Page 5 of Crossing the Line
Carmen felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I wasn't?—"
"You were. It's not a bad thing. I like being looked at by someone who actually sees what she's looking at."
The comment was bold enough that it should have made Carmen retreat into professional politeness. Instead, she found herself stepping closer, drawn by the warmth in Hailey's voice and the way she seemed completely unguarded despite being a stranger in a new city.
"You're very direct," Carmen said.
"Life's too short for anything else." Hailey's smile turned playful. "Besides, I have a feeling you appreciate directness."
She was right. Carmen had spent months surrounded by people who treated her like fragile glass, even her own reflection in windows looking back at her with wounded caution. Hailey looked at her like she was simply interesting, not broken.
"Would you like to go back inside?" Carmen heard herself ask. "I owe you a proper drink since I monopolized your fresh air time."
"I'd like that very much."
As they turned toward the café door, Carmen realized her analytical mind had gone completely quiet. For the first time in months, she wasn't cataloging risks or calculating potential consequences. She was just following an attractive woman back inside, and for once, not caring where it might lead.
Control was overrated anyway.
2
HARPER
The boxes watched her like accusers.
Harper Langston stood in the center of her tiny apartment, surrounded by the debris of a life carefully dismantled and relocated. Cardboard containers labeled in her mother's precise handwriting—"Harper's Medical Texts," "Kitchen Essentials," "Personal Items"—created a maze of temporary walls that made the already small space feel suffocating.
She'd been unpacking for three days, but progress remained deliberately slow. Each item carried weight beyond its physical presence. The framed photo of her medical school graduation—her mother's beaming face overshadowing Harper's own uncertain smile. Her diploma, with "Langston" printed in a formal script that felt like a chain rather than an achievement. The stethoscope that had been a gift from her mother's mentor, already carrying expectations before Harper had earned the right to wear it.
Her phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. Another text from her mother.
“How's the unpacking going? Don't forget we have dinner reservations tomorrow night to celebrate your first week. I've already told everyone at the hospital how proud I am.”
Harper stared at the message until the screen went dark, then deliberately placed the phone face-down. She could delete the text, but she couldn't delete the sentiment. Her mother's pride was a beautiful, suffocating thing—a golden cage that made rebellion feel like betrayal.
The mirror on her bathroom door reflected a woman who looked exactly like what she was: twenty-six years old, fresh out of residency, trying to convince herself she belonged in a world where she'd always been "Dr. Langston's daughter" first and Harper second.
But tonight, she didn't have to be that woman.
Harper moved to the mirror and studied her reflection with clinical precision. Dark hair that caught light the same way her mother's did. Eyes that held intelligence but also uncertainty, though she could train that out and make her gaze steadier, more confident. Features that were pleasant enough but unremarkable, which was perfect. Unremarkable meant she could become anyone.
"My name is Hailey," she said to her reflection, testing the sound. The name felt foreign on her tongue, which was exactly right. Foreign meant free. "I'm twenty-nine." Three years added for gravitas, for the illusion of experience beyond her years. "I work in healthcare administration."
The lies slipped out smooth as silk. Healthcare administration was vague enough to deflect follow-up questions while close enough to the truth that she wouldn't stumble over details. She'd spent hours crafting the perfect professional fiction, something that would make her interesting without being memorable and competent without being threatening.
Harper—no, Hailey—pulled clothes from the boxes scattered across her bed. Nothing too formal. Nothing that screamed "doctor's daughter trying too hard." The black jeans and emerald sweater struck the right balance: confident without being intimidating, attractive without being obvious.
She caught herself smiling in the mirror and realized how long it had been since she'd felt excitement about anything social. Medical school had been a grinding marathon of studying and proving herself worthy of her mother's reputation. Residency had been even worse—every mistake scrutinized, every success attributed to good genetics and family connections rather than her own skill.
But tonight, she could be someone else entirely. Someone who laughed at jokes instead of analyzing them. Someone who flirted without calculating the professional ramifications. Someone who existed independent of Dr. Natalie Langston's shadow.
The apartment felt smaller with every passing minute, the walls closing in with familiar patterns of expectation and obligation. Harper grabbed her jacket and keys, suddenly desperate for air that didn't smell like cardboard and compromise.
Phoenix Ridge stretched before her. She'd googled "lesbian bars" three times, deleting her search history each time out of habit rather than necessity. Lavender's Café-Bar had looked perfect in the photos: warm, welcoming, full of women who appeared comfortable in their own skin.
Women who wouldn't look at her and see someone else's legacy.
The cool evening air hit her face as she stepped outside, carrying salt from the harbor and the faint scent of lavender from the café district. She could hear laughter drifting fromdowntown, the sound of people living their lives without permission from anyone.
