Page 39 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

TWENTY

“Any unusual symptoms since 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.”

Dr. Reyes looks up from her tablet, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “I see. Well, we’ll run the standard panel just to be safe.” She pauses, studying me. “You seem... different since your last visit. In a good way.”

I’m saved from responding by her next question. “Any family planning considerations I should know about? Now that you’re starting a new chapter?”

The question catches me off guard. “I haven’t really thought about it,” I say honestly. Though now, with Gabe in the picture—Gabe, who’s ten years younger, who may want children someday—perhaps I should.

“It’s worth considering,” she says gently. “You’re forty-three, which certainly doesn’t close the door, but it does change the parameters. If it’s something you’re thinking about, even as a possibility, we should discuss options.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say neutrally, though the reminder of my age—of the biological clock that’s been ticking relentlessly while I built my clinic, raised Tristy, endured my divorce—sends an unexpected pang through my chest.

After the examination, after the blood draws and ultrasound, I check my phone in the waiting room. One text from Gabe:

Gabe:

Landing in DC. Meetings start in 2 hours and run through dinner. Will call when I can. Miss you.

I smile at the screen, still adjusting to this new reality where Gabe Vasquez misses me, where the feelings I’ve been suppressing for longer than I care to admit have been acknowledged, embraced, reciprocated.

The timing of his IRS meeting in Washington is frustrating, coming just days after our return from Hawaii, but unavoidable. His clinic’s nonprofit status depends on this final hurdle, and I of all people understand the necessity of prioritizing such matters.

Andrea:

Good luck with the meetings. Call whenever you can, no matter how late. Miss you too.

I hesitate, then add a heart emoji—a small thing, but significant for someone who’s always maintained careful emotional boundaries in text messages. We’re not teenagers, but there’s something undeniably adolescent about the flutter in my chest when I hit send.

Three days, I remind myself as I head to my car.

Three days until Gabe returns, until we can properly talk about what happens next, about how we navigate this transition from friendship to.

.. whatever this is becoming. In the meantime, I have a clinic to run, paperwork to complete, and test results to await.

The notification from the patient portal arrives at 11:17 PM, when I’m already in bed with case files spread around me. My phone chimes with that distinctive tone I’ve assigned to work-related communications, instantly commanding my attention.

Presbyterian Healthcare Patient Portal: New Test Results Available

I hesitate, finger hovering over the notification.

Part of me—the practical, clinical part—knows it’s better to review medical information in the morning, with fresh eyes and clear mind.

But the doctor in me, the one who needs to maintain control by having all available data, overrides that sensible impulse.

The portal loads slowly, each buffering second heightening my anticipation. Finally, my results appear, organized in the familiar clinical format—bloodwork, hormonal panels, preliminary ultrasound findings.

I scan the numbers first, medical training automatically flagging values outside normal ranges. Then the diagnostic notes catch my eye:

“Hormonal panels indicate elevated FSH and decreased estradiol consistent with premature ovarian failure (POF). Ultrasound shows reduced follicular development. Patient presents with symptoms suggesting menopausal transition. Recommend follow-up to discuss diagnosis, hormone replacement options, and fertility preservation considerations if applicable, though likely not viable.”

My breath catches as medical terminology transforms into personal implications. Premature ovarian failure.

Early menopause.

The end of my reproductive years.

The clinical part of my brain understands these are preliminary findings, that further testing is needed, that there are treatment options for symptoms. But the woman in me—the one who’s just begun a relationship with a younger man, who’s suddenly forced to confront her aging body in stark medical terms—feels the ground shifting beneath her.

I read the report again, then a third time, my physician’s knowledge working against me as I compile mental lists of worst-case scenarios, of treatments, of statistics. The words “likely not viable” regarding fertility preservation echo in my mind like a death knell.

Without conscious decision, I find myself reaching for my phone, scrolling to Gabe’s name. It’s late in DC—after 1 AM— but the need to hear his voice, to share this burden suddenly pressing on my chest, overrides consideration of time zones.

The call goes straight to voicemail. “This is Dr. Gabriel Vasquez. I’m unavailable to take your call...”

Of course his phone is off. He has critical meetings tomorrow, needs his rest. Leaving a voicemail about early menopause seems absurdly inappropriate, so I simply say, “It’s me. Call when you can. I need to talk to you about something.”

I hang up, staring at the ceiling as medical terminology circles my thoughts like sharks scenting blood. Premature ovarian failure. Estradiol. FSH. Menopausal transition.

All clinical ways of saying what I already know—that my time for having more children is gone. Something I’ve accepted as an abstract concept but am now forced to confront as medical reality.

Would Gabe want children someday? We’ve never discussed it directly, but he’s thirty-four, at an age where many men are just beginning to think about fatherhood.

And there’s his culture. He’s New Mexican, from a traditional family.

With his sisters giving him numerous nephews and nieces, I’m sure he’d like to have a few of his own, and being the only boy in the family, a few to carry his family name.

Would he resent committing to someone who can’t give him that option? Would he stay out of obligation, out of the loyalty that defines him, only to grow bitter as years pass and that door remains forever closed?

I’ve seen it happen—watched colleagues’ marriages disintegrate when reproductive issues arose, witnessed the slow poisoning of relationships once filled with love. I’ve counseled patients through the emotional devastation of infertility, seen firsthand how it tests even the strongest bonds.

And Gabe and I? We’ve barely begun. Our foundation is strong—ten years of friendship, of mutual respect, of knowing each other’s strengths and flaws. But this romantic dimension is embryonic (oh, the irony of the term), vulnerable, not yet tested by real-world complications.

Sleep eludes me as I cycle through scenarios, each darker than the last. By morning, fatigue and fear have crystallized into a terrible certainty: I can’t do this to him. Can’t bind him to a future with compromised choices. Can’t risk watching his love slowly transmute to resentment.

My phone remains silent through breakfast, through my commute to the clinic, through morning rounds. I check it obsessively between patients, hoping for Gabe’s name to appear. When it finally does, it’s a brief text:

Gabe:

Sorry I missed your call. In meetings until 6, then dinner with the IRS director. Everything okay?

The casual brevity stings irrationally. I know he’s busy, know these meetings determine his clinic’s future. But the contrast between my night of existential panic and his focused professional agenda creates an unexpected distance.

Andrea:

Fine. Just wanted to check in. Good luck with the meetings.

I hate myself for the lie, for the forced normalcy, but what alternative exists? By the way, I’m going through premature menopause and can’t have your children isn’t exactly text message material.

The day crawls by, my mind only half-present during patient consultations, administrative meetings, resident evaluations. My phone remains largely silent except for a mid-afternoon text:

Gabe:

Meeting running late. Might have to skip our call tonight. Rain check? Things looking promising here. Miss you.

The casual rescheduling—reasonable, expected given his circumstances—somehow feels like confirmation of my fears. This is how it would start, wouldn’t it? The gradual pulling away, the prioritizing of other matters, the slow realization that I’m not what he imagined for his future.

Better to end it now, before we’re both too invested, too entangled.

By evening, a migraine pulses behind my left eye, and I leave the clinic early, driving home on autopilot. The townhouse feels emptier than usual, the silence more pronounced.

I pour a glass of wine, though I know it will exacerbate my headache, and open my laptop. For twenty minutes, I stare at a blank email, cursor blinking accusingly as I try to find words for what I need to say.