I prioritized practical considerations over personal desires? How many moments with Tristy, with friends, even with Simon in the early years, have I sacrificed on the altar of responsibility?
But this is different, I tell myself as I start the car. This is pacing, not avoidance. This is ensuring our relationship begins with sustainability rather than burning too hot, too fast. This is the sensible approach.
So why does it feel like I’m already falling into old patterns?
“Dr. Martin! You’re back!”
Norma’s enthusiastic greeting cuts through my mental fog as I enter the clinic Wednesday morning, travel mug clutched like a lifeline after a night of restless sleep. The jet lag, combined with hours spent answering urgent emails, has left me feeling less than refreshed for my first day back.
“I am,” I confirm, accepting the stack of folders she hands me. “What disasters await?”
“Nothing you can’t handle,” she assures me with a knowing smile. “Though there have been a lot of questions about you and… Dr. Vasquez.”
I freeze halfway through taking a sip of coffee. “Questions?”
Norma raises an eyebrow. “That Instagram post of you two at the wedding went viral in certain medical circles. Dr. Lopez from Presbyterian called three times asking if it’s true you’re dating ‘that gorgeous doctor from Taos.’”
Heat rises to my cheeks as I realize I’ve underestimated the social media reach of Tristy’s post. In the insular world of Hawaii, focused on wedding activities and family obligations, it was easy to forget how news travels through professional networks.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
“That your personal life is your business,” Norma says primly. “Though I may have mentioned that you looked very happy in the photos.”
“Thank you, I think,” I mutter, heading toward my office with Norma following, clearly not finished with the conversation.
“So it is true?” she presses, lowering her voice as we pass the nurse’s station. “You and Dr. Vasquez are...”
“Together,” I confirm after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s new, but yes.”
Her face lights up with genuine pleasure. “Well, it’s about time! The way that man looked at you whenever he visited the clinic—like you hung the moon and stars. We’ve had a betting pool going for years.”
“A betting pool?” I echo, momentarily distracted from my embarrassment by this revelation. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Just the staff,” she says airily, waving away my concern. “Dr. Ramit won, by the way. She predicted you’d get together during Tristy’s wedding.”
The idea that my colleagues have been speculating about my love life—that they saw something developing between Gabe and me long before I acknowledged it myself—is both mortifying and oddly touching. “I’m not sure how to feel about that,” I admit.
Norma pats my arm sympathetically. “Feel happy, Dr. Martin. That’s all any of us want for you.” Her expression turns slightly mischievous. “Though if you could convince Dr. Vasquez to bring those Chokola chocolates next time he visits, the entire nursing staff would appreciate it.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’ll see what I can do.”
As Norma leaves to prepare for the day’s first patients, I sink into my desk chair, absorbing the reality that my relationship with Gabe is now public knowledge, at least in professional circles.
The private bubble we inhabited in Hawaii has well and truly burst, leaving us exposed to scrutiny, speculation, and apparently, staff betting pools.
The day passes in a whirlwind of patient consultations, each appointment bringing some variation of the same awkward moment—a knowing smile, a hesitant question, or in the case of Mrs. Abernathy, my 82-year-old Thursday regular, a direct interrogation.
“So you’ve finally gotten yourself a handsome young doctor,” she says, eyeing me over her reading glasses as I check her blood pressure. “About time. That ex-husband of yours was too full of himself.”
“Mrs. Abernathy,” I say, trying to maintain professional composure, “I don’t think?—”
“Don’t bother denying it,” she interrupts, rolling down her sleeve as I remove the cuff. “My granddaughter showed me the Instagram. You two make a nice couple. He’s younger, but that’s fashionable these days.”
“Thank you,” I say faintly, deciding resistance is futile. “Your blood pressure is looking good. How’s the new medication working?”
She allows the subject change with a knowing smile, but she’s merely the first of many. By lunchtime, I’ve fielded variations of the same conversation from three more patients, two pharmaceutical reps, and a visiting specialist from UNMH.
When I finally close my office door for a brief lunch break, I sink into my chair, oddly exhausted by the constant social navigation. This is the part of relationships I’ve always found draining—the public performance aspect, the explaining and defining and contextualizing for others’ benefit.
With Simon, our relationship had the simplicity of social convention—suitable ages, compatible professions, traditional gender roles.
People understood us at a glance, requiring no explanation.
With Gabe—younger, more conventionally attractive, with his reputation as Taos’ most eligible bachelor—I find myself constantly aware of the questions our pairing raises, the assumptions it challenges.
Was this the same case for Harlow?
My phone rings—Gabe, his timing uncanny.
“How’s the first day back?” he asks when I answer, his voice instantly soothing something frayed in me.
“Exhausting,” I admit, letting my professional mask slip. “Everyone has an opinion about us, apparently.”
“Positive or negative?”
“Mostly positive,” I say, thinking of Mrs. Abernathy’s approval. “But still... invasive. I’m not used to my personal life being topic of clinic conversation.”
“It’ll die down,” he assures me. “Something more interesting will come along.”
“I hope so,” I sigh, glancing at the stack of patient charts awaiting my attention. “How’s your day?”
“Busy. Though I did get a call from Daniel about the IRS application. They’ve scheduled our meeting in DC next week. Critical final step for the nonprofit status.”
“That’s great news,” I say, genuinely pleased for him. The community health wing of his clinic has been his passion project for years, and the IRS approval would unlock crucial grant funding. “When do you leave?”
“Monday morning. I’ll be gone three days, possibly four if there are complications,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “Which brings me to my call. Dinner on Friday with me?”
I calculate quickly—if he’s leaving Monday, that gives us just the weekend to see each other before he’s gone again. The realization brings a surprising pang of disappointment, stronger than seems warranted for a separation of mere days.
“Of course” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “Though given the public scrutiny regarding our relationship status, is it okay if we order in?”
“I was about to suggest the same thing,” he says. “I’ll order from that Persian place you like. Should arrive at your house around seven, with me as delivery boy.”
I laugh softly, my earlier tension easing. “Perfect.”
After we disconnect, I sit for a moment, processing the complex emotions our brief conversation has stirred. The pleasure of hearing his voice. The comfort of his understanding. The unexpected intensity of my anticipation for Friday.