Page 38 of Crossing the Line
But Harper could choose for herself. And she was choosing to stop hiding and lying. And, most of all, she was choosing to stop accepting less than she deserved from the people she loved.
11
CARMEN
Carmen's surgical notes blurred on the computer screen for the third time in twenty minutes. She'd been staring at the same post-operative report since arriving home, her townhouse office silent except for the distant harbor fog horns and the accusatory tick of her grandmother's clock.
The afternoon light streaming through her windows had shifted from gold to amber to the deep orange that meant evening was settling over Phoenix Ridge, and she hadn't absorbed a single word about Mrs. Rodriguez's cardiac recovery. Instead, her mind replayed the hospital lobby encounter on an endless loop: Harper's carefully neutral expression, Natalie's oblivious warmth, and the way she had addressed Harper as "Ms. Langston" like she was a stranger instead of the woman who'd made her feel alive for the first time in months.
Carmen closed the laptop with more force than necessary and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. The city lights were beginning to flicker on, scattered across the water like fallen stars, and somewhere in the distance she could make out the purple glow of Lavender's Café sign.
Friday night felt like a lifetime ago. The woman who'd brought a stranger home, who'd laughed in the darkness and fallen asleep beside someone who made her feel worth knowing—that woman felt like a character from someone else's story. Carmen had spent six months rebuilding her life around control and professional boundaries, and Harper had shattered all of it in one night of lies that had somehow felt more real than anything Carmen had experienced in years.
Her phone sat on the kitchen counter, silent and accusatory. She'd drafted three different text messages to Harper since arriving home, deleting each one. What was she supposed to say?I'm sorry I treated you like a stranger after admitting I wanted you more than anything in years? I panicked because my last relationship destroyed my career and I can't risk that again? I've been thinking about the way you handled that cardiac simulation, and it's making me question every boundary I've built?
Carmen poured herself a glass of wine—a pinot noir from the same vineyard Lavender stocked—and settled on her living room couch.
The wine was good, loosening the knot between her shoulder blades that had taken up permanent residence since Monday's revelation. Carmen allowed herself to replay the morning's simulation session with clinical detachment. Harper had natural instincts for cardiac surgery and spatial reasoning that couldn't be taught, and she’d thought through each complex scenario like she'd been performing surgery for years instead of days.
The boundaries between professional respect and personal desire had blurred beyond recognition. Harper was the woman who'd made her laugh in the darkness, who'd asked for honesty instead of deflection, who'd looked at Carmen like she was worth taking risks for. And Carmen had responded by treating her like a stranger.
Carmen's analytical mind tried to catalog all the reasons maintaining distance was necessary: professional ethics, hospital policies, and not to mention the potential damage to her friendship with Natalie. But sitting alone in her sterile townhouse, those reasons felt increasingly hollow compared to the memory of Harper's voice saying, "I want to understand everything about how you think."
Her phone buzzed with a text from Julia: “How was your day? You seemed off during lunch yesterday.”
Carmen stared at the message without responding. How could she explain that she was drowning in feelings for someone she was supposed to supervise? That watching Harper work had been like watching herself fall in love with medicine all over again? That she'd been hiding in her townhouse because facing Harper at the hospital meant confronting how much she wanted something she couldn't have?
The cursor blinked in the text field, waiting for a response that wouldn't come. Carmen closed Julia's message and opened a new conversation instead.
Her fingers hovered over Harper's name in her contacts, the simple entry she'd added after their trauma case collaboration. Just "Harper Langston" with her hospital extension. Professional and appropriate, nothing to suggest the woman behind that name had already seen Carmen at her most vulnerable.
We need to talk. Too demanding.
Can you come over? I'd like to discuss what happened this morning. Too formal.
I owe you an explanation. Too presumptuous.
Carmen set the phone aside and took another sip of wine, watching the harbor fog creep closer to shore through her windows. The weather service had predicted heavy fog tonight,the kind that wrapped Phoenix Ridge in soft white silence and made the rest of the world feel distant and unimportant.
Maybe what she needed most was distance from hospital politics and professional expectations, space to have an honest conversation without the weight of institutional rules pressing down on them. Her townhouse had always been her safe haven from the demands of surgery.
If she was going to have this conversation with Harper, it should be here. In the space where she'd first let someone see her vulnerability, where she could explain why she'd retreated and what she actually wanted going forward.
Carmen picked up her phone before she could change her mind.
“Can you come over? We should talk about this morning. About everything.”
She hit send before her analytical mind could interfere, then immediately began second-guessing the decision. Too vague? Too personal? Did "everything" sound like she was planning to confess feelings that would make their professional relationship impossible?
Her phone buzzed almost immediately with Harper's response:“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
No questions or demands for clarification, just simple acceptance of Carmen's invitation, the same directness that had drawn Carmen to her at Lavender's. Carmen felt something tight in her chest begin to loosen, replaced by nervous energy.
She moved through her townhouse with purpose, dimming the harsh overhead lights in favor of the warm glow from table lamps. Not romantic—these types of discussions didn't require romantic lighting—but welcoming enough to encourage the kind of vulnerability this conversation would need.
Carmen pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet, then hesitated. Tonight wasn't about seduction or liquid courage. Itwas about honesty, and honesty required clear heads and steady hands.
She put the glasses away and brewed coffee instead.
