Page 43 of Where She Belongs (A Different Kind of Love #3)

TWENTY-TWO

I check my phone—still on silent—and see five missed calls from Tristy, three from my mother, and too many from Gabe to count. The last text from him, sent an hour ago, makes my heart clench:

Gabe:

Just landed in Taos. Going straight to clinic. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk. No pressure, no expectations. Whatever this is, we’ll face it together.

His patience, his understanding despite my cruel dismissal, only deepens my shame. What have I done?

“Andrea?” Dr. Reyes appears in the waiting room doorway, surprise evident in her expression. “We’re running ahead of schedule. Would you like to come back now?”

I follow her to the consultation room, perching on the edge of a chair as she reviews my results on her tablet. The wait is excruciating, each passing second stretching into infinity.

“So,” she finally says, looking up. “I’ve reviewed your complete results, including the follow-up bloodwork.”

I nod stiffly, bracing for confirmation of my worst fears.

“I have good news, actually,” she says, her tone brightening. “The initial FSH and estradiol readings that suggested premature ovarian failure were incorrect.”

I stare at her, not comprehending. “Incorrect?”

“We ran a more comprehensive panel, and your hormones show normal fluctuations for perimenopause—which is expected at your age—but nothing indicating POF.” She taps her screen, bringing up my full results.

“Sometimes we get anomalous readings, especially when blood is drawn during certain points in your cycle. The lab should have flagged it for confirmation before uploading to the portal.”

I struggle to process her words. “So I don’t have premature ovarian failure?”

“No,” she says definitively. “You’re experiencing some perimenopausal symptoms, which is normal in your early forties, but your ovarian function is within normal parameters for your age. Your fertility is exactly what we’d expect—reduced from your twenties, certainly, but not eliminated.”

“But the portal said...” I can barely form the words, hope and disbelief warring in my chest.

Dr. Reyes sighs. “The portal showed you incomplete preliminary notes before they should have been released. That’s why we never give diagnoses based solely on initial readings.

I’m going to have a serious conversation with the lab about their protocols.

” She leans forward, expression softening.

“Andrea, if you’re asking about pregnancy potential—with some basic fertility support, there’s no reason you couldn’t conceive if that’s something you want to pursue. ”

The relief that floods me is immediately followed by horror as I realize what I’ve done—the relationship I’ve destroyed based on incomplete information, on panic, on my own insecurities projected onto medical terminology.

“Andrea?” Dr. Reyes’s voice seems to come from a great distance. “Are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“I made a mistake,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. “A terrible mistake.”

“Regarding what?” she asks, professional concern evident in her tone.

I shake my head, unable to explain the magnitude of my error, the relationship I’ve potentially ruined through my own fear and pride. “I jumped to conclusions. I should have waited for the complete results.”

Understanding dawns in her expression. “Did you make decisions based on those preliminary findings? Because if so, you should know they were just that—preliminary. Not definitive.”

“I did,” I admit, shame burning through me. “And now I don’t know if I can fix it.”

Dr. Reyes sighs, setting aside her tablet. “Andrea, as your doctor, I’m going to suggest something I rarely recommend: stop overthinking. Medical training is a blessing for diagnosis but a curse for patients who have just enough knowledge to terrify themselves.”

Her candor startles a weak laugh from me.

“Whatever decision you made,” she continues gently, “unmake it. Explain what happened. Most reasonable people will understand medical panic, especially someone who cares about you.”

“I hope you’re right,” I say, though doubt gnaws at me. After the way I’ve treated Gabe—the cold email, the ignored calls and texts—would he even be willing to listen?

The consultation continues, Dr. Reyes discussing hormone balance, recommending supplements, scheduling follow-up appointments.

I nod in all the right places, make appropriate noises of understanding, but my mind is elsewhere—replaying every message I ignored, every call I declined, imagining Gabe’s confusion and hurt transforming to anger, to resentment, perhaps finally to indifference.

By the time I leave the medical center, clutching prescriptions and informational pamphlets, determination has replaced shock.

I need to fix this, to explain, to apologize.

Even if it’s too late for us romantically, Gabe deserves the truth, deserves to know my rejection wasn’t about him but about my own fears and insecurities.

Before I can start my car, my phone rings—Tristy, calling for what must be the sixth time this morning.

“Mom! Finally!” Her voice is sharp with worry when I answer. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days!”

“I’m sorry, honey,” I say, guilt washing over me anew. In my self-absorbed spiral, I hadn’t considered how my silence might worry my daughter. “I’ve been... dealing with some things.”

“What things? Are you sick? Gabe called me yesterday, completely panicked. He said you sent him some email breaking things off? What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath. “I got some preliminary test results that scared me, and I... overreacted. Badly.”

“What kind of results?” The fear in her voice makes my heart ache.

“Nothing serious, as it turns out. I just came from my follow-up appointment. It was a false alarm—some misleading initial readings that I catastrophized.”

“And you broke up with Gabe over this?” The disbelief in her voice is palpable. “Mom, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” I admit, starting my car. “I panicked. The results suggested fertility issues, and I convinced myself Gabe would be better off with someone younger, someone who could give him children if he wanted them.”

“Did you actually ask him if he wants children?”

The simple question lands like a blow. “No.”

“So you just decided for both of you, without even talking to him.” It’s not a question.

“I know it was wrong,” I say quietly. “I’m going to fix it. I’m driving to Taos right now to talk to him face-to-face.”

“Good.” Her tone softens slightly. “He loves you, Mom. And whatever these test results were, you know he’d stick by you no matter what, right?”

“I do know that,” I say, the truth of it settling in my chest. “Rationally. I just... got scared.”

After promising Tristy I’ll call her later, I have a similar conversation with my mother, whose worry quickly transforms to exasperation when I explain what happened.

“Anak, when will you stop pushing away people who want to help you?” she asks, her voice carrying decades of maternal concern. “You’ve always been this way—thinking you need to handle everything alone.”

“I know, Mom,” I say, merging onto the highway that will take me north to Taos. To Gabe. “I’m trying to change that.”

“Well, driving to see him is a good start,” she concedes. “That boy loves you. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

By the time I reach the outskirts of Taos three hours later, my stomach is in knots. What if he won’t see me? What if I’ve destroyed not just our nascent romance but our decade of friendship? What if the damage I’ve done in a moment of panic proves irreparable?

I call his clinic first, not wanting to ambush him.

“Vasquez Integrative Medicine,” a receptionist answers.

“This is Dr. Andrea Martin,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Is Dr. Vasquez available?”

“Oh, Dr. Martin!” Her tone warms immediately. “He’s just about to leave for a house call. Should I put you through to him?”

“Please.”

There’s a click, then Gabe’s voice—professional, guarded. “Andie, I didn’t expect to hear from you today.”

The formality stings, though I deserve it. “Gabe, I’m in Taos. I need to see you. To explain... everything.”

A pause. “I’m about to head to Gareth’s ranch. He needs a travel vaccination before he flies to Australia next week.” Another pause. “You could meet me at the clinic. I leave in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” I promise, already turning toward the plaza where his practice is located.

The familiar adobe building comes into view, and I park haphazardly, nearly running to the entrance. Inside, the receptionist—Marta, I think her name is—looks up in surprise.

“Dr. Martin! He’s in his office.”

The walk down the hallway feels like the longest of my life. When I reach his door, I hesitate, then knock softly.

“Come in,” he calls, and I push the door open to find him packing his medical bag, his expression carefully neutral when he sees me—so different from the warmth I’m accustomed to.

“Gabe.” My voice cracks on the single syllable. “Thank you for seeing me.”

He pauses in his preparations but doesn’t approach, maintaining a careful distance as he leans against the edge of his desk. “Your call said you needed to explain something.”

“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze directly. “I received some test results Monday night that suggested I might have... fertility issues. The portal used phrases like ‘compromised reproductive function’ and ‘primary ovarian insufficiency.’”

His expression shifts slightly—the doctor in him engaging with the medical terminology even as the man remains guarded. “And from this preliminary information, you concluded...?”

“That I couldn’t have children,” I admit, the shame of my hasty interpretation burning anew. “That you deserved someone who could give you that option. That eventually you’d resent being with someone who’d taken that choice from you.”